Her mouth flattens a fraction. “I’m just trying to be realistic. I’d hate to see you derail it by confusing real interest in you and interest in the man you’re seen with.”
“Oh, I’m very clear on the difference,” I say. “Dom didn’t draw my patterns. He didn’t stitch these seams. He didn’t max out three credit cards so I could move here.”
“You think you’d be on this lineup without him?”
“I think I’ve been working for this since I was old enough to hold a needle.” I hold her gaze. “I’m with Dominic, but he’s not my origin story. My work exists with or without his name attached to it.”
“That’s not how the world sees it.” Her smile is venomous.
“Then they can adjust their vision,” I say. “They’re overdue.”
Her eyes narrow.
Behind us, a voice crackles over her headset. “Valencia, we need you front-of-house. Press line in two.”
She doesn’t move.
“I get that you don’t like me,” I say quietly. “Honestly? I don’t care. But don’t insult me by pretending this is about my career, when you’re really just trying to get in one last twist of the knife because you don’t like where he’s looking now.”
Her mouth finally drops the fake smile and I step closer.
“You’re PR,” I go on. “You understand optics better than anyone in this building. Do you really want to be the woman who tried to rattle a guest designer ten minutes before her segment, on a night where halfthe cameras in this room are pointed at the table she brought in?”
Her nostrils flare.
“That doesn’t read ‘professional.’” I shrug. “It might ruin the show. And what will you do then, Val?”
I throw a nickname to return the favor. “You’ll have a PR nightmare on your hands.”
We just stare at each other.
Then her headset crackles again, louder. “Valencia. Now, please.”
She exhales slowly.
“Break a leg out there, Brooks,” she says. The sugar’s back in her tone now, but I can taste the venom underneath.
“Enjoy the show,” I reply.
She holds my gaze one long, assessing second. Then she turns, heels clicking, and disappears into the chaos.
My heart is pounding but the fear is gone. What’s left is electric.
“Segment Four to line-up in five!” someone yells.
That’s me.
I wipe my palms on my skirt, straighten the tag on Look One, and move toward the models waiting in the wings.
My night.
Five minutes later, the music shifts. I feel it in my teeth first, that bass change. Segment Three ends. Applause swells, then fades under the house track.
“Segment Four to line-up!” the show caller shouts. “Jessica, that’s you!”
My name jolts me into motion.
“Okay, okay,” I say, darting to my rack. “Look One, where’s Look One?”
