Chapter 36
The morning sunlight slants through the studio windows, dust motes catching in streaks that make the air feel almost sacred.
In a way, it is. Surrounded by months of hard work, hours out from our showcase, the atmosphere is practically worshipful in the way each of us is scared to so much as breathe on our designs the wrong way.
With Isabella buried underneath layers of tulle and Jamie muttering to himself as he paces the length of the room, it feels like one wrong move, one wrong stitch, and all our hopes and dreams will vanish before our eyes.
I’ve been crouched in front of my mannequin for so long my quads are on fire, but what’s a little pain when each stitch, each measured adjustment could make all the difference?
“Seriously, darling, this is going to have the audience speechless,” Jamie says, fingers already hovering toward the champagne silk before I slap them away.
I stand and step back, finally getting enough distance to see the dress as a whole instead of fixating on the rebellious little threads refusing to fall in line.
“That is the goal,” I murmur, hands on my hips and thoughts firmly on what’s in front of me, not what's lurking around corners.
Isabella raises her head from her workstation, sketchbook balanced in her lap, to shoot us a coy look. “You’re going to blind everyone in the front row. And the back. Probably the balcony too. That slit is dangerous.”
I laugh, but the sound is hollow. I’ve spent more time than I care to admit over the last two weeks thinking about the sight of Matt on his knees for me.
Wanting him is wrong, dangerous on so many levels, but my body craves him.
That hasn’t dulled; if anything, it’s sharper, more urgent now that I’ve had a taste of him again with the promise of more so close yet so far.
Even now—on the brink of the moment that’s supposed to define my career—my mind betrays me and drifts back to him.
I picture Matt looking at this dress—the champagne duchess silk clinging to me like a secret, thin straps sliding over my shoulders from the pearl-threaded bustier before disappearing into the backless sweep of the dress, the single bias-cut panel down my spine leaving a line of bare skin he’d trace without hesitation, the slit up to my hip teasing a glimpse of flesh with every move.
And I can see it—his eyes darkening, slow and hungry, remembering that night in the hotel when everything between us snapped electric and sharp and impossible to pretend away. A night that still lives under my skin, humming, a promise we both ran from the second the sun came up.
The worst part is how much I want that again.
More of his hands.
More of his mouth.
More of the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the room worth breathing for.
But wanting him and trusting him aren’t the same thing.
We’re a mess of secrets and half-ruined history, and I don’t know how we get back on track, how we bridge the space between what happened that night and the mountain of wreckage between us.
Still… when I imagine him seeing me in this dress, something in my chest aches with the thought that maybe—maybe—we aren’t as lost as I keep telling myself.
“Lily.”
Jamie’s voice cuts through the haze, equal parts exasperation and concern. “Darling, if you stare any harder at that dress, you’re going to set it on fire with sheer longing. Which—don’t get me wrong—would be iconic, but disastrous for the show.”
I blink back into the studio, heat rushing to my cheeks. “I wasn’t—”
“Oh, you were,” he says, stepping beside me and tugging lightly at the champagne-pink panel to smooth it. “You had that far-off, doe-eyed, I’m thinking about a man who shouldn’t still own my heartbeat look.”
A wounded noise escapes me. “Jamie.”
He smirks, delighted. “You can’t kid a kidder, Lily. That was absolutely the ‘some guy is ruining my life’ face.”
“Don’t call it that,” I groan, though my chest tugs painfully at the truth.
He softens immediately, because beneath the sass, Jamie always knows when to shift. With a glance at Isabella’s back, he lowers his voice. “Hey. Look at me.”
Reluctantly, I do.
“Whatever sent you here,” he says quietly, “it screwed you up. No offense, darling, but the way you hide things? That’s trauma talking. And someone still owns your damn heart. You don’t have to say it, but it’s obvious you still—”
“Jamie,” I hiss, but my voice cracks.
He just lifts a brow. “I’m not judging. I’m simply reminding you you’re human. And you’re allowed to want things, even messy things.”
My throat tightens.
He places a hand on my shoulder, softer now. “Don’t let the wanting scare you. And don’t let it decide anything for you either.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t know how we’d ever get back on track.”
“You don’t have to have all the answers today,” Jamie says simply. “Today, you wear the dress. You breathe. You shine.” He nudges me lightly with his elbow, a crooked grin returning. “And if whoever he is gets to see you like this again? He’ll have to earn it.”
My chest squeezes—painful, hopeful.
“Jamie…”
He winks. “Darling, I’m not saying he deserves a second chance. I’m saying… if he ever does, I hope he realises he’s looking at the reason the word devotion was invented.”
The breath I draw in is shaky, but lighter.
And for the first time all day, hope doesn’t feel like a betrayal.
Backstage, the energy is electric. A frantic buzz of anticipation mixes with the pounding fear radiating from my classmates and their models.
For most of us, this is the first time a design of ours will debut on a runway, not to mention that these showcases are notorious for drawing industry insiders hunting the next big name and investors eager to back whoever stands out.
It’s not just our grades on the line. It’s our futures, and that makes the risk I’m taking that much more daunting.
Either the judges and potential investors will love the boldness of my move or they’ll clutch their pearls to their chest, vowing to never work with me. No biggie. Absolutely none at all.
I slip into my dress, cool silk gliding over my skin, and pause to smooth it into place. Every detail matters—the way the slit falls, the curve of the fabric over my hips, making sure the neckline is sitting just so.
Jamie fusses over the hem one last time. “Perfect,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips. “Own it out there. Remember, you are this dress.”
“Please tell me you also feel seconds away from passing out?” I joke, glancing at him in the mirror.
The dress demanded an updo, and thank God Isabella spared me the embarrassment of attempting a French twist myself.
Between getting their own models ready, she and Jamie somehow found time to help with my hair and slip me into the dress.
I take a slow breath, the rhythm of the music thrumming through the floorboards even backstage. Adrenaline mingles with the remnants of desire, keeping my pulse sharp. The announcer calls the next model, applause swelling like a heartbeat that vibrates through the walls.
I step toward the curtain, fingers tightening around the fabric for courage while the music swells.
It’s my turn.
Channelling the version of myself who comes alive on my streams, I step into the light, shoulders back, chin high, heels clicking against the runway floor.
I focus on the movement—the sway of the fabric, the curve of my body, the line of my neck.
Confidence is performance—it’s one I’m well versed in by this point in my camming career—and I let it ripple through every step, every turn.
Halfway down the runway, something shifts.
Not the audience leaning forward. Not the judges whispering to each other. Something quieter. Sharper. A pull low in my stomach that makes my steps hover for half a breath before instinct smooths them out.
I know that feeling.
I’ve spent years trying not to know it, and yet my body recognises it instantly.
My gaze sweeps the crowd, a scan I pretend is casual even as my pulse trips over itself, and then I see him.
Matt.
Hidden just enough in the fourth row to pretend he doesn’t want to be noticed, but watching me with a focus that strips the breath from my lungs.
Dark shirt open at the collar, hair a little too perfect for this late in the evening, posture relaxed in that deceptive way I’ve always read better than anyone.
He shouldn’t be here.
Every thread of logic screams it—the Mafia politics, my exile, the mess of half answered questions that he’s trying to hunt down answers for.
But none of it mattered enough to keep him away.
He came anyway. For me.
The realisation hits with a warmth I wasn’t prepared for. My shoulders relax. My chin lifts a fraction higher. The silk follows every line of my body as though it was waiting for this exact moment—for him in the crowd, for me seeing him there.
His gaze doesn’t waver.
Not for a heartbeat.
He looks at me like he’s been holding the world together by sheer force of will and finally has something worth breathing for again. Pride softens the lines of his face, the kind of pride no one ever wore for me—not my mother, not the people who pretended to be family, not anyone.
He’s risking everything just by being here, and yet he looks… steady. Certain. Like the weight of a hundred wrong turns and lost years has finally found its anchor.
Like he wouldn’t have forgiven himself if he’d missed this. If he hadn’t been here to watch me take the first steps towards my future, the future he’s watched me long for as long as he’s known me.
The certainty in his eyes presses against me, heavy and unyielding, and suddenly all my careful walls feel paper-thin. Every pulse of restraint, every beat of distance I’ve clung to, is being stripped away by the fact that he’s here, steady, unshakable, and completely unwilling to let me go.
The runway lights shift, casting a pale stripe across his face, and his mouth curves—small, almost secret, but it hits me low in my stomach. My steps fall into sync with the music, sharper now, cleaner, as if his presence rewired my spine.
I walk because this is my moment.
But also because he came to witness it.
When I reach the end of the runway and hold the final pose, the room hums with cameras and murmured praise. But none of it touches me. None of it matters.
It’s his gaze that holds me prisoner.
The quiet tension in his jaw.
The slight lean forward, like he’s afraid to blink.
The unmistakable tenderness hidden beneath all that brawn and ruin.
For the first time in days, something inside me loosens just enough to shift the weight that’s made itself at home on my chest and finally let me breathe.
Backstage, the sound hits first—cheers, camera shutters, the thrum of bass vibrating through the floorboards. I slip behind the curtain, my pulse still racing, lungs dragging in uneven breaths. My body hums with energy, every nerve still alive from the runway.
Isabella is the first to reach me, arms thrown wide around my shoulders. “You killed it,” she breathes, her voice bright with pride.
Jamie appears next, half laughing, half tearing up as he waves his phone at me. “Everyone’s talking about you. Even one of the judges whispered something to his assistant. You might have just made history, darling.”
Their excitement crashes over me like a wave, and for a heartbeat, I let myself drown in it. But beneath the rush of noise and perfume, one thought claws its way back to the surface—Matt.
He was here. Watching.
I can still feel the heat of his gaze like a hand against my skin. The weight of what his presence means coils tight in my stomach. Why now? When things are so volatile, and he’s in the thick of playing mole?
A voice cuts through the chaos. “Lily?”
I turn and freeze. Louis stands there, camera in hand, eyes flicking between me and my friends.
His smile is kind, familiar—painfully normal, if a little hurt.
The last time I saw him, I’d been convincing myself I could want someone else.
Leaving him under the illusion of a second date now feels cruel.
“Hey,” I manage, forcing a smile. “You’re working backstage?”
He nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I was asked to cover it. You were… incredible out there. Seriously, I think everyone felt it.”
“Thanks.” The word tastes polite, distant, hollow. I hate it. “Listen, about that second date—”
He shakes his head, cutting me off with a soft smile. “It’s okay. I know you’ve been busy.”
Jamie bumps my shoulder before I can protest. “Louis! Didn’t expect to see you here. You watching our girl glow up?”
Louis laughs, a little too quickly, eyes flicking to mine as if searching for something I’m not allowed to give. “Guess I am. Anyway… congratulations, Lily. I mean it.”
Before I can respond, a presence shifts the air around me.
A woman steps into view. Tall, composed, heels clicking silently against concrete as if sound itself dares not betray her.
Sleek black dress, dark hair in a slick back, and not a stitch of makeup on her face, she’s fit to blend in with the background, but her confident strides demand attention in a way that can’t be ignored.
“Lily Davis?” Her voice is low, smooth, velvet-laced with ice. There was a trace of something in the way she said my name—soft, curling, almost musical. Italian, maybe. I couldn’t place it, but it set my nerves on edge.
“Yes?” I straighten instinctively, heart drumming against my ribs.
She holds out a card, fingers precise, deliberate, nails almost like claws. “I represent an investor who takes a particular interest in rising talent. Your performance tonight was… unforgettable. We would be very pleased to arrange a meeting.”
Polite, precise, but her eyes linger. Too long. Appraising. Knowing. I swallow, aware that I’ve just been measured, weighed, and catalogued. When she turns, the crowd parts effortlessly, as if the world itself makes way for her.
I stare down at the card, gold numbers embossed with perfection. No company name. Just a number on the cream card.
Isabella squeals beside me. “Lily, oh my God! Do you know what this means? Someone noticed you!”
Jamie grabs my arm. “This could be huge.”
Their excitement swirls around me, dizzying, intoxicating.
My chest tightens, my pulse racing, not just at what this could mean, but at the knowledge that someone out there saw me the way I’ve always wanted to be seen.
For the first time since stepping off that runway, I allow myself to believe.
Maybe this is it. Maybe this is exactly what I’ve been working toward.