“I miss designing more than I miss the attention,” she said finally. “The attention was noise. The creation was real.”
“You always wanted to design?”
“Since I was twelve.”
“Why twelve?”
“My mother took me to Milan. I saw a runway show. It was chaos backstage: pins, fabric, screaming stylists. But when the model stepped out, it felt like magic and immediately made me want to become a part of that world. Initially, my mother thought I wanted to be a model, but I never wanted to be onthe runway; I wanted to be behind it. For me, what was magical was the two seconds before the model walked forward and the designer stood there admiring the dress they had created and the vision they had brought to life. It gives me a rush.”
She glanced at me.
“I wanted to create something that could change how someone felt in their own skin.”
“You have already done that with some of your previous work.”
“You’ve seen my work?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Before the masquerade.”
Her brows lifted at my admission.
“You researched me? That is invasive,” she said, but smiled despite herself.
“And you?” she asked. “What did you want when you were twelve?”
I almost said something dismissive, but tonight felt different. It felt as if I could be honest without it being too much, and no matter what I said, she would listen and understand. I had never felt closer to her than tonight, as if we were no longer standing on opposite ends of the stadium but playing beside one another. One team.
“At twelve,” I said slowly, “I think I simply wanted silence.”
Her gaze sharpened at my reply.
“Silence?”
“My father believed volume equaled authority, so he shouted often. At my brother. At my mother. At the walls.”
“And you?”
“I learned to speak quietly, and that made me powerful.”
“I have noticed that you never ever shout. Is it because of your father and your childhood?” she asked.
“A part of it, yes. But I have come to realize that I don’t have to shout for people to listen to me.”
The music shifted slightly, the tempo slowing, and I extended my hand towards her. “Dance with me.”
She studied it for a second and then placed her fingers in mine. The first touch felt different tonight. There was less friction and more awareness. We moved to the center of the floor, and my hand settled at her waist while her palm rested against my shoulder. The music carried us into rhythm, and she moved naturally, fluid and controlled.
“You are really good at this,” she murmured.
“So are you.”
“It’s different for me. I was forced to practice with suitors.”
“Did you like them?”
