Chapter 22
ELIZABETH
The energy was electric and tangible, like touching a live wire.
I stood in the wings, pressed against the wall to stay out of the way as I watched the audience settle into their seats.
Three thousand people. Maybe more. I could see celebrities I recognized from television.
Influencers I’d followed for years. It was a real who’s who in the industry.
And they were all here for Adrian’s vision.
I was so nervous for him. And proud. I knew how much work he had put into making the night happen. I hadn’t been around the last year, but I saw the evidence of his hard work. I kind of wished his family could be here to support him, but I knew they had their own responsibilities tonight.
The lights dimmed. The crowd quieted. The music swelled. I found myself holding my breath. My hands covered my mouth as I waited for the moment I had seen rehearsed several times.
The spotlight hit the stage right where I knew he would be walking out. And there he was.
The roar that greeted him was deafening. Lights exploded across the stage and smoke machines created an ethereal atmosphere.
There he was. Adrian Blackwell. He commanded the attention of every single person in that massive space.
He looked incredible. The suit he’d chosen was perfectly tailored, all sharp lines and confidence. But it was more than the clothes. It was the way he moved. He owned that stage. I knew he had modeled in the past, which obviously gave him some experience, but it was more than that.
He walked to the end of the runway and looked out at the crowd until the music and applause faded.
“Welcome,” he said with a cocky half-smile that I was certain he knew could melt ice and explode ovaries. It was part of his charm. He knew how to work a crowd. “Welcome to Fashion of Love Week.”
The crowd erupted again. Adrian waited for them to settle, a small smile on his lips like he was enjoying every second of this.
“Thirty-two years ago, my father started Blackwell Couture in a small studio with nothing but a sewing machine, a dream, and an absolute refusal to compromise on quality.”
The screens came alive with images—old photos of Buck Blackwell in that tiny studio, early fashion shows, magazine covers from over the decades. The progression was stunning. It showed the evolution from humble beginnings to international empire.
“Tonight, we honor that legacy,” Adrian said. “We honor the past by reimagining it. By taking the designs that defined Blackwell Couture and asking ourselves, how do we move forward while staying true to where we came from?”
He was magnetic, confident and commanding but with an underlying warmth that made you want to listen. It was easy to believe in whatever he was selling. Every eye in the audience was locked on him. Every camera was capturing this moment.
And I was falling even harder, watching him shine.
This was Adrian in his element. Not the stressed CEO from yesterday, not the vulnerable man from the rooftop. This was the public face of Blackwell Couture, and he was extraordinary.
“We’ve been a name in fashion for over thirty years and I promise you, we’ll be here for thirty more. For sixty more. For as long as there are people who believe that what we wear matters, that design matters, that beauty and craftsmanship matter.”
The conviction in his voice made me believe it too. Made everyone in that room believe it.
He was still talking about the inspiration behind each piece, explaining the concept of Legacy, when I felt a hand grab my arm.
Annika. Her face was tight with stress. “Elizabeth, I need you. Now.”
I followed her without question, weaving through the backstage chaos to where the models were lined up, each one dressed in their first look, ready to walk.
Except one of them wasn’t dressed at all.
A tall brunette—I recognized her from yesterday’s fitting—lay on a couch in her underwear and robe, one arm draped over her stomach, her face pale and miserable.
“What happened?” I whispered.
“She’s not feeling well,” Annika said grimly. “Thinks it might have been something she ate. Probably cheese. She’s lactose intolerant. She can’t walk.”
My heart sank. “Can you pull someone from later in the lineup? We’ll put one of the first models in the dress. We’ll have time for a change. Someone will walk a few extra times. No big deal.”
“Everyone else is double-booked—they’re quick-changing between multiple looks. If I pull someone from later, we’ll have gaps.” Annika looked at me. I saw the question in her eyes before she asked it.
I slowly shook my head and took a step back as if that would stop it from happening.
“Elizabeth, would you take her place?”
“What? No. Annika, I can’t.”
“You can. We can tailor the dress to you. It will just take a couple minutes.”
“Annika, I am so not a model.”
“You did fine in practice,” she said. “I saw the videos.”
“That was different! That was one dress, one walk, and I barely survived it. This is the opening night of Fashion of Love Week. This is being livestreamed to half a million people!” My voice was climbing toward panic.
“I’m not a model. I’ll ruin everything. It’s too important to Adrian. I will not embarrass him.”
“You won’t.” Annika grabbed both my shoulders, forcing me to look at her. “Elizabeth, you’re a natural. I’ve seen you walk. When you’re relaxed, when you’re confident, you’re better than half the professionals out there. Adrian will be more embarrassed if the show doesn’t go as planned.”
“I can’t. The dress won’t even fit. Look at her.” I gestured at the model on the couch. “She’s like six feet tall and ninety pounds. I’m—I’m definitely not.”
“Different doesn’t mean wrong. Your body is beautiful, and I can make that dress work for you.” Annika’s eyes were intense, pleading. “I can pin it, use body tape, make adjustments. Trust me. Have faith.”
“Annika—”
“Adrian needs this to go perfectly,” she said quietly. “He’s been working toward this for a year. One missing model, one empty spot in the lineup, it throws everything off. The timing, the pacing, the visual symmetry. Please. He’ll love you forever if you do this.”
That did it. Not the pleading, not the talk about my ability to walk. The mention of Adrian.
Adrian, who was out there right now commanding that stage, who’d poured everything into making his father’s vision real. Adrian, who had taken a chance on me and had been brave enough to show me his vulnerable side.
What was the worst that could happen? I fell on my face? Broke an ankle?
“Give me the damn dress,” I said.
Annika’s face lit up. “Really?”
“Really. But if I faceplant out there, I’m blaming you.”
“Deal. Come on, we have maybe eight minutes.”
What followed was a whirlwind of activity. Annika pulled me into a private changing area and helped me into the dress—a stunning piece in deep emerald green that had looked sculptural on the model but looked different on me.
“It’s too tight,” I said, barely able to breathe.
“Hold still.” Annika moved around me pinning fabric, adjusting seams, using body tape in strategic locations to create structure. Her hands moved quickly. She managed to transform the dress from ill-fitting to actually kind of perfect.
“There,” she said finally, stepping back. “Look.”
I turned to the mirror and gasped. The dress hugged my curves. It complemented my body and made me look great. I felt good. The emerald green made my eyes pop. The fit was different from how it had looked on the model, but it actually worked.
“Oh my God,” I breathed.
“Told you. Now come on. You’re number seven in the lineup.”
She pulled me back to where the models were assembling. I took my place in line. I forced myself to walk slowly. I fought the urge to wipe my clammy palms on the gorgeous dress.
The music changed. The first model went out to applause and camera flashes. Then the second. The third.
I could hear Adrian’s voice, amplified across the space, describing each look. He had designed most of the dresses and could explain the inspiration.
Then it was my turn.
“Next, we have a reimagining of one of Buck Blackwell’s most iconic pieces from 2018.”
I stepped onto the runway. The lights nearly blinded me.
“The emerald goddess gown, updated with modern construction and…” He faltered when he turned to look at me. His smooth delivery stumbled over the words.
I couldn’t help it. I glanced back at him, breaking every rule about professional modeling.
Adrian stood there with his mic in hand, staring at me like he’d seen a ghost. A sexy ghost. His mouth was slightly open, his prepared notes completely forgotten.
For a second, we just looked at each other. Then training—or maybe instinct—kicked in.
“I apologize,” Adrian said, and his voice had changed, gone rougher. “It appears this is actually the beautiful and always surprising Elizabeth Laramie. My fiancée. The love of my life.”
The crowd went absolutely insane.
But I barely heard them over the roaring in my own ears. The way he’d said it hadn’t sounded rehearsed. It had sounded real.
I forced my feet to move, walking down that runway with everything Annika and Sebastian had taught me. Head up. Shoulders back. Hips forward. One foot in front of the other.
The lights were too bright. The cameras were everywhere. Half a million people were watching this moment.
But all I could think about was the way Adrian had looked at me. The way he’d called me the love of his life like he meant it. It gave me a very healthy dose of self-confidence.
I reached the end of the runway, executed my turn—not perfect but decent—and walked back. The whole way, I was grinning like an idiot because I could see Adrian. He was grinning back, looking dazed and proud.
When I got close enough, he covered his mic with his hand and leaned toward me. “You look amazing!” he said, just for me.
I felt warm and gooey and completely overwhelmed, hurrying backstage before I could do something stupid like cry or kiss him in front of everyone.
Annika grabbed me the moment I was offstage. “That was perfect! Did you see the crowd’s reaction? They loved you!”
I barely registered her words. I was too busy trying to catch my breath. I couldn’t process what had just happened. Had Adrian meant what he said or was I reading too much into everything because I wanted it to be real so badly?
The show continued. Model after model showcased the Legacy collection, each piece more beautiful than the last. And when the final model returned backstage, Annika shoved me back toward the stage entrance.
“Final bow,” she hissed. “All models together. Go!”
I filed out with the others, feeling completely out of place among these professional, gorgeous women. But when we all lined up across the stage and the audience rose to their feet in a standing ovation, I forgot to feel inadequate.
This was happening. I was part of this.
Adrian walked over to join us. The applause somehow got even louder. He moved down the line, thanking models, but his eyes kept finding mine. When he reached me, he didn’t just smile or nod like he had with the others.
He pulled me into a kiss.
It wasn’t chaste or quick or appropriate for a public event. It was deep and thorough and made my knees weak. Heat pooled low in my belly and the flimsy panties I was wearing under this dress were suddenly damp. The kiss made me forget that we were on stage in front of thousands of people.
When he finally released me, the crowd was screaming.
He kept hold of my hand, pulling me to the center of the stage, positioning me beside him as all the models formed a line on either side of us.
“Thank you,” Adrian said into his mic, his voice carrying over the noise. “Thank you all for being here. For believing in Blackwell Couture. For being part of this celebration of legacy and love.”
He squeezed my hand, and together we bowed to thunderous applause that seemed to shake the very building.
I wasn’t pretending anymore.
The fake engagement had become the most real thing in my life.