Marisol is one of my other models, not a feature, but a gorgeous woman who’s done right by my designs the last two shows and is slated to walk in my first outfit tonight. Based on the makeup artist’s tone, I know she’s not about to tell me anything good. “No, what’s wrong?”

  She moves closer to me to confide, “She’s tossing her salad.”

  I tilt my head, trying to make sense of what she said because that is not . . . right. “You mean, tossing her cookies?” I make a vomiting motion with my hand and open mouth and the makeup artist nods. “Like . . . blech?”

  “No, no, no, no,” I repeat. But that only makes her nod more emphatically.

  What am I going to do? I’m missing one model and have another who’s sick. I’m doomed.

  And that’s when I see Jacqueline. She’s walking around backstage with an air of ease, owning the room as she speaks with the other designers, models, and hair and makeup artists. Finally, after greeting literally everyone else backstage, she approaches me. “Autumn, may I have a word with you, please?”

  I want to say no. I feel like I’m on the edge of a cliff, my toes hanging over and holding on for dear life, and that’s with two missing models. Talking to Jacqueline can only bring more bad news. “Of course.”

  “As I understand it, we’ve had a bit of a model mishap. Jeanette has been held up and won’t be able to make it, unfortunately, and Marisol is quite ill.” When she says it, it becomes real. I was stressed, but a tiny portion of my head hoped that it was all a mistake and Jeanette and Marisol would pop around a corner, say ‘surprise’ like it was some silly prank, and then be ready to walk. But no, that’s not going to happen, not when Jacqueline is smiling at me sympathetically. Not that I believe her sympathy for a second. “Do not worry, dear. We have found a suitable replacement. Her measurements are as close to Jeanette and Marisol as we could get on such short notice.”

  As close to Jeanette and Marisol? What did they do, split the difference? Because Jeanette is curvy—for a runway model—and Marisol is the more standard thin. There’s no way one model could be close to both of their measurements.

  She frowns, offering, “I will redo the order of designers so that you can show your collection last. That will give you more time to make any needed adjustments, especially given that Chloe will need to be fitted into both your first and finale outfits. She’ll have to walk twice. I hope that’s acceptable?”

  She has me by the short hairs and she knows it. What am I going to do? Say no? Whine that it’s not fair?

  “Of course. Thank you for making the emergency arrangements,” I grit out.

  “You’re quite welcome, dear. Remember, a good designer can handle whatever is thrown at them.” Her brow lifts as she smirks, and if I had any doubt that this was her doing, it vanishes with the knowing look in her eyes.

  Shit! Shit! Shit!

  She told me there would be consequences to disobeying her, and I thought she was talking about disqualifying me from the competition. It never occurred to me that she’d humiliate me by making a successful show a near impossibility.

  A moment later, a stunner of a woman steps up. She’s easily six feet tall, and her icy blue eyes and platinum blonde hair make her look like a beautiful goddess . . . but she has a haughty air about her.

  This is a woman who would never, ever deign to ‘fart’.

  Still, I have to be professional and give her a chance. “Hello. Autumn Fisher.”

  “Chloe,” the goddess declares as if I should’ve obviously known that. She doesn’t give her last name nor offer a handshake, merely looking down at me. Okay, in her defense, there’s nearly a foot of difference between the two of us, but I get the feeling we could be eye to eye, and she’d still look ‘down’ on me.

  I see how this is going to go, but it’s only for one show. The most important show of my life to date, but still only one. We don’t have to be besties and braid each other’s hair later.

  “Oh-kay, well, let’s get you ready for the first outfit,” I tell her, taking control as I remove the shift that I had planned for Marisol from its bag and hang it on my rack.

  She huffs, snootily correcting me. “You mean get the outfit ready for me.” She finds her reflection in the mirror behind her and turns to assess herself, running her hands over her curves. Or where there would be curves if she had any.

  “Riiight,” I agree. “Either way, we need to make a few adjustments.”

  Chloe waves a hand dismissively. “I will wear whatever you give me.”

  No shit. That’s literally your job, bitch.

  My nerves are shot, my filter disappearing by the second, and soon, it’ll be one big, open netting with so many holes that there will be nothing stopping the angry thoughts that cross my brain from coming right out of my mouth.

  “Stay here,” I order coldly.

  Chloe ignores me but doesn’t seem to be a runaway risk, so I rush across the room to the spare bolts of cloth that are always brought for emergencies and cut off a strip of black lace. I had intended for Marisol to wear white lace because it contrasted with her olive complexion, but with Chloe’s fair skin, the darker color will better emphasize the image I’m going for.

  “What’s this for?” Chloe asks when I return. She’s already stripped and pulled the shift dress over her body without my help, which is a big no-no that she’s well aware of as a model. I growl under my breath, wanting to bite her face off for it.

  But my attention is drawn to my first piece. Chloe is closer to Marisol’s size, so this one won’t take too much alteration, but it does need some. I grab my pins and get to work, making tailoring adjustments here and there.

  While I work, I give Chloe the run-down. “The theme of the show is Amour. This first dress is the date stage, where love is blind,” I tell her, bringing the lace up to my own face. “Don’t worry, you can see through it to walk. Now, let’s get this belt and drape fixed.”

  It takes some time, but I get the dress fitted exactly how I want, giving Chloe a sexy but innocent appearance. She stands still as a statue as I do it, almost scarily absent from her body, but when I step back everything looks right.

  Outfit one? Check.

  Outfit two represents passion. It’s a tight red dress that’s similar to my own gala gown. Very Jessica Rabbit va-va-voom, but on the model, it’s not remotely as ‘cups spilleth over’ as my own dress was.

  Outfit three is a white gown, a modern take that represents a wedding with a train that will spill out behind the model as she walks.

  Outfit four represents marriage with a green satin, cropped pantsuit. The color is not to represent money, but growth. Both together as a couple and individually, each person grows as the relationship and love become bigger, deeper, and more filled with history.

  And last but not least is my mourning dress, representing love put on pause . . . temporarily. It’s a large, sculptural piece in the deepest black with a full skirt and a ruffled collar over a V-neckline, which had seemed like a good bookend to close with after opening my first show with the caftan V-neck.

  I help Chloe out of the shift dress and oh-so-carefully guide her into the mourning piece. “Love does not die when one of the lovers does,” I explain. “The drama of this piece is meant to represent the depth of loss but be a reminder that there is still beauty in the love, the time together.”

  Chloe seems . . . bored by my descriptions.

  This one has many more alterations needed, and I pin and tape, hoping I can get everything done. I’m muttering to myself as I work, nearly forgetting that Chloe is even a real person since she’s gone silent again.

  “I’ll make your outfits look amazing. Don’t worry. You’ll win because of me,” she says after a long while. I look up in shock, and she winks at me cockily.

  Wow. She’s an arrogant bitch, isn’t she?

  But I see nothing but certainty in her eyes. I think I could give her greasy pizza boxes to wrap around her body and she’d still think she could rock them. I wish I had that much confidence, or at least a bit of it.

  After taking the dress off her, I say, “Okay, why don’t you head over to hair and makeup while I start stitching these?”

  To my surprise, she does exactly as I ask, although she’s nude other than a flesh-toned thong. I have an evil thought that I hope she gets a fungus on her ass from sitting in the makeup artist’s chair bare-assed. But then I get to work.

  “You good?” Molly asks, seeing me sprawled on the floor with fabric everywhere, my scissors beside me, and my threaded needle peeking out of my mouth.

  I hold up the Love Is Blind dress. “Model change.”

  Her eyes bug out of her head. “Seriously?” When I nod, she adds, “If you need anything, you let Momma Molly know. I’ve got you and will help however you need.”

  “Thanks, Mols.”

  Even if I don’t win this competition, which Jacqueline would never allow at this point, I feel good for connecting with the other designers and Simon. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to show my best work, but I’m doing it for the purpose of proving to myself that I can do it. That I deserve the opportunity, even as a small-town Newton girl who had nothing more than long-shot, fantasy level dreams about making it as a designer in Paris.

  CHAPTER 25

  SIMON

  I found out about my new runway assignment yesterday, shortly after my aunt told the designers. Two things about that bother me. One, Jacqueline isn’t known for being spontaneous, and two, gathering appropriate male models overnight would be a logistical nightmare. Those two things together tell me that she’s been planning this little twist of hers for a while.

  I’m just not sure why she never mentioned it to me. For a competition I originally had to sell her on, she’s throwing me curveballs left and right, first with my being a judge and now having me walk in the final show.

  After Jacqueline and Albert left my office, I was desperate to text Autumn or go downstairs to the workroom to see how she felt about it, but I knew she was busy as hell, and I didn’t want to make it seem like I had any doubts about her ability to handle the redirection.

  Because I don’t.

  She’s amazing and I’m sure she’ll do well. Honestly, I’m sure all the designers will be fine with the switch-up.

  Showing up this morning only reaffirmed that. All five of the women were working diligently to make their final fitting adjustments, and I tried to catch Autumn’s eye multiple times while chatting with models I haven’t seen since our last House Corbin show. When I did feel Autumn’s eyes find me, she had fire burning there. I wasn’t sure whether she was jealous or nervous, but reminding her of our connection seemed to do the trick.

  “Hey, stranger,” a female voice says behind me as I feel a body curl into my side, grabbing my arm.

  I flinch involuntarily, both from the contact that isn’t Autumn and because I know that voice. I step away instantly, but she inserts herself boldly in front of me in next to nothing, wearing only a flesh-colored thong and nipple covers. For all intents and purposes, she is nude, and I make a point of keeping my eyes on hers and nowhere else.

  “What are you doing here, Chloe?” I snarl.

  “Oh, don’t be like that. I’m working, same as you.” She purrs ‘working’ as though offering to fuck me on the runway. Hell, she probably would if she thought it would get her some camera time and notoriety.

  “You’re not one of the models for these shows.”

  She grins, quite pleased to know something I don’t know. “Well, word is one of the models had to be replaced last-minute, and then another fell sick. I have good friends at House Corbin, so when they asked me to step in, I couldn’t say no.” She puts her hands on her hips, inviting me to look my fill, but I look anywhere but at her. “And here I am.”

  There’s a difference in professional models behaving in a professional manner and what Chloe’s doing. She’s intentionally showing off her body, and that’s not acceptable. Especially given our history.

  We dated for a short time, years ago. We were definitely one of the couples that got the paparazzi clicking, but that was about all that clicked between us. Frankly, while she’s beautiful on the outside, on the inside, she’s self-centered and shallow. About the only thing we had in common was sex. Still, we parted on good-ish terms and she’s walked for House Corbin since then with no issues.

  But she’s not supposed to be here today.

  “Excuse me,” I tell her, stepping around her to put even more distance between us.

  She puts a staying hand on my forearm, her eyes dropping to my groin and then slowly climbing back up to my face. “Aren’t you going to ask who I’m walking for?”

  Chloe can be sly, even scheming when the situation calls for it. But games aren’t her forte. She’s too arrogant to play chess when a bash over the head works equally well.

  I can almost feel the club over my head, ready to strike.

  “Who?” I hiss. I already know the answer before she says a word.

  “Autumn Filcher, I think she said?”

  And the world stops.

  “Fisher. You mean Autumn Fisher,” I say flatly, in shock.

  “Same difference. Just a pity it’s not Jacqueline.” She shrugs. “But I’ll do anything for her.”

  She struts off, heading toward Autumn’s station. I glare at her back, feeling like something is off. And from beyond Chloe, I see Autumn watching me watch Chloe.

  I want to go to her and explain, maybe warn her that I’m worried Chloe is up to something. Or that Jacqueline is. But Autumn whirls, and I miss my chance because the stage director grabs me and pushes me toward the curtain, calling everyone over for last-minute instructions.

  Standing backstage, I’m ready to walk. Although it seems like a waste since I’m not showcasing any fashion. Half-dressed with my chest oiled up, I’m here to be the meat candy and nothing more.

  “Walking in five, four, three . . . aaaand go.” The stage manager directs the first couple walking in Beatrice’s designs. As they disappear, we move forward one step at a time like we’re waiting in the grocery queue.

  As the face of House Corbin, I’m walking with each designer’s finale piece and Beatrice’s collection is capped off with a red satin gown that honestly reminds me of a grossly overexaggerated choir robe. But it’s dramatic, well executed, and seems to be received well, given the applause that sounds out as I complete my walk with the model wearing the Lady Gaga-meets-choir director outfit.

  There’s a small break while Yori’s models line up, and I take my place at the back of that lineup too. The response to Yori’s finale model is quieter, more of a polite clap. I find her work to be more cerebral and niche, but still marketable, and I’m pleased with how far she’s come since her application and her first runway show a month ago.

  “Well done,” I tell Yori backstage, and she dips her chin in appreciation.

  Katarina and Molly’s collections show equally well, and it’s time for Autumn’s.

  I move into place with the last model, but the stage director grabs my arm and pulls me up to the first position. “I’m walking with the finale pieces for each collection,” I argue.

  The director pushes a button on his headset, shaking his head at me while simultaneously talking to someone on the other end of his microphone. He holds his tablet up, showing me the roster that lists me walking in the first position and the last for Autumn’s collection.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  No one answers me. Instead, Chloe slips into line beside me. She’s wearing a black lace blindfold, but that’s about the only thing in her outfit that seems to be in place. Everything else is way off and weird. The shift dress has frayed cuts at the hem and shoulders, a diamond-shaped cutout at the waist, and vertical slits along the sides of the thighs. It could be a bit 80s or 90s ‘trash fashion’ inspired, except the holes aren’t even stitched but rather slashed into the fabric.

  This is Autumn’s design? Was she drunk when she made it? Or did the stress get to her? It doesn’t look like her work at all. It kinda looks like an unsupervised toddler got a hold of scissors and used the dress for cutting practice.

  Chloe takes my elbow and we work the runway. But something’s wrong with her. She’s done this hundreds of times before, but she’s walking as though she’s lost control of her body—gawky, her free hand moving with her leg instead in opposition to it, and her hips not working in time with mine.

  I do my best to stay in the zone, looking like the bad boy I’m supposed to be, cocky and confident. It’s hard when Chloe seems intent on throwing everything off, including me. At the end of the runway, she lets go of my elbow and grabs the back of my neck, using me for stability as she leans herself back sharply and lifts her knee up to my hip. My instincts kick in and I catch her around her lower back and grab her knee, hoping it looks like I’m dipping her in some version of a ballroom dance move and not saving her from throwing herself to the runway.

  Back upright, we do our return trip down the runway. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Chloe doing a kick-step, and at first, I think she’s still dancing or lost control again. Keeping my head still, I look down and see that she’s kicked out of her right stiletto, leaving only the strap around her ankle. Her steps become high on the left and then low on the right . . . up, down, up, down she goes, like a peg-legged pirate, as she desperately hangs onto my arm the whole way.

  As soon as we’re behind the curtains, I can hear the absolute chaos.

  “What the fuck was that?” Autumn shouts. I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or Chloe, and I don’t have a chance to find out because the director pulls me one way and Autumn pulls Chloe the other way to get into her final design.

  The makeup artist is re-oiling my chest, muttering something about Chloe wiping it all off and the photos looking like a piss-poor wax job of a surfboard. I guess that’s all I’m good for—a shiny, hard surface.

  I try to catch Autumn’s eye, but she’s on her knees, cutting the shoes off Chloe’s ankles with angry snips from a pair of orange scissors, and I wonder if she’s going to cut Chloe’s Achilles tendons with the way she’s waving the scissors around. It’d serve Chloe right after whatever the hell that walk was. Chloe seems wholly unaffected, though, actually examining her nails with a smug lilt to her lips while Autumn freaks out.