Chapter 3

The air backstage was thick, not just with the humidity of a hundred bodies in confined spaces, but with the electric, suffocating tension that had been building between us since the first light hit the runway. The cacophony of the convention center was muffled by the heavy velvet curtains and the frantic energy of the stylists, but inside the small, cluttered dressing room where I had retreated, the silence felt deafening. My heart was hammering against my ribs, a frantic bird trying to escape its cage. I was supposed to be the next model to go out, a nameless mannequin in a silk slip that cost more than my first car, but I couldn’t move. My legs felt like lead, heavy and uncooperative. I heard the door click shut, the distinct *snick* of the latch sealing us in. I didn’t need to look up to know it was him. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood, rain, and something darker, like aged leather—drifted in before he even spoke. I kept my eyes on the floor, watching my own trembling hands clutch the hem of the sheer fabric. “Still shaking, baby girl?” His voice was a low rumble, vibrating in the small space.