Chapter 21
ADRIAN
Istood in the wings, watching the final technical checks with a critical eye. The runway gleamed under the test lights. The screens displayed perfect color calibration. The sound system had been tested three times and sounded flawless.
Everything was coming together.
One of my directors approached. He was wearing a headset and carrying a tablet. The man looked very serious.
“Everything good?” I asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“What about the model lineup? Everyone accounted for?”
“All present and in hair and makeup. No one’s sick, no one’s late, no drama.”
I allowed myself a small smile. “Don’t jinx it.”
“I think we’re actually going to pull this off,” he said.
I took a breath and tried to relax. The event Dad dreamed up was actually happening. And it was going to be incredible.
Dad would have loved this. The scale, the ambition, the way we’d taken his concept and made it real. I wished he could be here to see it.
“We’re going to make him proud,” I said aloud.
Thankfully, my director wasn’t paying attention to me. He was listening to someone on the headset.
“I have to go,” he said. “No reason to panic. It’s just a minor lighting issue.”
“I trust you to handle it,” I said.
He rushed away, leaving me with my thoughts.
I should have stayed where I was. I could have continued overseeing the final preparations and been the steady presence everyone needed. But my feet carried me backstage almost of their own accord.
Elizabeth was there somewhere. I hadn’t seen her in over an hour, and that felt wrong somehow. Like I needed to check on her, make sure she was okay, just… see her. Be in her space.
It was becoming a compulsion. Every break I got, every lull in the chaos, my thoughts turned to her. Like a song stuck in my head that I couldn’t shake.
I didn’t want to shake it, though. I liked being around her. I couldn’t quite explain what it did to my brain chemistry. Like she set my soul at ease. Cleared the noise in my head.
I found her near the costume racks, laughing at something Annika was saying.
She’d been dressed in one of our pieces, a stunning black gown with subtle beading that caught the light when she moved.
Her hair was styled in elegant waves, her makeup perfect.
She looked like she belonged on the runway herself.
Our eyes met across the space, and her face lit up. That smile, the one that was just for me, made everything else fade into background noise.
I waved, and she waved back, mouthing something I couldn’t quite catch. Probably “stop hovering.” She’d accused me of that twice already today.
But I couldn’t help it. Elizabeth made me forget about work and the million details demanding my attention.
That should have terrified me. I’d spent the last year being nothing but focused on work.
I lived and breathed the company, the legacy and the responsibility to make sure it was everything my father would have wanted.
Now there was Elizabeth, and she’d somehow become more important than any of it.
My control was slipping. Real feelings were surfacing, feelings that had no place in a fake engagement, feelings that complicated everything.
I forced myself to walk away to check in with security. We had a lot of high-profile celebrities showing up, so running a tight ship mattered.
Twenty minutes later, I found another excuse to go backstage. Just to check that the costume changes were organized. Purely professional.
Elizabeth caught me that time, grinning. “You know we can handle this without you micromanaging, right?”
“I’m not micromanaging. I’m ensuring quality control.”
“You’re hovering.”
“I’m being thorough.”
Annika snorted from behind a rack of dresses. “He’s been back here four times in the last hour. That’s not thorough, that’s obsessed.”
I shot her a look that she completely ignored.
“Don’t you have a show to run?” Elizabeth asked, but she was smiling, clearly amused rather than annoyed.
“In thirty minutes. I have time.”
“To hover?”
“To ensure everything is perfect.”
She laughed, shaking her head. I found myself grinning back despite the knot of nerves in my stomach.
I made myself leave again, returning to the organized chaos of show preparation. Models were lining up. The audience was being seated. I shook a few hands, greeted the VIPs. The energy was building toward something explosive.
But fifteen minutes before showtime, I found myself backstage once more. This was getting ridiculous. I was the CEO and I was acting like a lovesick teenager who couldn’t stay away from his crush.
I spotted Elizabeth immediately. She was in a shadowy corner near the emergency exit.
And she wasn’t alone.
A man stood close to her, too close. She was laughing at something he’d said. Her hand rested on his arm, familiar and comfortable. Who the fuck was that?
Something hot and ugly twisted in my chest.
Jealousy.
I’d never been the jealous type. In my previous relationships—if you could even call them that—I’d been detached, uninvested.
If a woman I was seeing talked to other men, I didn’t care.
It wasn’t my business. If she wanted to move on, happy trails.
It never bothered me. I couldn’t care less. Easy come, easy go.
But seeing Elizabeth with this stranger and watching how easy she interacted with him, like they were really, really close, was not okay. I told myself it didn’t matter. She wasn’t actually my fiancée.
I was across the space before I’d consciously decided to move, every muscle tense.
“What’s going on over here?” My voice came out much angrier than I’d intended.
Elizabeth jumped slightly, and the man turned toward me, stepping into better light.
Chris.
Her brother Chris.
My friend Chris.
The jealousy didn’t evaporate immediately, but it transmuted into embarrassment. I’d just stormed over like a territorial caveman because my fake fiancée was talking to her own brother.
“Easy there, tiger,” Chris said, his eyes dancing with amusement. “You’re the one who got me the backstage pass, remember?”
“Right. Of course. I just—” I cleared my throat, trying to salvage some dignity. “I wanted to make sure Elizabeth was ready.”
“Uh huh.” Chris’s grin suggested he wasn’t buying my excuse for a second.
Elizabeth was looking at me with poorly concealed amusement, one eyebrow raised. She knew. She knew exactly why I’d come storming over, and she found it hilarious.
“The show starts soon,” I said, forcing my voice back to professional neutrality. “Good crowd out there. Full house. Should be a great night.”
“I’m excited,” Chris said. “Never been backstage at one of these before. It’s impressive. And damn, the models. Every man should get to do this at least once.”
“Find a good spot to watch from,” I told them both. “Enjoy the show.”
I turned to leave—I needed to leave before I made this worse—but Elizabeth’s hand caught my sleeve.
“Adrian.” She looked up at me, and the amusement had softened into something kind. “Break a leg out there. I’ll find you after.”
Her words and the way she was looking at me made my head spin. She had that effect on me. Only Elizabeth had the uncanny ability to knock me completely off balance without even trying.
For a second, I couldn’t look away, lost in those green eyes. She knew I had been jealous but wasn’t upset about it. She didn’t give me a hard time.
Then Chris cleared his throat pointedly, and I remembered where we were. Who we were. What we were supposed to be.
“Thanks,” I managed. “I’ll see you after.”
I pulled away from her—physically pulled myself away because staying near her was too tempting—and headed back to the staging area.
Get your shit together, I told myself firmly. It’s showtime. No room for errors. No room for distractions.
But even as I gave myself the lecture, I knew it was pointless.
My feelings for her were real. Undeniably, inconveniently, complicatedly real.
I was in love with my fake fiancée.
And I had no idea what the hell to do about it.
“Adrian!” the stage manager called. “We need you!”
I pushed everything else aside and focused. Tonight wasn’t about me and Elizabeth. Tonight was about honoring my father’s vision and proving Blackwell Couture’s future was secure.
The personal stuff could wait. It would have to wait.
Even if every cell in my body was screaming that waiting was the last thing I wanted to do.
“Coming,” I called back, and stepped into the role I’d been preparing for my entire life. I couldn’t stop myself from glancing backstage one more time.
Elizabeth was watching me with a smile. Was she proud of me? I nodded once and disappeared through another black curtain to find the stage manager.
Mary Jo materialized at my elbow like she’d been summoned, her makeup kit already in hand.
“Oh no you don’t,” she said, steering me toward a chair. “You’re not going out there looking like death warmed over. Sit.”
“I don’t need—”
“Sit,” she repeated, more firmly this time. “The cameras will wash you out. Five minutes, that’s all I need.”
I sat, resigned to my fate. Mary Jo had been doing this long enough that arguing was pointless. She’d just follow me around until I gave in anyway.
“Close your eyes,” she instructed, already dabbing something cool on my face. “You’re shiny. Can’t have the CEO looking like he’s been sweating bullets.”
“I haven’t been sweating.”
“Sure, you haven’t.” Her tone suggested she knew exactly why I’d been backstage so many times. “Now hold still before I poke you in the eye.”
I held still, letting her work. The makeup process always felt ridiculous—I was a man, for God’s sake—but I’d learned years ago that the cameras required it. Without at least some powder and touch-ups, I’d look washed out or worse, sick. The last thing we needed were rumors about my health failing.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I reached for it, but Mary Jo swatted my hand away.
“Don’t move. I’m doing your eyebrows.”
“My eyebrows are fine.”
“They’re unruly. Like two caterpillars ready to joust. Now sit still or this will take twice as long.”
The phone buzzed again, more insistently this time. Mary Jo sighed dramatically. I pulled it from my pocket and glanced at the screen.
“It’s Dash,” I said, answering it and putting it on speaker before she could protest.
I didn’t get the chance to say anything.
“Adrian’s currently being made presentable for national television,” Mary Jo said.
“Is that really necessary?” Dash said with a laugh. “He’s just introducing the show, not competing for Miss Universe.”
“You try looking good under stage lights without help,” Mary Jo shot back. “Now what do you want? We’re on a schedule.”
“I need to talk to Adrian. It’s about the show.”
My stomach tightened. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, relax. London’s feed is up and running. Sebastian says everything’s good on his end. Briggs checked in from Paris—they’re ready to go. Milan’s having a minor audio issue but it’s being handled.
“Good.”
“All four cities, simultaneous broadcast. Just like Dad planned.”
“Good. I have to go. I need to get this done so I can get out there.”
“Good luck,” Dash said.
“Thanks.”
Fashion of Love Week was actually happening starting in about ten minutes.