It’s raw and utterly perfect, even though it isn’t flashy. Our show isn’t a headline. We can’t expect velvet ropes, celebritybuzz, or an army of photographers. It’s a simple showcase for emerging designers, like us.
Tony walks beside me, a garment bag slung over his shoulder. Piston trails a step behind us, the black T-shirt under his kutte stretching taut across his chest. He wears an expression carved from stone. He doesn’t look like he belongs in a fashion space—and that’s exactly why everyone keeps looking at him.
The event coordinator greets us near the entrance. She’s young, sharp, clipboard hugged to her chest, headset slung crookedly around her neck. She introduces herself as Darlene Thatcher. Her eyes flick to Tony, then to me, before she fixates on Piston.
Her smile changes. Slows. Softens.
“Hi,” she says, dragging the word out just a little too long. “You must be Zara and Tony.”
She doesn’t look away from Piston when she says it.
“That’s us,” Tony answers, already used to this dynamic.
Darlene launches into her explanation, finally forcing herself to focus. This show has eight designers. Everyone gets a short lineup—six looks max. You’ll share the runway and the backstage. We have a tight schedule. No room for ego, mistakes, or drama. She taps her clipboard as she talks, her tone brisk and professional.
“Your stations are back here,” she says, leading us deeper into the loft. “These racks are yours.” She gestures to a narrow section marked with masking tape and handwritten names. Seeing our names spelled correctly feels like a win.
She points out our stations. We each have a folding table, two chairs, and a rolling mirror. There is a crack in the corner of mine. They’re humble stations, but they’re still ours.
“And your models are already here,” she adds, turning toward the dressing room.
Inside, four models look up from their phones and conversations. They’re young, diverse, sharp-boned, and cool in that effortless way that still makes my stomach flip. Darlene introduces them by name, explaining that they’ll each be wearing a mix of my designs and Tony’s.
The models nod, polite and professional. Then one of them glances past me. She sucks in a breath that has the rest of them following her train of sight.
Piston shifts his weight, arms folding across his chest. He says nothing. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even acknowledge the attention. That somehow makes him more appealing.
Darlene laughs too brightly. “And you are…?”
“Piston,” he answers.
Her eyebrows lift. “Just Piston?”
“That’s enough.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling.
The models suddenly have questions. Not about fabrics or silhouettes. About security. About whether Piston is staying all day. About whether he’s single. Tony tries—valiantly—to redirect the conversation back to fittings and call times, but he’s invisible now. So am I.
I don’t mind.
I watch it all like it’s a side show, amused by how quickly gravity shifts in a room.
Eventually, Piston clears his throat. “We’re done here.”
That’s it. No argument. No protest. Piston steers Tony and me toward the exit with a hand at our backs, all quiet authority. Outside, the city noise rushes back in as he opens the SUV door.
As I slide into my seat, I catch Tony’s eye and grin.
CHAPTER 11: BUSH
Mode swallowed the bite of food with a grimace. “What do you want first? Do you want to know what I’ve found about the Bushrangers or about Zara’s father?”
“What do you suggest?” Chrome asks.
“Zara’s father. I’ve got the information on the Bushrangers, but it will keep. You need to know what happened after you left Australia,” Mode says to me.
I nod for him to continue.
