Chapter 6
SAbrINA
“You expect me to eat this garbage?”
édouard threw the crumpled, wet pastry bag at my face. It bounced off my chest and fell to the floor, scattering greasy croissant crumbs over my gold heels. If the rain hadn’t already ruined them, they definitely were now.
My cheeks burned with humiliation as the weight of everyone’s shocked stares settled over me.
He flicked a hand in my face. “And look at you. My show is not your American Les Miz. You look like a gutter rat.”
My hand trembled as I pulled on the wrinkled silk of my vest.
After glimpsing my reflection in one of the hundred thousand mirrors that seemed to cover the walls backstage, I had to agree with the odious man.
The black ostrich-feathered collar which surrounded his head in a macabre halo quivered in indignation. Even in his pointed-toe boots of crocodile skin, dyed a deep, iridescent shade of midnight purple, he barely stood at eye level with me.
The selection of small, planet-sized rings encircling each finger glinted under the vanity mirror lights when he raised his hand.
My shoulders rolled forward in a flinch, my body already bracing for the pain of his strike, especially from those heavy rings.
Before I could even react, Yelena Ivanova called across the room, “édouard. The iridescent blue is ready for Sabrina.”
His pink, ChapStick’d lips turned down at the corners.
With another flick of his wrist and a disdainful once-over, he said, “Get out of my sight.”
I’d watched him bitch-slap a male intern two days earlier for accidentally stepping on a silk dress train, ruining it with a muddy boot print.
I had stepped forward to intervene, but Mark held me back.
He warned me that the intern would be perfectly fine, but my career prospects would not be.
Grateful for the horrible confrontation to be over, I weaved in between the various models, makeup artists, and stage technicians to make my way to Yelena. A famous wedding dress designer in her own right, she’d collaborated with édouard on several pieces for his show.
“Thanks for the save.”
She shrugged. “Little Dick is a talented designer but a shit human being. He’s a total Aries. Everyone knows that’s one of the meanest zodiac signs.”
I bit my lip and looked behind me at her casual use of Mark’s derogatory nickname for édouard.
She laughed. “Relax. He’s off torturing someone else. He can’t hear me.” She then tilted her head back and raised her voice as if daring édouard. “Not that I would care if he did.”
Easy for her to say.
Rumor had it she was married to an incredibly wealthy and insanely dangerous Russian mafia boss.
People knew not to fuck with her. And if they didn’t know, the terrifying bodyguard who was never more than a few feet away silently sent the message loud and clear.
God, what would it feel like to be untouchable? To have people actively afraid to anger you for fear of pissing off your dangerous, overly protective man. I’d never even had a proper boyfriend.
My mother had seen to that. From the time I could talk, she’d tried to instill in me a terror of all men.
Men are the devil, Sabrina.
Never trust them, she’d always say. Especially the Italians.
And the biggest devil of all was my father, a man I’d never met and never would. I wasn’t even permitted to mention his name or to even tell anyone that I was his illegitimate daughter.
It didn’t stop me from reading romance novels, latching on to the idea of a book boyfriend being out there in real life.
He didn’t have to be perfect.
I just wanted someone to watch over me like Yelena’s husband watched over her. In that sexy, dangerous, but safe for me, sort of way.
My lips puckered as I let out a frustrated sigh. It was just a dark fantasy between the pages of a book.
I grazed the glossy surface of Sebastian’s card in my vest pocket but yanked my hand back as if the paper had burned, as if it carried the warmth of his skin.
Glancing around me to make sure everyone else wasn’t still staring, I asked, “Have you heard of Sebastian Diamanti?”
Yelena’s eyebrows shot up. “Of course. Who hasn’t heard of Sebastian and the House of Diamanti?”
Perfect. Apparently, I was the only one living under a fucking rock because everyone seemed to know of this man.
I carefully lifted the dress off the sewing form, cradling it across my arms. “Have you ever met him?”
She followed me into the tiny studio room, really just a converted gallery off the Louvre’s Cour Marly, where the main fashion show would take place tonight.
The delicate fabrics of édouard’s fall collection—sheer layers, floral appliqués, unruly lace—looked like they belonged in a Versailles fever dream.
A twisted Rococo fantasy.
There wasn’t much of a budget for my social media photo shoot set, so I’d improvised—draping the back wall in rich purple velvet, angling borrowed mirrors into fractured reflections, even smashing a few to create the perfect starburst.
The whole aesthetic would have a fabulous Marie Antoinette, crushed dream’s effect.
It was bold, defiant, beautiful.
I didn’t just feel useful. I felt seen. Creative. A little dangerous.
Overall, I’d been very pleased with the idea.
édouard had barely looked at it.
As we helped the model into the heavy dress, Yelena nodded. “We’ve crossed paths a few times. He’s very intense. My guess is he’s either a Scorpio or possibly a Capricorn.”
Yelena had a quirk of defining people and their motivations by guessing their zodiac signs. To be fair, she totally nailed it, guessing that I was a Cancer.
She helped me position the model in front of one of the smashed mirrors at just the right angle before fluffing and spreading out the skirt of the stunning sapphire-blue wedding gown.
One of the makeup artists popped in to touch up the model’s makeup and hair just as Mark arrived with his cameras.
Yelena waylaid the makeup artist when she finished and was about to return to the main backstage area. She gestured up and down with her fingers toward me. “Fix this.”
I turned to study my reflection in one of the mirrors.
Yikes. It was worse than I'd initially thought. My hair was twice its normal size and could have been styled with a blender. My neatly applied black cat-eye eyeliner was now a messy, smoky eye with just a hint of psychopathic clown. And croissant crumbs still clung to the lace at my throat.
The makeup artist’s face fell. “Sweetie, I don’t have that kind of time.”
I nodded while I tried to smooth my hair back down. “That’s fair.”
She tossed me a few remover wipes. “This is the best that I can do.”
I tore into one of the foil packages and faced the mirror.
Yelena appeared behind me. “So why all the questions about Sebastian?”
With a sigh, I reached into my pocket and pulled out his card. “I met him when I went on that stupid pastry run.”
Yelena took his card, looked at it, then waved it in front of her, smirking. “Oh, really.”
I rubbed at the smeared mascara under my eye with a wipe. “Are you not seeing what I’m seeing?”
She leaned in to fix her lipstick. “So? Men get off on the whole damsel-in-distress vibe.”
“It’s not going to happen. He’s too…much.” I turned to face her. “I’m not equipped to handle that level of intensity.”
She winked. “You never know. Intense men have their benefits.”
“Not going to happen. Besides, I’m here to work, not flirt.”
She rolled her eyes as she handed Sebastian’s card back to me. “If all you think you’d be doing with Sebastian Diamanti is flirt, then you’re right. You’re not equipped to handle him.”
I hated the telltale blush that burned a path down my cheeks and across my chest, even as I tucked the card safely back in my pocket.
Mark looked up from taking photos. “Does anyone want to know what I think?”
We answered in unison. “No.”
He shook his head then focused back on the model.
Sebastian’s business card was completely black on one side except for the numbers 13 7 23 3 under his name. Then on the other, gold, side was a phone number written in pen.
But that was it. No email, no title, no company name.
What kind of man had a business card with no contact information?
My insides twisted.
A powerful one, my mind whispered.
I held it out to her again. “Do you know what these numbers mean?”
She glanced at it and shrugged. “Maybe it’s a password code to some secret club.”
Odd.
She called over her shoulder on her way out of the gallery, “Get rid of that lace shirt before you show your face on the floor again.”
I surveyed the gorgeous, elaborate embroidery of my vest. “Mark, don’t turn around.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he responded, falling to his knees to get an angled shot.
Tearing at the brass buttons, I stripped out of the vest, pulled off the ruined lace shirt, and put the vest back on.
Huh. With unintentionally teased hair, equally unintentionally smoky, morning-after-the-club eye makeup, and the low V cut of the vest, I actually didn’t look too bad.
With a burst of fresh confidence, I supervised the rest of the shoot and then headed out into the backstage area to select the next outfit to highlight.
Pounding music drowned out all the loud chatter in the staging area as the sound technicians did final tests before the show.
A strange, frenetic tension permeated the staff. The atmosphere was like a rubber band slowly stretching longer and longer as we all stared…waiting for it to snap.
With more of the models already in their first outfit and through makeup, I got caught up in the whirlwind as I snatched them one by one for quick, stylized social media shots.
Since Mark was now occupied with final prep for the show as the official photographer, I took these last photos with my phone, adding fabulous filters before sending them to the social media manager to post.
While I searched for another model who had a moment for some quick shots, I noticed a model waiting to walk the runway.
Her ensemble lacked drama. She wore only an off-the-shoulder, deep burgundy dress. No accessories like the other models. This must have been a mistake.
I glanced at a stunning choker necklace with tightly soldered, square Swarovski crystals ending with a lovely large pear-cut crystal.
I shouldn’t.
But I wanted this look to be perfect.
And maybe I wanted to prove I belonged here…and not just to fucking fetch pastries.
Without overthinking it, I grabbed the necklace.
Then I doubled down…
To add even more drama, I layered a large crystal and pearl necklace over the choker.
The model nodded and smiled before racing up the brief steps to walk down the runway.
I peeked through the curtains to watch, feeling maybe a twinge of arrogant pride knowing I’d played a small part in making that model’s look a success with the audience.
The cream-stone facade of the Cour Marly’s three-story courtyard, crowned by a dramatic glass ceiling, formed the backdrop for the show. Its neutral palette was broken only by sculpted topiaries, making the jewel-toned gowns blaze like forbidden fruit.
As I turned to move back into my makeshift studio to adjust the mirror arrangements for the next round of shots, my head was suddenly snapped back by my long hair.
I cried out as édouard’s twisted visage appeared before me.
He looked beyond furious. “You stupid cunt! How dare you alter one of my designs?”
He raised his arm. He held the necklace I’d added in his tight grasp, with all its sharp, jagged crystal edges.
In horror, I watched his hand descend before squeezing my eyes shut, terrified he was about to disfigure me.
Before he connected with my face, a large powerful hand wrapped around his wrist. “Get your fucking hands off her before I rip your fucking arm off.”
It was him.
Relief felt impossible—not when my rescuer seemed even more dangerous than my attacker.