It’s my idea of success.

  My first real show.

  I mean, I’ve helped Nora before, of course, but this is going to be the first show with my name attached. I can hardly believe it.

  “Look,” Katarina says, pointing to the first row of chairs. “Those have nameplates already.”

  “Ooh, lemme see,” Molly says, pushing her way through to get closer to the front row of chairs that have been set out. Following her, I see the names and grab Molly’s arm, shaking her wildly.

  “That’s . . . isn’t he an editor for Allure?”

  “Harper’s Bazaar,” she corrects. “As of last year.”

  “Merde! She’s a buyer for Harrods!” Beatrice shouts, pointing at another chair.

  More comments go around, each new name adding to the excitement and the pressure. This isn’t some collection of junior assistants or wannabes.

  These are top-flight guests.

  “Hey! Take my picture,” Molly says, squatting down and making kissy lips at a nameplate. She shoves her phone to Yori who takes it as the perfect opportunity for a photo shoot.

  “I don’t know who that is, but I’m happy you are happy,” Yori tells Molly.

  Molly’s surprise is obvious and immortalized in Yori’s next shot. “He’s an American actor. A supremely hot one that I would kill for the chance to lick all over.”

  “Did you see his last movie?” I ask Molly.

  She frowns. “Yeah, not his best work for sure. Othello’s a hard sell, even with that ass in some crack-hugging tights. The bedroom scene was hot, though. But I’m a fan of his other work . . . the ones with the six-pack abs, sexy smirk, and heart-wrenching confessions of love.”

  Yori grins as she hands Molly’s phone back and says, “That I could watch. Is it on Netflix?”

  I nod in answer, and Molly pins me with a ‘gotcha’ look. “What? I didn’t say I didn’t watch his movies! I asked if you did. That scene was hot.” I shrug, confessing, “I might’ve watched it a few times. Half dozen or so.”

  But now, that imaginary scene doesn’t seem nearly as hot. After my night with Simon, I don’t know that anything will ever compare again.

  “Six? If that’s what you admit, that means the real number is closer to a dozen,” Molly notes wisely.

  Okay, and correct.

  We make our way backstage and find workspaces divided out for each of us. My rack is set up, each of the bagged outfits a week’s worth of inspiration, creation, and obsession. I can feel anxiety chewing at my gut. People of influence are gonna see my work. What if I’m not ready, not good enough?

  My mom’s voice echoes in my head, this time a memory from when I made my own prom dress.

  “Oh, you look beautiful, baby!”

  “Thanks, Mom. It came out pretty good, don’t you think?” I know I’m fishing for compliments, but she can’t deny this dress is gorgeous.

  Mom scans the strapless dress I’ve been working on for weeks—first, drawing the design over and over with improvements each time, then, cutting the patterns carefully out of the expensive fabric I splurged on with my own money, and lastly, learning how to do hidden boning channels as I sewed it all together. There’s nothing she can nitpick, I know it. This dress is my best work and I feel amazing in it.

  “You did a great job with the boning work. You can’t even tell they’re there.”

  The sewing, that’s what she compliments, of course. Not the design, not how flattering it is. Nope, ‘you ran that through a machine really well’.

  “Thanks.” She’s never going to realize how much I love designing, the whole process of it, not only the stitching. She’s never going to think I’m good enough, talented enough, creative enough to do more than make other people’s ideas come to life.

  Jeanette comes up, looking wired. “Allo! Ready?”

  Energy is buzzing off her, making her look particularly bright-eyed and her smile broad. It hits me. This is a big deal for her, too. Most of her career, she’s been part of the ‘cattle call’ set, the models who take spots but aren’t known. This is the first time she’s been paired with someone as the highlight model.

  We both have a lot riding on this.

  “I hope so,” I tell Jeanette. “Let’s do our last fittings and see where we’re at.”

  I dress Jeanette and then my other four models, who are more like robotic clothes hangers. They seem nice enough but are definitely accustomed to working with designers who want them to show up on time, stand still for dressing, blankly walk the runway, and leave. They honestly seem surprised that I want to speak to them at all and shocked that I want them to actually smile on the runway.

  “Yes, really. Teeth and all.” I demonstrate a big, happy smile, poking at my full cheeks. “Be happy, look happy.”

  I put outfits on each of them, making changes and last-minute tweaks as they’re needed.

  Soon, it’s our turn to do an onstage rehearsal, a practice walk in street clothes and show heels that gives the models a chance to get the feel for how it will be tomorrow night. At Jeanette’s urging, I even take a practice lap, and it’s . . . intense. There’s light directly in my eyes no matter how I turn my head, and as I walk, music starts blasting me, which is even more disorienting.

  I damn near walk off the end of the stage.

  I’m not the only one struggling with the runway walk as the other designers try it too. Molly laughs. “This is impossible and I have on boots! How do you do this in heels?” she asks her model. All the models laugh at our difficulties, breaking the tension of the afternoon.

  The doors at the far end of the room open, and in walks Jacqueline Corbin, Tobias, a man I haven’t seen before, and Simon.

  I haven’t seen Simon in a couple of days, not since he stopped by the workroom to speak to each designer one-on-one on Wednesday. It had nearly seemed like a ruse to see me, but all the designers had been over the moon at having a chance to talk to him. As for me, I’d struggled to keep an all-business face, especially when he pointedly licked his lips when no one was looking.

  And now, seeing him again, I swear it instantly went up about ten degrees in here. His eyes find mine as the group walks over to the chairs with their names on them.

  “Hello, ladies!” Jacqueline says regally. She looks like a million bucks, wearing House Corbin, of course. Her white suit jacket and pencil skirt are tailored to perfection, her multi-strand pearls likely real, and I’m not sure if it’s a pet or an accessory, but she has a small, white French bulldog puppy cradled in one arm. It’s adorable and takes just a hint off Jacqueline’s harsh look. “Are you ready for tomorrow's show?”

  No, we’re all so nervous I’m sure at least half of us are about to piss our pants. But we’re not going to tell her that, so we nod mechanically, hoping that’s some reassurance that things are fine, totally fine, completely ready for a show in less than twenty-four hours.

  Instead of looking at Jacqueline, I turn my attention to Simon, whose eyes are heated even as his face remains professionally impassive.

  “This is Albert,” Jacqueline says, introducing the unknown man. “He’s my right-hand man and head assistant. Treat anything he tells you as though it’s coming directly from me. Understood?”

  She doesn’t wait for our agreement, continuing her speech. “I’m certain you have seen the names upon these chairs. Some of the crème de la crème of fashion. They will be judging you, providing feedback, and helping me to make my decisions.” She looks over the chairs and then to Simon. “Along with these guests, my nephew, Simon, will be assisting me.”

  Simon does a double-take. “Jacqueline, we agreed I wouldn't be on the council.”

  Jacqueline looks miffed that someone would question her words in public but waves it off. “I changed my mind. Dear nephew, you will help judge the outfits, and your feedback will be valuable for deciding who wins.”

  Simon’s eyes find mine, and I know what he’s thinking. This means our spending time together is a clear conflict of interest and complicates things greatly. Before, it was questionable. Now, it’s flat-out wrong.

  “After the showing, there will be little feedback. Nothing more than a few comments here or there if I see fit. I want each of you to present your best for every show, to strive for greatness with every opportunity.”

  Wow . . . talk about cranking the pressure up. Not knowing how I’m doing other than a few comments? Adjustments are going to be totally on my gut, on the fly.

  “You okay, chica?” Molly asks me as we go backstage to continue rehearsals. “You went white as a sheet at Ole Jackie’s announcement.”

  “Just nerves,” I whisper, hating that I’m lying. “Shit just got real, that’s all.”

  “Bah,” Molly says with a grin. “It is what it is. Either way, we got this!”

  But for the first time, I’m not so sure.

  Tits and ass . . . everywhere.

  I guess I should expect it. I mean, I am backstage at a fashion show. But it’s still strange to be surrounded by all these examples of supposed female beauty, most of whom are casually naked or near naked as they get ready for the show.

  It’s the big day, and I guess I shouldn’t be worried about the amount of supple female flesh on display around me. But the truth is, I am. I’ve been working my entire time in fashion to design outfits that are sexy on every body. I studied and worked with the idea that every woman, every man, every human, deserves to feel good in their clothes.

  Yet, Jeanette is worrying over her non-existent ‘fat’, all the other models are rail thin, and even the hair and make-up artists are runway slim. Is it a French thing? A European thing? Hell, a global trend?

  Frankly, it’s disappointing. It’s been, what, fifteen years since Christina Hendricks had men spanking the monkey left and right to her curvy redheaded sexiness? Some of these girls here today were in diapers when she was making their daddies have wet dreams.

  At least the fashions we’re presenting are varied, even if the body types are not. Yet.

  I feel like I’ve done my style and myself proud, creating unique pieces that stay true to who I am as a designer. They’re classic but fresh and would look good on anyone, regardless of their size.

  I walk over to the makeup artist’s chair, where Jeanette is sitting. “Hey, girl, you ready for the Summer of Youth?” I ask, spreading my hands wide in a rainbow motion above my head.

  “Oui. Walk: bouncy, like boing! Energy: young and fun. Smile, but with a good size,” she reports, word-for-word of our rehearsal notes that had taken Google Translate and a video search to communicate with each other.

  “Excellent.” I watch for a moment, ensuring the bold green eyeshadow look I requested is working. After seeing that it’s going well and the makeup artist assuring me that she’s already sent my other models to hairstyling and is almost done with Jeanette, I relax a tiny bit.

  “Ten minutes, over there.” I point back to my work area.

  Jeanette nods agreeably, knowing that today is planned and choreographed down to the second. Getting back to my station, I busy myself studying the caftan dress for any lint, even though I’ve steamed, lint rolled, and studied every square inch of it.

  I hear noise out front, and I sneak over to the curtain, taking a peek. I spot several of the VIPs—celebrities, fashion designers, and journalists—and it sends my heart into overdrive, my fingers tingling so hard I can’t imagine being more freaked out without needing an ambulance.

  “Breathe,” Yori says, looking over my shoulder and seeing the same thing I do. She seems completely fine, though, no panic attack in sight. “You panic, you make mistake. You must have mushin.”

  “Mushin?” I ask, dimly remembering the term from somewhere. “That’s like Japanese chill out, right?”

  “A little. Means ‘no mind’. You do the work, you know you are good. Now let go of the rest.”

  I snort. “That’s easier said than done.” But I try, telling myself that everything is fine, but it just feels like more static.

  Yori takes my hands, tugging me out of my thoughts. “Breathe. In through nose, out through mouth, very slow. Isshoni. Together.”

  I follow her, taking deep breaths, and I feel myself start to calm, but that calm evaporates a minute later when I see another big name come through the door. “Oh my God . . . fucking Wonder Woman’s here!” I gasp. “This is going to be so bad.”

  Katarina comes over, slipping a flask into my hand. “Here. Yori is sweet, but you need Russian stress relief. A flask of this, nerves go dasvidaniya.”

  Blindly, I spin the cap on the flask and drink, trying not to choke as harsh vodka goes rolling down my throat, burning the whole way. “Holy fuck!” I cough, covering my mouth so I don’t start a fire with only my breath. “That’s not alcohol, that’s gasoline!”

  “But now, less stress,” Katarina says with a little laugh. She claps me on the back, right between my shoulder blades, before going back to her station. I follow, hoping to help a fully made-up Jeanette at my own station.

  My models are there, stripped down to their underwear and waiting on me. I’m helping the first girl into her outfit when Tobias comes into the back with his phone. Normally, that’s a huge no-no. There are no phones backstage, but he’s obviously talking to someone, and honestly, I don’t think any of us have the balls to tell him to get off the phone. Still, I watch carefully and eavesdrop a bit.

  “Da, I really must go,” he says, a pained expression on his face. “I’m in the middle of a show.”

  Faintly, as Tobias gets closer, I can hear a man’s voice on the other end of the line. Tobias must have his phone on speaker to try and get past the music out front. “Shush! You can spare a few minutes for your da! Bloody hell, Toby, turn on the camera, show me all of it! So many knockers and beautiful arses! Mmmhmm, makes me feel like a young ballsy bloke again! Just a blue pill and I could take all of them.”

  “Da, be quiet!” Tobias says, clearly embarrassed. “Mum would kill you if she knew you were saying that about these women, and you’ll kill my job too!”

  “That’s why she doesn’t know! Go on, boy, you need to take one of them home with you tonight, shag her right in the boot if you ask me!”

  “I have to go,” Tobias says, hanging up before his father can get him in more trouble. Tobias catches my eye and shrugs helplessly. “Old dirty fool’s a wanker. Sorry.”

  I actually feel a bit sorry for Tobias. It sounds like his father is a real piece of work, and Tobias seems so proper and respectable. Guess his apple fell far from the tree and then rolled a few more feet just to get away.

  “Shake what yo’ momma gave ya!” Molly yells from her stall, and I look to see her and her highlight model actually dancing. I guess she’s not as nervous as I am, or if she is, she’s handling it very differently.

  They bump hips before Molly drops into a little twerk in time with the barely muffled music that’s pumping around the room. “Check my fine ass, I’m gonna break TikTok!”

  It’s just what I need, and I laugh, shaking my head. Of course Molly would get up to something, especially when one of the models does whip out a phone and film Molly’s antics, breaking rules, but it seems nobody cares. Of course not. It’s all in fun.

  And everyone’s dressed now.

  Soon enough, it’s showtime, and I walk with the models to the side of the stage. “Remember . . . you’re gorgeous, young, and full of attitude. No gentle politeness. Be your raw, real, powerful self. That’s what’ll make the outfits look best.” I speak slowly, with lots of hand gestures to be sure they’re getting it. “And smile! Happy, happy, happy!”

  “You got it, Boss,” Jeanette answers.

  Even the short sentence is growth from where we were mere days ago with our communication, and I consider that she has helped change me for the better too. One of her favorite words is ‘why’, and it’s caused me to do some soul searching on my own designs and why I feel called to certain elements, fabrics, and styles that are comfortable to me.

  My first model takes the runway, fierce as fuck as she stomps down to the end and strikes a pose. Throwing the back of the skirt with a flick of her hand, it lifts and then falls dramatically as she gives a shady smirk and whirls to walk back.

  Okay, not a smile, but I’ll take a badass bitch too.

  I can see the faces of the judges, and they’re nodding. Or at least not scowling.

  “Slayed,” I whisper to her in excitement when the model steps through the curtain to the backstage again. “Great job.”

  “Outfit two.” I’m talking to myself mostly as the model stands still, letting me have one last look before she walks out, not that I can do much about it now.

  “Wait,” Jeanette hisses, and my heart jumps into my throat.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This.” She steps in front of the model wearing the pleated shorts and black cami and mimes pinching her nipples. Thankfully, not actually touching her because if she wrinkles the silk, I will lose my shit.

  The model looks to me for permission. Jeanette assures me, “Sexy-sexy. Better.”

  When I grin, the model slips her hands beneath the silk and pinches her nipples, harder than I think necessary, but I’m not gonna judge what she’s into. Regardless, they perk right up, and as the cami settles back into place, I can see that Jeanette was right. The model’s nipples add a bit of naughty sexiness to the outfit without being too much. I add the long, flowy toga-like drape, which the model holds at her elbows. When she walks, it’ll swish and sway behind her similarly to the caftan dress, but as a segue to more tailored pieces in the collection.

  I clap my hands as I sing, “It’s about damn time!”

  CHAPTER 14

  SIMON

  I shift in my chair, trying to remain professional. I hate being forced into this situation, judging each of the contestants’ designs. Sure, I’ve got a pen and paper to dutifully write down notes, but it feels like a sham, especially when it comes to Autumn.