Gio steps into the dim backstage light, the chaos of the runway prep parting around him like water. The suit he’s wearing fits him like a weapon—dark charcoal, sharp lines, no tie. There’s something dangerous and expensive about him, entirely out of place in a room full of pins and silk.
Stopping in front of me, his eyes drag over the emerald silk, lingering on the black geometric slash across my ribs.
“Strap’s twisting,” he says, his voice low, cutting through the thumping bass.
Before I can react, he reaches out. His fingers brush the bare skin of my shoulder, calloused and warm. He catches the thin spaghetti strap that has slipped, sliding it back into place with a precision that contradicts the violence usually in his hands.He smooths the fabric, his thumb dragging once against my collarbone.
It’s such a small, domestic gesture. It feels alien coming from him.
“You look like a queen,” he murmurs, his eyes locking onto mine. There’s a flat, terrifying honesty in his gaze.
I hold his gaze, my heart hammering a rhythm that has nothing to do with the runway. “I’m here to be seen, Gio.”
“I know,” he says, dropping his hand.
Putting space between us, he steps back. The rules are clear to him. This stage isn’t his to step onto—not with me. This is my war, and for the first time, he’s content to guard the perimeter instead of leading the charge.
He reaches for my hand, lifting it from my side. He presses a kiss to my knuckles—his lips dry, the pressure firm. It’s a benediction.
“Go destroy them,” he says.
He turns without waiting for a response, blending back into the shadows to find his seat in the back. He’s quiet, uncharacteristically so, but his presence lingers in the air like smoke.
I take a breath, the strap on my shoulder feeling heavier than before. Steadier.
The stage manager gives me the signal. I step forward, the velvet parting like water, and the roar of the backstage chaos cuts out instantly, replaced by the heavy, expectant hush of the runway. The music kicks in—a deep, pulsing bass that vibrates through the soles of my heels.
Movement takes over. One step, two steps. The rhythm settles in. My body knows what to do. I am the weapon, and the dress is the blade.
At the top of the catwalk, the mark meets my feet and the lights slam into me. They’re blinding, white-hot, and for asecond, I can’t see the audience. The heat of a hundred gazes burning against my skin is all I can feel.
Stillness follows. Feet planted. Chin lifted. The emerald silk catches the light, shimmering like oil, while the black geometric slashes across my torso absorb it. I feel the weight of the gold stitching, heavy and grounding. This is a declaration. Here is the damage. Here is the repair. Look at it.
The murmurs die out. The silence that follows is sharp, physical. It’s the sound of people realizing they’re seeing something they can’t ignore. I scan the front row, my eyes adjusting to the glare.
There she is. Elena Moretti isn’t looking at her phone anymore. She’s sitting forward, her spine straight, her eyes locked on me. She tilts her head, her gaze dissecting the lines of the dress, analyzing the construction, the drape, the sheer audacity of the design. No applause comes. No smile follows.
Instead, she rises slowly, blocking the view of the people behind her, demanding a better look.
For a single, terrifying second, the air rushes out of my lungs. The world tilts. It’s the ghost of my father’s voice, sneering from the shadows of my memory. You’ll never be good enough, Zoë. You’re a pretty face, a distraction. You don’t have the guts.
The heat of the lights becomes oppressive, the weight of a hundred stares a physical pressure crushing my chest. My knees feel weak, the urge to buckle almost overwhelming. I’m a fraud. They’ve seen through the gold stitching and the sharp lines to the broken girl underneath.
My gaze flickers instinctively, desperately, away from the front row, scanning the darkness of the back of the room.
And I find him. Gio. In the shadows, he stands apart from the cheering crowd, hands loose at his sides. All he’s doing is watching me, his gaze heavy and intent, stripping away the lightsand the applause until there’s nothing left but the two of us. To him, I’m the only thing in the room that’s real.
That steady gaze becomes my anchor in the blinding glare. It’s a silent promise.
The strength floods back into my legs, the steel reinforcing my spine. My father was wrong. I am good enough. My chin lifts higher, a silent refusal of the past and a declaration to the future.
They can look. They can see exactly what I’m made of.
The air in the room shifts. The other critics follow Elena Moretti’s lead, craning their necks, the whisper of pens scratching against notepads rising like static. I hold the pose until the final model exits, the lights cut, and the applause hits the wall of the runway like a physical blow. It’s a roar, chaotic and deafening.
I step back out into the center of the catwalk, the spotlight searing my retinas, and take my bow. The noise swells, cresting over my head. My breath catches, a sharp hitch in my throat.
He sees me. Just me.
