An entire room of mostly strangers is on its feet for something that started in my tiny apartment with cheap muslin and stolen time. My parents are still standing. Dannie looks like she’s vibrating. The director watches from the end of the row with a pleased expression. Editors, buyers, influencers—faces I’ve only ever seen online—are clapping for my name on the screen.
On the far side, near the photographers’ pit, a familiar silhouette in black catches my eye.
Valencia.
Her headset is around her neck now and her arms are folded. Her expression is composed, but her eyes are sharp as glass as she tracks the line, the screens, the angles.
Then her gaze lands on me and Dom, our joined hands between us. One of the photographers says something to her I can’t hear, and she flicks two fingers in a tight little circle with disdain on her face.
I look away, already trying to pretend she’s not here.
Dom’s thumb presses lightly along the side of my index finger, dragging my focus back to him.
“You did this, baby,” he says. “Let them see it.”
It hits harder than any “I’m proud of you” would.
A laugh stutters out of me. “I think I’m gonna faint.”
“I’ll catch you.” His mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile threatening.
His hand leaves mine and slides to my waist, securing a firm grip at my side. He tugs me in, just enough to bring me closer, a single step into the line of his body.
The applause doesn’t explode, but it changes, a couple of soft, delighted gasps near the front.
He dips his head and does something I’ve never seen done during a show. His mouth finds mine with the kind of certainty that says he doesn’t care who’s watching.
His palm is warm at my side, anchoring me in place. My free hand lands against his chest, over the slow, heavy thud of his heart under the shirt I cut and the jacket I tailored.
Our foreheads rest together for one suspended breath.
“Now you can breathe,” he says.
I inhale. The air actually makes it to my lungs this time.
Dom’s hand stays at the small of my back as the models begin to file off, the line breaking cleanly. We turn with them and walk back into the wings together.
Backstage is somehow louder after the show.
The second the curtain falls for real, everything snaps into motion. Models peel off in different directions, laughing, out of breath, half-high on adrenaline. Dressers start unzipping, unbuttoning, returning borrowed shoes to racks.
I’m in the middle of it all, my body humming.
Another model pulls me into a quick hug before someone yells at her to get out of the shoes. A dresser squeezes past, muttering “Nice work, babe,” as she drags a rolling rack away. The coordinator gives me a quick thumbs-up as she moves by with her headset still crackling.
Decompression chaos.
I turn to Dominic. The tux jacket is unbuttoned now, shirt open at the throat, bow tie tugged loose and hanging from his fingers.
My chest does a stupid swoop.
“What the hell,” I say, because my brain hasn’t caught up to my mouth yet. The words come out half-laugh, half-accusation. “What the hell, Dominic?”
His mouth crooks. “Hi.”
I smack my hand lightly against his chest. “Don’t ‘hi’ me. You…” I gesture wildly toward the general direction of the runway. “You were the surprise? The big hush-hush celebrity?”
“Last I checked.” He looks annoyingly calm.
