Page 116 of Pretend To Be Mine

“I don’t know if you can fake caviar,” I joked.

“Whatever he served us was nothing like what I had the other night.”

The lights flickered—the five-minute warning. We made our way back to our seats, prime position in the front row where we could see everything.

Briggs appeared on the runway, looking immaculate in a tailored suit. Briggs had the quiet confidence of a German Shepherd. It’s why he was a damn good lawyer. He intimidated people just by being in the room. He thanked everyone for coming, spoke eloquently about love and fashion and our father’s vision, and then the show began.

The first model emerged to soft music, another complete one-eighty from Sebastian’s show. It was something classical, romantic. The dress she wore was elegant simplicity itself, a flowing gown in cream that moved like milk.

“It’s beautiful,” Elizabeth whispered.

“Wait. It gets better.”

She was right to be impressed, but as the show continued, each piece building on the last, I could see her designer brain cataloging details.

These weren’t the sexy, revealing pieces from Sebastian’s show. These were elegant gowns you’d wear to an intimate dinner or on a sophisticated evening out. Dresses you would choose to wear anywhere you wanted to look effortlessly beautiful.

I knew they were going to be big in political circles. Demure. Elegant. And of course, stunning.

This was romance without excess, love without drama. Pure Briggs.

Between looks, I stole glances at Elizabeth. She was completely absorbed, her eyes tracking every detail. This was her element. Not the performance part, not the modeling or interviews, but the design, the creation, the art of it.

She was going to be extraordinary once she found her full voice. Hell, she already was extraordinary.

Halfway through, during a brief pause between segments, Elizabeth leaned close. “Your brother is a genius.”

“Don’t tell him that. His ego is already insufferable.”

“I’m serious. The way he’s structured this show, the progression of the pieces, the emotional arc—it’s storytelling through fashion.”

“That’s exactly what he was going for.” I was ridiculously proud of Briggs, of all my brothers actually. They’d each brought something unique to Fashion of Love Week. Each one of them stamped their personality on their show. “Dad would have loved this.”

“He would have been so proud of all of you.”

“Yeah. I think he would.”

The show continued. The audience was completely engaged, no one checking phones or whispering. Just rapt attention to Briggs’s vision of love expressed through fashion.

When the finale came, all the models returned in their opening looks and Briggs joined them on the runway. The audience rose in a standing ovation that seemed to shake the old walls.

“That was perfect,” Elizabeth said, clapping enthusiastically. “Absolutely perfect.”

We made our way backstage where Briggs was accepting congratulations from his team. Mom was there too, looking over the moon about tonight’s show. When he saw us, he broke into a rare genuine smile. “Thoughts?”

“Flawless,” I said, pulling him into a hug. “Absolutely flawless. Dad would be proud.”

“Thanks.” He looked genuinely touched, then turned to Elizabeth. “And you? Professional opinion?”

“I’m not a professional.”

“You’re a designer. That makes you a professional. What did you think?”

“I think you just showed everyone exactly what love looks like,” she said simply. “Not dramatic or excessive, just beautiful. Real. It was perfect.”

Briggs studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Good answer. Adrian, you found a keeper.”

“I know,” I said before I could even think about what I was admitting.