“What’s… what’s his team called again?”
“The Miami Blazers. Why?” She pokes her head around the corner, eyebrows scrunched.
“Because I just got an email from them.” I turn my phone toward her like it’s radiating heat.
“No. Fucking. Way.” Her jaw drops.
I nod, eyes wide. “Lemme see.” She hurries over, half-forgetting the juice in her hand, nearly sloshing it all over the floor.
I tap the email open with shaky fingers and start reading.
“Dear Ms. Brooks, on behalf of the Miami Blazers, we would like to extend a personal invitation to you for our upcoming Community Outreach Gala, benefiting the Blazer Youth Foundation. This event is a private charity function hosted by the team and key franchise partners. In recognition of your publiccommitment to community causes and sustainable fashion, we believe your presence would be a meaningful addition to the evening.
The event will be held this Saturday at 7:00 PM, at a private venue in Coral Gables. Should you accept, transportation will be provided to and from the event from a location of your choosing. Please respond at your earliest convenience to confirm your attendance and coordinate logistics.
Sincerely, Tinnie Delgado. Media Relations Manager. Miami Blazers Hockey Club.”
Dannie whistles low before gulping down her juice.
“I’m not going,” I say, dropping the phone on the coffee table like it’s radioactive.
“What?”
“I’m not going,” I repeat. “This has trap written all over it. I’m not about to show up somewhere and become the butt of a joke.”
“Jess. Babe. Think about it. That’s your invite to a Blazers event. You could wear one of your own dresses. That’s press, exposure, eyes on your brand.”
“I don’t want eyes, Dannie. I want peace. And maybe a nap.”
“You can nap after you trend on Vogue’s Instagram.” She crosses her arms. “You show up in something you made, tag it, and boom, free marketing. The same people calling you a gold digger will be buying your next drop. Use it.”
Dannie grins and flops back onto the couch, victorious.
“You make it sound so easy.” I sink deeper into the couch, rubbing my temples.
“It is easy.” She tilts her head at me. “What’s stopping you?”
I don’t answer right away. The truth sounds pathetic, even in my head. “Do you think he’ll be there?” I finally ask, voice small.
“A hundred percent, babe,” Dannie says, grinning knowingly.
The thrill of possibly seeing this man again… my heart thuds once, hard enough to make me dizzy.
“And if they invited me just to make me stand in front of cameras and say we’re not together?” I lift my gaze to hers, throat tight. “Then what?”
“Then you do it in a killer dress.” Dannie shrugs with a grin. “With your chin high. Let them know you’re hot, single, and talented.”
“Well then… I guess I’m gonna need to pick a dress.” I sigh, letting my head fall back.
The black Mercedes glides to a stop in front of the hotel. My palms are sweating around my clutch, and my heartbeat is a drumline inside my ears. Through the tinted window, I can already see the red carpet, camera flashes, the blur of microphones, a cluster of reporters shouting names I don’t recognize. The driver opens my door, and cool night air rushes in like a dare.
For a second, I stay frozen. Then I remember what Dannie said. Killer dress. Chin high.
So I take a breath, smile like I’m not about to pass out, and step out of the car.
The noise hits instantly, and so do the bright lights. I keep my eyes forward, my face calm, my body screaming to run, but the moment my gown catches the light, I feel the shift.
Murmurs ripple, heads turn, and cameras flash even more. The dress is mine—every stitch, every bead, every sculpted fold that took me way too many sleepless nights to finish. Black silk that moves like water, the neckline clean and bold, the back open. It’s a dress that makes you feel like a Bond villain.
