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It was more than a world-wide televised runway show. It was a circus of epic proportions. A camera crew followed every model working the event from their homes to the red carpet, through the extensive press gauntlet, and (once you got through all of that) the backstage, which was as much of a show as the event itself.

All in identical baby girl pink bra and panty sets, with an occasional tiny blush silk robe to cover up outside.

Asha had quite a bit to say about that, but I was getting increasingly good at ignoring her. “Take it up with your boss,” I told her every time she tried to tell me to cover up more.

It all went by in a sort of teeth-clenching blur. I got through it with a smooth poise fueled by my own sheer determination to make a mark.

I had to kill it for this. This was my shot at the big time. The difference between being an ‘it girl’ for fifteen minutes and launching into a full-on lifetime supermodel hall-of-famer. Like my mother-in-law minus the romance.

I’d never had any other talents, so I wanted to be the best at modeling, and this show was my make it or break it moment. If I did well, I’d achieve a long wished-for goal.

Backstage was an absolute madhouse, more of a party than anything else. It wasn’t even just the model chasing usual suspects (though they were there of course) it was a who’s who of tabloid fodder celebrities, men and women both. I spotted famous singers, actors, reality TV personalities, and YouTube influencers and that was only within the first minute.

Someone handed me a glass of champagne, and I toasted and pretended to drink with some random, gorgeous VS models in matching pink. Everyone was very friendly. More so than at any show I’d ever done.

I didn’t have to wonder at the reason for it, since there were cameras everywhere.

One of the show’s staff waved me down and started to lead me to my prep station. It was so crowded that I had to squeeze between strangers to follow.

Some random guy (I thought I recognized him, from television maybe?), tried to wrap his arm around my waist as I attempted to press past him.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he murmured, lips on my ear, hand gripping my ass, voice delighted. “Where have you been all my life?”

He got exactly one second into it before he was dragged away by a beefy, ruddy hand.

I glanced behind me at Chester, who was gripping the man by both shoulders and shaking him. Clearly setting him straight. Good old Chester.

I watched and pretended to take another sip of champagne. No way in hell was I partaking anything with carbonation when I didn’t get to wear more than tiny scraps of silk and lace for the next five hours.

Not today, bloating.

After that Chester made the journey across the room simply by throwing an arm around my shoulders and elbowing his way through the crowd. Unsurprisingly, no one else touched me after that.

I knew my assigned camera crew had caught the whole thing, and I wondered briefly how it might play out, but quickly shook the thought off. No use dwelling. Nothing I could do about it but keep my game face on.

I sat down at my station and let hair and makeup do their job.

“Is your security guard always so protective?” The question was from someone on a mic, pitched loud enough to carry over the noise of the crowd. It came from a friendly woman standing behind my assigned camera crew. I recognized her as one of the people producing the show behind the show.

I shrugged and smiled pleasantly. “When he sees the need. I don’t tend to like being grabbed by strangers.”

Several people laughed.

“You don’t know who that was?” the woman asked. She was smiling engagingly, like she found that fact charming.

I shrugged again, hoping I wasn’t being made a total fool of but fully aware that playing dumb had its advantages. “I don’t, but I have to say he did look sort of familiar.”

The woman addressed Chester, “Do you know who it was?”

Chester was scowling, an expression that didn’t look to be leaving his face anytime soon. He was the only one in earshot that didn’t seem amused by the whole thing. “Some guy who doesn’t know how to keep his hands to himself.”

That got a loud laugh. I got the feeling the guy must have been more famous than I realized. “He’s Brooks Ainsley,” someone called out. I shook my head. Didn’t ring a bell. “A recording artist,” the producer explained to me. “He has the number one song in the country right now.” That explained it. I’d been too busy keeping up with Jovie’s K-pop obsession lately to check on the US charts.

“Oh,” I responded. “Tell him we said congrats.” That got a big laugh.

I knew we’d smoothed it over and twisted it to our advantage as best as we could when the producer moved on to cajole some questions out of the next model, looking very pleased with herself. People would be talking about the incident for days, particularly since it’d all been caught on camera. It was as good for me as it was for their brand, and even the handsy pop star would no doubt be pleased at the extra internet hits on his name, even if he was getting dragged.

Wins all around. Free publicity at its easiest.