Page 126 of Pretend To Be Mine

But none of them would come out. I simply stared at him.

And then I knew I had to get away from him.

41

ADRIAN

Elizabeth was up and out of her seat before I could stop her. I stayed in my seat for a grueling ten minutes through the end of the show. I didn’t want to make a scene.

Fuck, Dash. What the hell?

We had gone over the way things were going to go. We had the logo. The music. The fucking dresses. Every detail had been meticulously planned, checked, and double-checked. I’d personally sat in on the tech rehearsals. I’d seen the graphics package. Everything had been perfect.

Somewhere, someone fucked up.

And I had no idea where Elizabeth was. I couldn’t imagine what she was thinking right now. No, scratch that. I knew exactly what she was thinking. She was thinking I was a dick that stole her thunder. That I’d used her, manipulated her, and played her for a fool. That every moment we’d spent together had been part of some elaborate scheme to exploit her talent and claim it as my own.

And I had. Who the fuck put my name up there?

When I saw my name, it didn’t immediately occur to me that something had gone wrong. How many shows had I sat through? Hundreds. Thousands, maybe. I was used to seeing my name up there, used to the Blackwell Couture logo dominating the screens. It was background noise, expected, automatic.

And then it hit me. My name wasn’t supposed to be up there. By the time my brain picked up what was going on, she was out of her seat and running. I’d reached for her instinctively, but she was too fast. I got trapped in the middle of a row with buyers and editors on either side of me. All I could do was watch her disappear through the backstage entrance. I couldn’t believe I watched her moment—the one she’d worked so hard for—crumble to dust.

When it was appropriate, I slipped away. Even then, I had to shake off three different journalists who wanted comments. I dodged a buyer from Bergdorf’s who insisted on five minutes. Any other show, and I would have given him an hour. But I didn’t have the time. Every second felt like an eternity. Every delay was torture.

I found Elizabeth in a back hallway, pressed against the wall, crying like her heart was breaking.

Because it was. I’d watched it shatter in real time. I watched the joy drain from her face the moment those screens lit up with my name instead of hers. I’d seen her excitement—pure, unfiltered happiness—transform into confusion, then betrayal, then devastation in the span of three seconds. It was like watching someone get hit by a bus in slow motion, knowing you were powerless to stop it.

“Elizabeth.” I approached carefully, like she was a wounded animal that might bolt. “I didn’t know. I swear to God, I didn’t know the graphics were wrong.”

“Whatever. It’s your show, right?” Her voice was flat, hollow. Defeated in a way that made my stomach twist.

“Elizabeth, that’s not what that was.”

“Why did you make me waste time on that stupid logo?” she asked. Tears streamed down her face, mascara creating dark tracks down her cheeks. “You made a complete ass out of me. You had me sitting there designing something you were never going to use. Was that fun for you? Watching me care about something that didn’t matter?”

“Elizabeth, I didn’t make an ass out of you,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady even as rage and guilt warred inside me. “It was a mistake. You’ve been doing this for a week. You know how these shows go. There are always mistakes. Sound cues get missed. Models trip. Lighting fails. Seams split. I work my ass off to try and prevent those mistakes, but there is always something. Always. And this wasn’t my show. You know it was a mistake. You saw the graphics.”

It was a shitty copout, but it was true. If this had been my show, I would have absolutely made sure the logo was right. I would have checked it myself, would have stood over the graphics team’s shoulder until I saw Elizabeth’s name on those screens with my own eyes.

I was going to kick Dash’s ass.

She let out a long sigh. And then raised her chin like she was preparing for battle. “I know,” she murmured.

That was not what I expected.

“You know?”

“I know shit happens. I know you worked on that logo. It’s fine.” She wiped at her tears, but they kept coming, an endless stream she couldn’t control. “I know you didn’t intentionally fuck me over. It was a mistake. Oh well, right?”

I was confused. Was she being sarcastic? I had no idea. I didn’t want to make it worse by asking. So, I was going to just assume she was being real.

“Then why are you so crushed?”

“Because it still happened!” Her voice broke on another choked sob. “It doesn’t matter if it was intentional or not. Three thousand people just watched my designs get credited to you. Editors. Buyers. Influencers. Everyone who matters in fashion was in that room. That was supposed to be my moment, Adrian. My introduction to the fashion world. My chance to prove I belonged here. And now it’s just gone. I’m sorry, but how can I trust you? I know I’m new to this world, but I know how this game works. It happened in school. People steal ideas. Designs. Credit. It happens all the time. The industry practically runs on it. I just—I wish you would have just told me up front you weren’t going to credit me. Why make me go through the whole logo thing? Why let me believe this was real?”

The devastation in her voice killed me. The way she was looking at me made me want to tear down the entire venue brick by brick.