But tonight is a different kind of high. I’m backstage at a fashion show. My fashion show. Well, not mine mine, but mine enough that my name is printed in the show run as “Guest Designer: Jessica Brooks,” which feels like a clerical error no one has fixed yet.
My hands hover over the bodice of Look Three. They’re shaking.
“Breathe,” I mutter, smoothing the same piece of fabric I’ve already smoothed twelve times.
The backstage area is a barely controlled riot. Models weave around racks and rolling mirrors, hair sprayed to architectural levels, and liners sharp enough to cut. Dressers crouch on the floor zipping and pinning. Someone yells for a steamer. Someone else yells back that it’s being used and they can “get in line or get in God’s hands.”
Overhead, the bass from the opening track thumps through the ceiling in test bursts. It smells like hair products, fabric, and my panic.
This is exactly where I’ve always wanted to be. And it feels like it might crush me.
“Jessica?” one of the dressers calls, already halfway under a rack. “Do you want tape on the neckline for Look Four, or are we trusting it?”
“Double tape,” I say automatically.
She gives me a thumbs-up and vanishes again.
I force myself to step back and look at the row of pieces with my tags on them. I know every seam by heart. I know where I cried into which hem. I know exactly how much thread and hope is holding each one together.
What I don’t know is how half of them look, fully styled, on the actual models.
I got added to this show last minute. We had one casting session last week where I saw a few of them walk in my samples. The rest were done by the show’s team, pulled from their board, approved over email while I was sitting on Dom’s kitchen counter seam-ripping a sleeve. So technically, I haven’t seen all of my looks on all of my models.
My stomach does a slow, horrible flip.
What if the tailoring is off on one of them? What if a seam pops mid-runway? What if the lighting hitsmy satin wrong and it looks cheap and shiny and every editor in the front row decides I’m a joke?
“Hey.” A voice cuts through my spiral. “You good?”
I turn to see one of the show coordinators standing there with a headset, clipboard, and the kind of calm I’m jealous of right now.
“Define good,” I say.
Her mouth twitches. She flips the clipboard around so I can see the run-of-show. My name is there in black ink near the end: “Segment Four – Guest Designer: Jessica Brooks.”
“We’re lining up first looks in ten,” she says. “Hair and makeup are locking. I just wanted to check you’re happy with casting.”
Happy. Yeah, sure. Not that I’ve seen all the models.
She taps a section on the sheet. “We’ve put some of our strongest walkers in your stuff. Girls with clean lines and good social reach. And we’ve secured a celeb for your closer.”
“I’m sorry,” I say slowly. “A celebrity?”
“Mm-hmm.” She flips back a page, checks a note. “They specifically requested to walk a guest designer’slook instead of one of the big houses. We thought your collection fit their vibe.”
“Who?” I ask. “Like… reality-TV ‘celebrity,’ or real celebrity? Be honest. Is this a Bachelor reject? A YouTuber? Am I about to send a TikToker down the runway in my finale look?”
I’m spiraling.
She laughs. “They asked us to keep it a surprise. Their team emailed twice about it.”
“A surprise,” I repeat.
“Yes.” She pats my arm once in a way that says she has seen designers cry, yell, and pass out, and I am somewhere in the mid-range. “Don’t panic. They look incredible in the look. You’ll be proud.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.” She glances past me as someone yells her name from the other side of the racks. “Okay, I have to go. Five till guests are seated. Line-up in ten. You’ll be great, Jessica. And hey.”
