“What the fuck,” I whisper, but it comes out as barely air.
Beside me, the coordinator lets out a low, delighted sound. “Yeah,” she says. “It’s your hot boytoy. Surprise.”
Halfway down the runway, he adjusts his cuff, and the cameras eat it up.
And then, as if he hears some frequency only we share, his head turns to my side of the wings.
The monitor catches his profile as his gaze slices toward where I’m standing in the shadows.
He can’t possibly see me from out there, not with the lights in his face, but the look still hits like impact. For one suspended heartbeat, it feels like we’re the only two people in the building.
It’s in his eyes. There you are, his expression says, without moving his lips. My fingers spasm tighter on the curtain.
Of course the seat next to Melody and Jace was empty.
He never planned to sit in it.
He didn’t come here to watch my show.
He came here to be in it.
He faces forward again and finishes the walk, each step hammering the reality deeper into my bones. The cameras, the crowd, my name on the graphic behind him—all wrapped around the fact that Dominic Moreal chose to put my work on his body in front of everyone.
By the time he hits the end of the runway and turns to stand in the white-hot lights, my heart is no longer beating at a normal speed.
The applause doesn’t quite roar, but it swells.
“Finale walk,” the caller says. “All looks, all models, go.”
My models start filing back out onto the runway until the full line is formed at the end. My clothes in a row—satins, suiting, sharp shoulders and soft drapes. And in the center of it all, like a spine, Dominic in my closing look.
“Designer to runway,” the coordinator says, squeezing my arm. “Jessica, that’s you.”
The curtain parts and the lights hit me.
For a second, I see nothing but white and shapes. Then the room comes into focus. My parents are on their feet, clapping.
Dannie is standing too, bouncing in place, eyes wide, clapping hard enough that her bracelets are a blur.
On the corner of the front row, Melody and Jace are up with the rest of the VIPs. Melody’s hands are together in a neat, precise rhythm, eyes sharp and bright. Jace has that shit-eating grin on his face and is probably saying something commentary-level stupid under his breath, but he’s clapping, too.
Then I look past them.
The lineup is close now. My silhouettes, my fabric, my name behind them. And him.
Dom stands in the middle. His hair is pushed back, a few strands already fighting their way loose. Under the spots, his eyes pick up warm flecks—amber at the edges.
He’s watching me with a knowing half-smile.
I reach the lineup and turn toward the audience. The applause lifts another notch, like they’re acknowledging the full picture now.
I bow. It’s quick and shallow, more instinct than choreography, just like I’ve daydreamed a million times. When I start to shift to the side, a hand closes over mine. It’s big, warm, and familiar. Dom’s fingers slide through mine and I look up.
His eyes are on me, he’s touching me. But it feels surreal. The entire situation I’ve found myself in feels like I’m about to wake up any moment.
“Take a second,” he says, low, angled toward me so it doesn’t carry. “Look.”
I do.
