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The finals runway was in forty-eight hours.

"Fuck." I yanked the scrunchie from my hair. Dark brown waves tumbled down.

My stomach twisted with sharp, burning pain. I'd just realized that since yesterday afternoon, I'd had nothing but three cups of cold black coffee.

Anna had texted two hours ago, saying Leon was sleeping soundly in the hotel suite, telling me not to push myself too hard. But looking at this dress that still needed that final touch, how could I possibly sleep?

I took a deep breath, spreading the lace on the work table, ready to dive back in.

But when I lifted my hand, my shoulder screamed with pain. I'd been working for sixteen hours straight.

"Ruby, you need to rest."

I spun around.

Marcelo stood in the doorway, holding a paper bag, wearing a dark gray casual suit. He looked like he'd just arrived from somewhere.

"How did you get in?" I frowned. "The door was locked."

"Security downstairs knows me." He shrugged, walking in and shutting the door behind him. "Plus, this building's owned by an IS·MA affiliate."

"So you can just break into someone's workshop in the middle of the night?"

"I knocked." He held up the bag. "You were too focused. Didn't hear me. I brought food."

That's when I caught the smell—hot Italian vegetable soup and fresh focaccia.

My stomach growled.

Marcelo smiled. "Perfect timing, I see."

"I'm not hungry."

"Ruby." He walked to the work table and set down the bag. Those gray-green eyes locked on me. "When did you last eat a real meal?"

Over thirty hours ago, but who's counting.

I opened my mouth, then shut it.

"Sit." He pointed to the chair. Not a request. "Eat something."

Maybe because I was too tired. Maybe because that soup smelled too damn good. I sat.

Marcelo unpacked everything with practiced ease, poured the hot soup into a paper bowl, tore the bread, and handed it to me.

I took it, sipped carefully.

The warmth slid down my throat. My whole body relaxed.

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me, Ruby." Before I could respond, his gaze swept over the shredded lace scraps on the dress form. "Still struggling with the neckline support structure?"

I swallowed, rubbing my sore neck, finally letting days of frustration spill out. "Industrial lace is too cheap, shiny like dollar store crap. High-end soft lace can't support the weight of this heavy silk. If the collarbone transition doesn't hold, the whole structural integrity collapses... I've searched every fabric workshop in Manhattan for three days. All garbage."

Marcelo's lips curved. "Maybe I can help."

"What?" I looked up.