I turn and freeze. Louis stands there, camera in hand, eyes flicking between me and my friends. His smile is kind, familiar—painfully normal, if a little hurt. The last time I saw him, I’d been convincing myself I could want someone else. Leaving him under the illusion of a second date now feels cruel.
“Hey,” I manage, forcing a smile. “You’re working backstage?”
He nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I was asked to cover it. You were… incredible out there. Seriously, I think everyone felt it.”
“Thanks.” The word tastes polite, distant, hollow. I hate it. “Listen, about that second date—”
He shakes his head, cutting me off with a soft smile. “It’s okay. I know you’ve been busy.”
Jamie bumps my shoulder before I can protest. “Louis! Didn’t expect to see you here. You watching our girl glow up?”
Louis laughs, a little too quickly, eyes flicking to mine as if searching for something I’m not allowed to give. “Guess I am. Anyway… congratulations, Lily. I mean it.”
Before I can respond, a presence shifts the air around me. A woman steps into view. Tall, composed, heels clicking silently against concrete as if sound itself dares not betray her. Sleek black dress, dark hair in a slick back, and not a stitch of makeup on her face, she’s fit to blend in with the background, but her confident strides demand attention in a way that can’t be ignored.
“Lily Davis?” Her voice is low, smooth, velvet-laced with ice. There was a trace of something in the way she said my name—soft, curling, almost musical. Italian, maybe. I couldn’t place it, but it set my nerves on edge.
“Yes?” I straighten instinctively, heart drumming against my ribs.
She holds out a card, fingers precise, deliberate, nails almost like claws. “I represent an investor who takes a particular interest in rising talent. Your performance tonight was… unforgettable. We would be very pleased to arrange a meeting.”
Polite, precise, but her eyes linger. Too long. Appraising. Knowing. I swallow, aware that I’ve just been measured, weighed, and catalogued. When she turns, the crowd parts effortlessly, as if the world itself makes way for her.
I stare down at the card, gold numbers embossed with perfection. No company name. Just a number on the cream card.
Isabella squeals beside me. “Lily, oh my God! Do you know what this means? Someone noticed you!”
Jamie grabs my arm. “This could be huge.”
Their excitement swirls around me, dizzying, intoxicating. My chest tightens, my pulse racing, not just at what this could mean, but at the knowledge that someone out there saw me the way I’ve always wanted to be seen. For the first time since stepping off that runway, I allow myself to believe. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is exactly what I’ve been working toward.
Chapter 37
Islouch down in my seat, heart hammering like it’s trying to escape my chest. Every instinct screams that I’m risking everything—Antonio would kill me if he knew I slipped out of Turin to come here, and my Da wouldn’t be far behind if he learnt I used him as my scapegoat—but I can’tnotbe here. Not tonight. Not when this means so much to her. Not when it’s my fault she’s here alone, with no one to cheer her on.
Watching her own the runway with every sure stride is a privilege all on its own. And then seeing the design that—even without confirmation—I know she poured her heart and soul into… it’s breathtaking. The contrast of the light pink colour against her sun-kissed skin, catching the light in ways that make it impossible to look anywhere else. She’s confidenceand temptation personified. My Lily, turning the world into her stage, owning it like she was born for it, is a sight to behold.
The crowd doesn’t see what I see. They see a promising designer, a beautiful model. I see the woman who used to sit on my bedroom floor, sketching by lamplight with a pencil tucked behind her ear. I see every fight, every broken apology, every night I’ve watched her through a screen, trying to convince myself it was enough.
And now she’shere.Flesh and blood and fire, mere steps away.
When her eyes meet mine across the room, it’s like taking a punch straight to the ribs. She falters for half a heartbeat, barely noticeable to anyone else, but I feel it. That moment of recognition, disbelief, maybe even anger. But she doesn’t stop. She only walks fiercer, chin high, hips swaying like a challenge. Like she’s saying,you don’t get to have me anymore.
God help me, it only makes me want her more.
Applause erupts when she reaches the end of the runway, but it barely registers. I’m still caught in that moment, her gaze cutting through the noise, her body speaking a language I’ve always understood too well.
When the lights shift, and the next models take the stage, I sink back into my seat, forcing air into lungs that don’t want to cooperate. I shouldn’t have come. I know that. But the thought of her walking that stage alone—surrounded by strangers, believing there was no one there for her—was unbearable.
Now that I’ve seen her, I’m not sure I can walk away.
Eventually, every piece has its moment to shine. The lights dim again as the applause crests, loud enough to rattle the space between my ribs. The models file back out together in a clean, polished line, designers following close behind. The judges arealready on their feet. Hands are shaken. Smiles exchanged. A few words exchanged—measured, practiced, the kind of praise that carries real weight in rooms like this.
Beside me, people rise, clapping, cheering, already turning to dissect what stood out.
My attention never leaves her.
She stands among them steady and unflinching, like she belongs here in a way no one ever handed to her. Like she built this future herself and dared anyone to try and take it back.
