I look up. She smiles. “House is full. Your section is packed.”
My section.
I swallow.
Somewhere out there, past the curtain and the lights and the thumping bass test, is the audience. Real people. Real eyes.
Dannie is out there. I asked the organizers for extra tickets the second the invite became real. Sent her a screenshot with about thirty exclamation marks.
And Dom…
I squeeze the edge of the garment rack to stop my hands from shaking harder.
Dom is here, sitting somewhere in the VIP area with Melody and Jace and some of the other guys. The coordinator told me earlier that “the hockey table” was confirmed and had already caused a mild stir on the guest list.
I caught a glimpse of the seating chart when she wasn’t looking.
Front row. On the corner. Right where he’ll see every look. Right where, if I screw this up, he’ll watch me do it in high definition.
My lungs forget how to work for a second.
I picture him out there, long legs spread, watching the runway with that laser-focus. Melody, Jace, and whoever else they brought, by his side.
All of them here. For me.
“Breathe,” I whisper to myself again, dragging in air that feels too thin.
I asked for this. I begged the universe for this.
Beyond the curtain, the music cues shift. The crowd noise dips, then swells again. Someone yells, “First looks, to line-up! Let’s go!”
The coordinator’s voice cuts through on her headset: “We’re locking doors in three, lights in five. Places for Segment One.”
I smooth Look Three again. This is happening. My clothes. My name on the run sheet. My best friend in the crowd. The captain of a Stanley Cup team in the front row because he decided to bet on me.
My hands are still shaking, but I step toward the line-up anyway.
I’m halfway there, passing a cluster of models getting last-minute hair touch-ups, when a voice knifes neatly through the noise.
“Brooks.”
I freeze before my brain even matches the name to the tone. Then I turn.
Valencia stands near the end of the garment racks in a black blazer dress, legs for days, press lanyard, headset hooked over perfectly blown-out hair. She has a tablet in one hand and a phone in the other.
For one second, my stomach drops.
I knew she existed in the abstract. In Dom’s past tense. In that ugly little corner of memory labeled they slept together, remember? I did not expect to see her standing ten feet from my clothes.
My mouth feels dry. “You’re… here.”
“Very observant.” Her sarcasm almost slaps me in the face. “PR for the event. My agency’s running the press for the whole week. Front of house, step-and-repeat, backstage features, sponsor content. All the grown-up parts of fashion.”
The world tilts a degree. Of course she’s PR. Of course tonight wasn’t allowed to just be mine.
“I didn’t know,” I say. It comes out flatter than I mean it to.
She shrugs a single shoulder. “You weren’t on the lineup when we signed the contract. You were… added later.”
