It's truly stunning on her.

  I think I’m prouder of this garment than of any piece I’ve ever made before. Ever.

  “It’s magnifique, Autumn. I feel va-va-va-voom,” Jeanette answers, shimmying her shoulders and swaying her hips.

  But looking around the room, I’m worried it doesn’t have enough wow-factor. It’s seductive in a feminine wiles sort of way, and against Katarina and Beatrice’s work in particular, I’m afraid Jeanette’s dress is simply . . . quiet.

  Katarina’s collection actually reminds me of the outfit I wore at the club with Simon. It’s black and red and boldly sexy. She’s made two cocktail dresses, one super short and the other long with a slit that shows the top of her model’s hipbone. Definitely a commando situation. Two other models have harnesses layered over their tops, inspired by the bridle Katarina bought on our shopping trip. And her finale look? A red leather A-line gown that, while simple, fits impeccably and looks so buttery soft it begs to be touched. All in all . . . it’s drama, with a capital D and a ‘get on your knees before me, peasant’ vibe. A bit gothic, a bit dominatrix, and all sex.

  Beatrice’s garments are classic and classy, in a full range of flesh-tones that match her models’ skin perfectly, giving an illusion of nudity while being tasteful. She’s accented with loads of sheer tulle in huge, grand overskirts or fluffy poufs at the shoulders. Her finale dress has a cape-train situation, cascading down from the dress’s shoulders and spilling out for at least three feet behind the model. For a monochromatic collection, there is also plenty of drama.

  If I’m being honest, I want Katarina’s leather gown and Beatrice’s tulle overskirt in my own wardrobe.

  Molly bought a twelve-inch, bright pink dildo as her inspiration piece, or so she claimed, though I think she might’ve just added it to her personal collection of toys instead. But given the outrageously thick, veiny muse, her pieces are relatively tame. Well, for Molly. She said her goal was to make an outfit that would get the wearer rode hard and put up wet, one for each day of the week, Monday through Friday because ‘Everyone knows Naked Weekends are totally a thing.’ I’d looked at the other designers with raised eyebrows when Molly said that and they mostly seemed to be thinking the same thing as I was . . . Molly’s crazy. And also, don’t go to her place on Saturday unless you want to check her ass for odd moles. But somehow, Molly’s pulled it together, and her days of the week outfits are flirty and cute. I’m afraid they’re not quite the House Corbin vibe, but she has to be true to herself.

  Which is what I remind Yori, who seems to be worrying as much as I am.

  “That looks fabulous, girl! Walk, walk, walk!” I snap my fingers encouragingly, praising the model who’s strutting back and forth across the room. Yori is sitting on the floor, evaluating the draping as it moves. “It’s exactly what you said you wanted . . . Glam Japan!”

  Yori smiles, her eyes never leaving the hem of the dress. “Thank you. The sash effect . . . is it too . . .” Her words trail off as she thinks and then finally, she resorts to charades. She acts like she’s holding a baby . . . no, a bouquet, one hand above her head like an invisible crown, and then she ugly cries.

  “Oh, pageant-y?” I translate. When Yori nods and points at me triumphantly, I look at her dress again. I never would’ve thought that, but now that she’s said it . . . “Hmm, maybe if the draping was attached at the bustline instead of the shoulder?”

  “Yes!” Yori shouts, jumping up from the floor and pulling her model back toward the sewing machine. “Strip, now!” she orders.

  I smile. At least Yori’s concerns are fixed. But mine?

  I’m not sure. Should I do something else for Jeanette’s dress? Or trust my original instincts.

  “Jeanette, can you walk for me, please?” I automatically make a walking movement with my fingers, using the shorthand we’ve pieced together over the last two weeks, and she begins model stomping across the floor like a badass bitch.

  I nibble at my lip, thinking. Something is wrong.

  Jeanette holds up a finger, telling me to wait. “I have idea.”

  “Well, I’m sure as hell open to hearing it,” I tell her.

  She fidgets with her phone for a moment and then piano music begins to play. It’s funky, jazzy, and sensual with unexpected notes. She backs up down the makeshift runway space and resets herself.

  Her face softens, her lips lifting ever so slightly at the corners, and somehow, her already long arms grow longer and more graceful. She doesn’t walk, she prowls down the runway, slow and panther-like. The dress didn’t change, but the entire feeling of it does with Jeanette’s personality.

  I clasp my hands over my open mouth. “Oh, my God! Yes, that’s it!” Jeanette poses and then stalks back, finishing the lap up and down the runway.

  Grinning, I high-five her with both hands, jumping up and down in excitement.

  I’m still worried the garments themselves aren’t enough compared to the drama of the others’, but showing my pieces at their best is all I can do at this point.

  “Loose bedhead waves, smudged black eyeliner, and red lips,” I confirm with the hair and makeup team. “I want them to look F-F.” When one of the artists looks at me, I explain, “Freshly fucked. A little undone and messy. But only a little.”

  “Ah, as though they simply laid there until the man came and then . . .” The artist waves his hands in front of his groin one time. “Fini.”

  When everyone’s on the same page, I stand back. My models are lined up, ready to get glammed so we can dress them.

  “Fashion show dos in una hora!” Molly sings in accented Spanish instead of French, horribly off-key but happy nonetheless. “We got this, ladies! They want seduction? We’ll have a full-fledged orgy on our hands by the end of this runway. Fo’ sho’!” She bites her lip as she pumps her hips obscenely, smacking the air in front of her like it’s a lover’s ass. “You like that? That’s what I thought, my little slut.”

  I can’t help but laugh at her silliness. I bet Molly would have a ball at the sex club Simon took me to. Well, a ball, or maybe a ball-gag.

  “It’ll be a mess of writhing bodies, hands and mouths and dicks all over the place.” She wiggles her body, hands all over her own breasts as she looks left and right as though seeing people surrounding her. “Oh, what’s that? Why, yes, I will . . .” She mimics sucking a cock, and then looks elsewhere. “Oh, and one of these?” She licks the air, her tongue flicking wildly.

  Beatrice leans over to whisper to me, “Is she serious? This is not what ‘seduction’ means in France. Perhaps there’s a translation error?”

  My chest bounces as I try to corral my laughter. “No, I think Molly’s a bit sex-starved, though. She needs to get laid.”

  “Hmm,” Beatrice says, unconvinced.

  My first model returns, looking perfect. “Oui! Let’s get you dressed.” It’s the same for models two through four, and then Jeanette returns.

  Her short curls are combed out into a fluffy halo, making her look soft and sweet. But the sultry eye makeup says she’s anything but. It’s absolutely perfect.

  We quickly work to get her into the silk gown. I decided this morning, nearly at the last minute, that the back of the dress did need something more, so I sewed small buttons from the nape to the walking slit. Twenty-five buttons in two hours. Was it what I should’ve spent that time doing? No. Am I glad I did, seeing it on Jeanette now? Absolutely. Even if my hand is still cramping.

  The buttons aren’t functional, merely decorative, but it gives the back a touch of more. I’m still not sure it’s enough, but it’s too late for anything else now.

  Looking out from behind the curtain, I can see the rows of chairs lined up once again. And they’re filling up fast.

  Jacqueline, Albert, and Simon are already seated, though they didn’t come backstage to greet us this time. Tobias is wandering around, offering compliments and Valium, though I think he’s kidding about the latter.

  On second thought, I could use a bit of a chill pill right now. I’m more nervous for this show than I was the last one.

  Katarina opens the show this time, and fuck, she sets the bar high. Like stratosphere high. When her leather gown appears, there’s an audible gasp from the audience and I lock eyes with Molly.

  “Shit,” she mouths. I don’t say it but I’m thinking the same thing.

  Yori’s collection goes next, and despite her worries, she’s harnessed her cultural background and personal style with a series of outfits that play off geisha, video games, and maybe even off the ridiculous anime that she complained about. My favorite part is her styling, with each model in lug-soled boots and knee socks in various stages of falling down.

  The result? A sultry yet innocent vibe that knocks it out of the park. Yori’s brand of seduction, wrapped up in one collection.

  As Molly’s models begin their turn, my eyes drift to Simon. He’s watching the show with a neutral face, but as if he can feel my eyes on him, he finds me in the curtains at the side of the runway. I purse my lips, sending him a kiss, and he responds with a small and secretive smile, raising one brow devilishly. The tiny move promises all sorts of things—like a pink ass, a soaked pussy, and so many orgasms I might pass out before he’s done with me.

  “Earth to Autumn,” Molly snaps from beside me.

  “Oh! Sorry, what?” I say.

  She frowns, hurt by my distraction. “I was gonna ask what you thought, but you weren’t even watching.”

  Shit. She’s right. I’m so busy staring at Simon like a lovesick puppy that I’m missing out on the show. I know I want both Simon and the competition, but the least I can do is focus on one at a time. I need to get my priorities straight right now.

  Still, I can honestly say, “I was watching the judges' reactions. They’re staying stoic, but your ‘Fuck Me, It’s Friday’ outfit was awesome.” Molly seems appeased, especially that I remembered her outfit name, but there’s no way I’d forget things like ‘Make Me Monday’, ‘Tied Up Tuesday’, ‘Whack-Off Wednesday’, and ‘Thirst Trap Thursday’.

  Beatrice’s group is up, and I’m doing the last-minute looks over my models as they’re lined up for our turn.

  “Oh! Almost forgot,” Jeanette says, reaching into the bodice of the dress. She pinches her nipples, doing the same trick she recommended from the first show.

  “I don’t think—” I start to say, but to my horror, the lace rips away from the silk, leaving a gaping hole in the top of my gown and Jeanette’s now-hard nipple poking out and completely visible.

  I immediately start denying what’s right in front of me, “No, no, no, no, no. This can’t be happening.”

  Jeanette has frozen, letting me look at the damage. “I’m sorry, Autumn,” she says earnestly. “What can I do to fix it?”

  “Turn time back two minutes?” I suggest hotly.

  I finger the fragile fabric, trying not to panic, but it’s not working. At all. My heart is racing, my face feels hotter than the desert sun, and I can’t catch my breath.

  Where’s Tobias? I could really use one of those Valium right now.

  “What am I going to do?” I say, mostly to myself.

  This is a competition. No one is going to help me. And beyond that, this is fashion. There’s no fairy godmother savior to come to the rescue with a magic wand when shit goes wrong. There’s no bippity-boppity-boo for me.

  “Think, think, think, Autumn.”

  But I’m wrong. The Sisterhood of the Sewing Pants has my back, offering a needle and thread.

  “No time to hand stitch it,” I tell Yori.

  Beatrice holds up a mini stapler from her emergency kit, a questioning look on her face. “It might tear the fabric more, though.” She shakes her head and sets it down.

  “Take the lace off and fold the neckline under. Problem solved,” Molly offers.

  In the end, it’s Katarina’s idea that I go with, albeit with a tweak. She has double sided tape and suggests taping the fabric together. But I’m afraid that’ll come apart on the runway.

  “Jeanette? I’m sorry, but you might lose a bit of nip tonight, okay?” I tell her quickly. She might not understand what I’m saying, but she waves at me to do whatever I need to because Beatrice’s last model is walking out, which means there’s only my four models to go before Jeanette’s walking out there, exposed or not. Thank God I decided on Jeanette’s slow, panther-like walk for all my models. It’ll give me maybe thirty extra seconds.

  Molly tries to joke. “It’s like a mustache wax . . . only for your tit.”

  Another time, that might be funny. We all know women have hairs around their nipples and we handle them without making some big announcement about it. But I can’t laugh right now. Not when my big finale dress, the one I’m already worried about, is in tatters.

  I get to work, placing long swatches of tape along Jeanette’s chest. “This isn’t fashion tape,” I say by way of apology. “It’s pure Gorilla Glue, double-sided, sticky tape. It might just become part of you. Like, you might be able to use it to hold your car keys and phone after this, to keep them safe.”

  She doesn’t laugh, not willing to move. As she holds completely still, I line up the fabric carefully, pressing the lace and silk into the tape. I’ve only got one shot at this because there’s no time to re-do, and pulling the fabric from the tape would likely destroy it further anyway.

  It’s . . . not perfect.

  In fact, it’s puckered and folded in a way that makes her breasts look uneven and droopy . . . on one side.

  “Let me just fix—”

  Molly swats at my hands. “There’s no time, honey. You have to let her go.”

  “I–I . . .” I stammer.

  But it’s too late. Jeanette is walking the runway in a dress that looks poorly sewn, or fitted, or both. It was already the capstone of a potentially unremarkable collection, and it’s the final piece of the entire show. It’ll be the one people see last before going to the post-show cocktail hour to discuss hits and misses. They’re going to verbally tear me to shreds.

  Peeking out from the curtain, I watch the crowd for their reaction. I feel faint, my vision nearly swimming, but as I blink and focus, I see something that gives me the tiniest shred of hope. Other than a frown from one woman, who looks like she has a dead cat on her head, nobody else seems to notice.

  If anything, I see some positive looks. I pray they’re because they like my dress and not because they’re ready for the show to be over so they can get out of here.

  Jeanette does her best, keeping her shoulders still for the slow, sensual walk and focusing on swinging her hips more. And for her pose at the end of the runway, she spins, giving the cameras her back to highlight the buttons and lace. And the perfect curve of her ass.

  Thank God she’s such a pro!

  When she walks through the curtain to the backstage area, I tackle her in a hug as we all loudly celebrate the completion of another week’s show. For better or worse, we did it.

  “Woo-hoo!” Yori shouts.

  “Fuck yeah!” Molly answers, high-fiving one of her models.

  “Thank you! Thank you!” I tell Jeanette.

  She winces, curving her back to get her chest away from my full-contact hug. “You pull boobie.”

  “Oh!” I exclaim, realizing that my hug is probably shifting the tape and therefore, her skin, painfully. “Come on, let’s get you out of this thing and see what we can do to keep your nipple attached to you and not the tape.”

  Carefully, I peel the fabric from the tape, holding her skin taut. “Does anyone have rubbing alcohol?” I ask the room.

  There’s a chorus of ‘no’ and ‘sorry’ and then Katarina says, “What about vodka?”

  It’s not the same, but it’s worth a shot. Actually, maybe literally a shot.

  Katarina gives her flask to Jeanette, and I tell her, “Drink, for the pain.” She takes it, throwing a swig back easily. “Damn, that stuff is strong and you’re swallowing it like water!”

  Jeanette smiles, not sure what I’m saying but getting my meaning.

  I pour a bit of the vodka on a cotton ball the makeup artist hands me and then dab it on the tape. I’m not sure it’s working, so I do it again with more vodka. And then with an apologetic look to Katarina, I turn the flask upside down and empty it over the tape and Jeanette’s breast like a bad start to a Girls Gone Wild spring break porn video. Finding the corner, I peel it slowly and carefully.

  “Ooh-ooh-ooh,” Jeanette whines in pain, but quickly, it’s done. I hold pressure over the red streaks on her skin, remembering what Molly said about it being like a waxing. Of course, that means I’m basically going to second base with Jeanette.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I whisper.

  Jeanette puts her hand over mine. “It’s okay. I’m okay. We did it. Go, you have more work.”

  I press my cheek to Jeanette’s, doing the French bise kiss thing. “Thank you so much.”

  It’s not nearly enough appreciation for what she’s done, but I don’t know what else to say. There’s no Hallmark card for ‘thanks for risking your nipple for me.’

  I make quick work of putting my garments back in their bags for transport to the workroom, cursing at my fucked-up finale gown, and straighten my own clothing a bit as I ready myself for the schmoozing with the show guests.

  I spend a few minutes mingling with the crowd, trying to catch the vibe of the event.

  I overhear many conversations about who’s the best. Regretfully, I think it might be Katarina. Every single outfit of hers oozed sexy, powerful femininity turned toward one purpose . . . getting you in her bed. Or couch. Or wherever she wants it, as long as she’s the one in charge. It was pure seduction.

  “Mademoiselle Fister!” a woman calls, mispronouncing my name, but I let it slide, hoping it’s merely the accent. I look over to see the woman with the dead cat on her head, although as she approaches, I think it’s faux fur. Either that, or a badly stuffed mongoose. “What a delightful set!”