Chapter 8
KRISTA
The event was supposed to start in twenty minutes, and we were still missing half the damn collection.
I stood just outside the wardrobe tent and looked out at the water, trying to anchor myself in something that wasn’t complete chaos.
The Athens Riviera stretched out in front of me with the most beautiful turquoise water I had ever seen.
I had traveled all over the world, but I had never seen anything quite like this.
The sunlight was hitting the rocky shoreline just right to highlight the white sand that looked untouched, even though I knew damn well it had been groomed within an inch of its life. I had watched a team of three men rake the sand earlier.
It was stunning and exactly what the campaign needed.
And it was completely useless without the actual bathing suits.
I could see the vision. I could see the models walking along the shoreline, the fabric catching the light, the photographers capturing something effortless and aspirational.
This was supposed to be the beginning. It was the teaser, the first look at the swimwear that would be launched soon.
The thing that got people talking before Santorini in three weeks.
This was where the hype was supposed to start.
Adrian had explained what the stakes were.
I understood how important this was. I didn’t know shit about fashion and teasing and lighting, but when he explained it as the thing that could make or break the campaign, I got it.
If the pre-launch didn’t go off, the whole campaign would stall before it even got off the ground.
All that time, money, and effort would turn into a very public failure.
“Krista.”
I turned to find Annika clutching her clipboard like it might keep her from coming apart.
“We’ve checked everything,” she said. “Three times. They’re not here.”
“I know,” I said.
We had trashed the wardrobe tent. Dash had insisted every box be unpacked.
I had personally unpacked several. And when he said there was a chance the tops could be missed, I thought he was joking.
But when I found a pair of bottoms, I honestly thought it was just fabric scraps.
They weren’t. The two itty-bitty triangles held together with a string were the bottoms.
No wonder the models were slightly bigger than sticks. My ass could never. I preferred to floss my teeth, not my lady bits. No thank you.
Behind me, the models were pacing in robes, hair and makeup half-finished, irritation creeping in.
Everyone was tense. Dash had disappeared to deal with some rock situation.
I didn’t know what it was but it wasn’t my immediate problem.
Without tops, there was no shoot. And Adrian had made it very clear that there would be no topless shoots.
I had been on the phone trying to track down every last box, and now that I knew how small the suits were, I instructed the warehouse people to look for a shoebox. It was a joke. Kind of.
“You’re certain you supervised the packing in New York?” I asked Annika again.
“I’m certain.”
“So the pieces existed. They were packed. They shipped. They arrived.”
Her expression tightened. “But they’re not here.”
That didn’t sit right. Delivered didn’t just mean gone. Delivered meant somewhere.
I turned without another word and headed toward the makeshift operations area, where a cluster of laptops and tangled cords sat on folding tables. People were talking over each other into headsets, no one actually listening.
It was quickly devolving into chaos. I pulled out my phone and dialed Adrian directly. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
“Tell me you have good news,” he said without preamble.
“I don’t.” I pressed my fingers to my temple, feeling the beginning of a headache forming. “We need to postpone the shoot.”
Silence. “Postpone.”
The man could have a future in the military with that tone. I found my shoulders going back and my chin rising just hearing it.
“The pieces aren’t here, Adrian. We’ve torn apart every box, checked every square inch of this site. I’ve personally searched.”
“No.” His voice was flat. Firm. “That’s not an option.”
“I understand the stakes, but without the actual swimwear—”
“The media is already there. The influencers are there. Do you know what it would do to our reputation if we postponed? The speculation alone would tank the campaign before it even launches.”
I closed my eyes. He was right, and I hated it.
“Then what do you suggest?” I asked, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice.
“Check the shipping. All of it. Every manifest, every tracking number, every goddamn email. If those pieces were packed, they went somewhere. Find them.”
“I’ve been checking.”
“Not hard enough.” He paused. “Where’s Dash?”
My one job. “He’s dealing with some set issues.” Somewhere. I hoped like hell he hadn’t made off with a model. Or two.
“I’m sending you a security key to access Dash’s email. He clearly hasn’t been monitoring it properly. Maybe there’s something he missed. He probably hasn’t opened an email in days.”
My phone buzzed with a text. A long string of numbers and letters. The security key.
“Got it,” I said.
“Find them, Krista. Whatever it takes.” He hung up.
I walked to the tech table and snatched an open laptop. I got a couple of looks but they were too busy dealing with their own stuff. My fingers flew across the keyboard as I logged into the email system using the credentials Adrian had provided.
Dash’s inbox was a nightmare. Hundreds of unread emails. Some flagged, most not. No organization whatsoever. My military mind recoiled at the sheer amount of unread messages.
I started with keyword searches. “Swimwear.” “Delivery.” “Customs.” “Athens.”
The results were overwhelming. Too many hits, most of them irrelevant. Meeting notes. Vendor confirmations. Random requests that had nothing to do with this specific shipment.
I refined my search. Added “barcode.” Added “storage.”
Still nothing useful.
I sat back, forcing myself to breathe. Think. What am I missing?
Behind me, someone was arguing about lighting angles. Someone else was on the phone, voice rising with panic. The clock was ticking.
I went back to the email, this time sorting by sender. Delivery companies. There were plenty of shipment confirmations that came in over the last couple of days.
But one caught my eye. The confirmation of delivery was dated six days ago. It was unopened, of course. Six days ago, the crew wasn’t here to receive it. So, where did it go? I felt my jaw clench so hard my teeth ached. I clicked it open.
The email was brief. It confirmed delivery of three boxes containing swimwear pieces and accessories. It listed the tracking numbers with a short note about no one available to accept delivery. And where the delivery had been stored.
Dash hadn’t opened the goddamn email.
I stared at the screen. Frustration made my cheeks burn.
It was hot as hell out and we had all been running around like maniacs while the stupid fucking boxes were sitting in storage.
This entire morning—the panic, the chaos, the models freaking out—could have been avoided if he’d just checked his email.
If he’d done the most basic part of his job.
I wanted to scream. Or throw something. Or find Dash and shake him until his perfect hair stood straight up. Instead, I took a screenshot of the email, forwarded it to my phone, and stood up.
“Where can I find one of those golf carts?” I asked the nearest person who looked like they knew their way around.
They pointed down the path where a small fleet of carts was parked near the entrance.
I didn’t run, but I was moving fast. It was the kind of walk I perfected in the military when I needed to move fast without looking like I was in a hurry.
The area Blackwell had booked included a venue along with several outbuildings.
Hopping in a golf cart, I zipped over to the outbuilding mentioned in the delivery notification.
The door was locked, and I punched in the code included in the email. The email that Dash never saw.
Inside, stacked neatly on metal shelving, were three boxes. Each one labeled with the Blackwell Couture logo. I wanted to laugh. Or cry. Maybe scream. But I didn’t have time for any of that.
I grabbed the first box, lighter than I expected, and carried it to the golf cart.
Then the second. Then the third. I secured them as best I could and drove back toward the main venue, faster this time, not caring if people noticed me now.
All that mattered was getting the tops where they needed to be.
I pulled up next to the wardrobe tent and honked the horn twice. Annika’s head appeared through the tent flap, her expression shifting from confusion to shock when she saw what I had in the cart.
“You found them?” she breathed.
“They’ve been here for six days sitting in a storage shed.” I shook my head in disgust.
Her eyes went wide. “They’ve been here the whole time?”
“It would seem so.” I grabbed the first box and handed it to her. “Can you get the girls ready in time?”
Annika nodded without hesitation. “On it.”
The wardrobe tent exploded into noise and movement. People were pulling pieces from boxes, checking sizes, matching accessories. Mary Jo appeared with her makeup team to do the touch-ups.
I stood back and watched it all come together.
The models slipping into the swimwear, the stylists adjusting straps and fixing hair.
It was like watching a machine come to life, every piece clicking into place.
I might have judged the models a little harshly.
I watched them get taped top and bottom and immediately felt bad for them.
That had to hurt when it was time to take it off.
Ten minutes. That was all it took once they had what they needed. It was impressive. But Dash was still missing.
I called him but he didn’t answer. Of course. Poking my head out of the wardrobe tent, I checked around the venue, looking for him among the crowd of crew and media. He’d gone to deal with the backdrop situation, but that was at least thirty minutes ago.
Where the hell was he? If he had bailed, I would personally remove his balls and throw them into the Mediterranean.
This was exactly what I’d been hired to prevent. I was supposed to be watching him, keeping him on track and making sure he didn’t drop the ball at critical moments. And here I was, having solved the missing swimwear crisis while he was God knows where doing God knows what.
I felt like I was failing. Not at the logistics. I’d handled that. But at keeping Dash Blackwell in line.
I came back to the wardrobe tent and looked at Annika. “Are we ready?”
She glanced around the tent, doing a final check. “Ready.”
I nodded at her. “It’s nice to work with a proper professional for a change.”
Annika smiled. “Go, Team Blackwell.”
“Let’s get this show on the road.” I walked over to the production coordinator, a woman named Sofia who’d been running around with a headset all morning. “Tell the photographers to get ready. We’re ready.”
“Where’s Dash?” she asked.
“Dealing with something. I’m authorized to make the call.”
It wasn’t technically true, but I didn’t care. The shoot needed to happen, and I wasn’t going to let Dash’s absence derail it. Someone had to take the reins, and at the moment, that someone was me.
Sofia nodded and spoke into her headset. “We’re good to go. Let’s wrangle the photographers and get the first models in position.”
All around the set, people sprang into action, like an army mobilizing for battle. All I could think about was that this army was missing its general.
Where the hell had Dash Blackwell gone? Was I going to have to explain to his brother that I’d lost track of him within the first four hours of day one?