I wave, laughing as the applause continues.
When we finally step off the stage, the coordinator rushes toward me.
“Zara!” she says excitedly. “A buyer wants to speak with you.”
My stomach flips.
“A buyer?”
She nods and points toward the far end of the room.
A man stands in the shadows near the far wall.
My pulse jumps again, excitement and nerves swirling as I hurry over. This could be the opportunity I’ve worked so hard to achieve.
“Hello?” I say as I approach.
The man turns. I don’t recognize his face, but I know those eyes.
My blood turns to ice.
Menace.
Before I can even gasp, his hand clamps around my arm. A cloth presses hard over my mouth and nose.
A sharp, chemical smell fills my lungs.
I try to scream, but it’s too late.
Darkness crashes over me before the sound can escape.
CHAPTER 29: BUSH
The music from the fashion show has long since faded, but the energy in the loft still crackles like static. Leaning back against the exposed brick wall, I watch the work crew dismantle the runway. The long strip of polished platform that only an hour ago held a parade of models and flashing cameras is already half gone. Workers in black shirts move with practiced efficiency, unscrewing supports and stacking the pieces onto carts.
Chrome stands beside me, his massive arms crossed, his expression neutral, but his eyes tracking everything. Smoke lounges on a chair he dragged over from the seating area, boots stretched out in front of him. Hunter and Rattler hover near the edge of the stage, watching the teardown like it’s some kind of show.
“Hell of a turnout,” Smoke says, rocking his chair back on two legs.
“Packed house,” Chrome agrees, running a hand through his beard. “Zara’s pieces were a hit.”
My chest tightens at that. Pride swells there, warm and heavy.
Zara was glowing up there. When she and Tony stepped onto the stage to accept the applause, the whole place erupted. The other designers received approval, but I can’t help but feel thatZara was the star. The cheers and camera flashes were just for her. I don’t care what anyone else says.
“Damn right,” I mutter.
Across the loft, racks of clothing are being wheeled away while designers gather portfolios and garment bags. The excitement hasn’t faded. People are still buzzing, talking loudly, replaying the show.
Two familiar figures stride toward us.
Viper and Bianca.
Both women have changed back into their normal clothes, but they still look like they just stepped off the runway. Bianca’s laughing at something Viper said.
“Look at this crew,” Viper says as they reach us. “Standing around like bouncers at a retirement home.”
Chrome snorts.
