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10
Designers and models rush back and forth, their eyes wide with excitement. Assistants hustle by, carting racks of clothing and various supplies. Upbeat music pumps through the speakers.
But I’m seconds away from having a mental breakdown.
“What do you mean, she disappeared?” I glance at the models lining up for their turn on the catwalk.
It’s been a hectic few hours of hem alterations, fashion tape fails, and safety pin heroics. Every second has been a dream, watching the clothing I designed, from sketch to fruition, come to life on the most gorgeous women to grace the planet.
Except one model, Anya, is nowhere to be found. The last time I spotted her blond head, she was ready to strut her stuff in my grand-finale design—a couture gown of layered black gossamer over silver satin. Embroidery embellishments draw the focus to the plunging neckline. It’s my most intricate, audience-wowing piece, and it’s missing.
“She was just here,” I say, waving toward the models.
“Maybe she ran to the restroom?” A brunette asks, decked out in my metallic blue midi dress. “She was looking a little pale.”
This is not happening—not with fifteen minutes until showtime.
“I’ll check and see if she’s in there.” I hurry toward the ladies’ room, push the door open, and the unmistakable sound of retching fills my ears. She’s enclosed in the first stall. As I stride across the room, I spy the gossamer gown draped over the arm of a lounger.
“Are you okay?”
Stupid question. It’s obvious she’s not okay, and she’s too busy vomiting to answer. With a sympathetic sigh, I tell her to take her time. Five minutes later, she exits in her undergarments, complexion drawn and pasty.
“I think it’s food poisoning. Shouldn’t have eaten the sushi,” she groans. “No one else did.”
My head assistant arrives, worried brown eyes assessing the scene. “We’re going to need to improvise, aren’t we?”
“There’s not enough time.” I drag my hand through my short blond waves, courtesy of the event stylist, and my heart palpitates.
“Oh, no!” Anya slaps a hand over her mouth right before she bolts into the stall again.
“What am I going to do?” Facing my assistant, I blink against the sting of tears.
“First off, you’re going to take a deep breath.” She raises her chin. “Go on, do it now.”
I pull in a lungful of anxiety-calming oxygen and let it out.
“That’s it. Now you’re going to dry those tears before you ruin your makeup.”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “My appearance is the least of my worries right now.”
“Actually, it’s at the top of the priority list.” She grabs the abandoned dress, holds it up, and furrows her brows. “This should fit you.”
My eyes go wide. “What?”
“You’re about the same height and build as Anya.” Her hand flourishes through the air, taking me in from head to toe. “We can make this work.”
“Elaina, I can’t.” Retreating a step, I shake my head. “I’m a designer. Not a model.”
“Today, you’re both.” She glances at her platinum watch. “Unless you have a better idea?”
Nausea rises at the thought of filling Anya’s shoes—literally and figuratively. But Elaina is right. Options are nonexistent, and I don’t have time to pull ideas out of thin air.
“Okay, I-I’ll do it.”
She nods her approval.
“Elaina’s right, you know.” Anya exits the stall and flops onto the lounger, her cheeks a shade pinker than a few minutes ago. “We could probably share clothes, and people have already mistaken us for sisters. You’ll look amazing in that dress.”
