Creed turned to me, the edge softening instantly.His hand lifted, stopping just short of my arm.
“Did he touch you?”
“No,” I whispered.“But...he scared me.”
Creed’s jaw flexed.His fists curled, then opened.
“You’re safe,” he said.“He won’t come near you again.”
My breath finally broke free.
“Sorry I’m late.I should’ve been here sooner,” he added quietly.
“You came when it mattered.”
His gaze held mine, dark and unshakeable.“I always will.”
* * *
THE SHOW WENT ON.
That alone felt surreal.
No frantic whispers.No last-minute cancellations.No public meltdown from a designer storming out in a blaze of ego.Just a quiet recalibration behind the scenes that most of the audience would never know had happened.
But the industry did.
I felt it the moment I stepped into the wings.The energy had shifted.
Models moved with purpose, not panic.Stylists whispered in tighter circles.Assistants checked clipboards twice, then nodded like decisions had already been made somewhere above their pay grade.
Manny’s name wasn’t spoken.
That was the first sign.
In this world, scandals exploded loudly—unless someone powerful enough decided they wouldn’t.
The lights dimmed.
Music rolled through the convention center, deep and pulsing.When the first model stepped onto the runway wearing a Manny Lennox design, the crowd leaned forward instinctively.
The dress was breathtaking.
Architectural.Bold.Impeccably tailored.The kind of piece that didn’t need a designer attached to it to command attention.
Applause followed.Real applause.
Not polite.Not obligatory.
Earned.
I exhaled slowly, my shoulders easing for the first time since the fitting room.
The next look followed.Then the next.
Each one hit harder than the last.
I scanned the audience, watching IWM’s marketing team exchange looks.Buyers leaned toward one another, murmuring behind raised programs.Phones appeared discreetly in hands, quick photos taken—not of the models, but of the garments themselves.
