Chapter 8

The air backstage was thick, a heavy cocktail of hairspray, expensive perfume, and the electric hum of adrenaline finally beginning to ebb. My fingers trembled as I peeled off the sheer, restrictive bodysuit that had felt like a second skin for the past three hours. The fabric stuck to my sweat-slicked skin, clinging to every curve, every pulse point, before finally giving way with a soft *schhhhk* sound. I didn’t rush. I let the moment stretch, savoring the transition from the goddess of the runway to the woman waiting for her king. My hair, an intricate cascade of golden waves pinned high, was being unpicked by a stylist with nimble, tired hands. I watched myself in the mirror, but I wasn’t looking at the model. I was looking for him. And then, he was there. He didn’t walk in with the chaotic energy of the other designers or the frantic assistants clutching clipboards. He moved with a predatory, silent grace, cutting through the clutter of garment bags and steaming racks. His suit was still immaculate, not a wrinkle in the charcoal wool, his tie loosened just enough to suggest he’d been working hard, though to me, he looked like he