Page 68 of Pretend To Be Mine

ELIZABETH

The energy was electric and tangible, like touching a live wire. I stood in the wings, pressed against the wall to stay out of the way as I watched the audience settle into their seats. Three thousand people. Maybe more. I could see celebrities I recognized from television. Influencers I’d followed for years. It was a real who’s who in the industry. And they were all here for Adrian’s vision.

I was so nervous for him. And proud. I knew how much work he had put into making the night happen. I hadn’t been around the last year, but I saw the evidence of his hard work. I kind of wished his family could be here to support him, but I knew they had their own responsibilities tonight.

The lights dimmed. The crowd quieted. The music swelled. I found myself holding my breath. My hands covered my mouth as I waited for the moment I had seen rehearsed several times.

The spotlight hit the stage right where I knew he would be walking out. And there he was.

The roar that greeted him was deafening. Lights exploded across the stage and smoke machines created an ethereal atmosphere.

There he was. Adrian Blackwell. He commanded the attention of every single person in that massive space.

He looked incredible. The suit he’d chosen was perfectly tailored, all sharp lines and confidence. But it was more than the clothes. It was the way he moved. He owned that stage. I knew he had modeled in the past, which obviously gave him some experience, but it was more than that.

He walked to the end of the runway and looked out at the crowd until the music and applause faded.

“Welcome,” he said with a cocky half-smile that I was certain he knew could melt ice and explode ovaries. It was part of his charm. He knew how to work a crowd. “Welcome to Fashion of Love Week.”

The crowd erupted again. Adrian waited for them to settle, a small smile on his lips like he was enjoying every second of this.

“Thirty-two years ago, my father started Blackwell Couture in a small studio with nothing but a sewing machine, a dream, and an absolute refusal to compromise on quality.”

The screens came alive with images—old photos of Buck Blackwell in that tiny studio, early fashion shows, magazine covers from over the decades. The progression was stunning. It showed the evolution from humble beginnings to international empire.

“Tonight, we honor that legacy,” Adrian said. “We honor the past by reimagining it. By taking the designs that defined Blackwell Couture and asking ourselves, how do we move forward while staying true to where we came from?”

He was magnetic, confident and commanding but with an underlying warmth that made you want to listen. It was easy to believe in whatever he was selling. Every eye in the audience was locked on him. Every camera was capturing this moment.

And I was falling even harder, watching him shine.

This was Adrian in his element. Not the stressed CEO from yesterday, not the vulnerable man from the rooftop. This was the public face of Blackwell Couture, and he was extraordinary.

“We’ve been a name in fashion for over thirty years and I promise you, we’ll be here for thirty more. For sixty more. For as long as there are people who believe that what we wear matters, that design matters, that beauty and craftsmanship matter.”

The conviction in his voice made me believe it too. Made everyone in that room believe it.

He was still talking about the inspiration behind each piece, explaining the concept of Legacy, when I felt a hand grab my arm.

Annika. Her face was tight with stress. “Elizabeth, I need you. Now.”

I followed her without question, weaving through the backstage chaos to where the models were lined up, each one dressed in their first look, ready to walk.

Except one of them wasn’t dressed at all.

A tall brunette—I recognized her from yesterday’s fitting—lay on a couch in her underwear and robe, one arm draped over her stomach, her face pale and miserable.

“What happened?” I whispered.

“She’s not feeling well,” Annika said grimly. “Thinks it might have been something she ate. Probably cheese. She’s lactose intolerant. She can’t walk.”

My heart sank. “Can you pull someone from later in the lineup? We’ll put one of the first models in the dress. We’ll have time for a change. Someone will walk a few extra times. No big deal.”

“Everyone else is double-booked—they’re quick-changing between multiple looks. If I pull someone from later, we’ll have gaps.” Annika looked at me. I saw the question in her eyes before she asked it.

I slowly shook my head and took a step back as if that would stop it from happening.

“Elizabeth, would you take her place?”