Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
Astrid
Sweat trickled down between my breasts. Ugh, I hated that feeling. I didn't want to even think about what that was doing to my underwire bra.
But I'd worry about that later, because that was the least of my concerns right now. The big day was upon me, and we were only moments away from the runway show.
And I was totally in control. Yep. One-hundred percent.
"Astrid!" Katie shouted. "We need you over here."
Walking as quickly as I could in this dress, I rushed to her side to find that our replacement model had ripped a seam somehow.
Holy crap in a handbag.
And yeah, I said replacement model.
Because the actual model I'd done the fitting for was currently in the hospital having her appendix removed.
She'd cried to me on the phone about it, not wanting to miss this and not wanting to inconvenience me, but obviously, I reassured her and told her not to worry for a second about us, that she should focus on getting better.
And when we hung up, Katie and I had called in our reserves, a few extra just in case. And that meant last minute adjustments and switching things around to fit different bodies and builds.
Did I mention this was New York Fashion Week? Not exactly the setting where you wanted to look like a disorganized hot mess.
And oh, my God, another model's heel broke at the last second too, and Katie and I ran around doing our best to stay cool, be calm, and look professional. Much, much easier said than done.
The chaotic noise around me only added to the wild drumbeat of my heart—people shouting, steamers hissing, hair and makeup artists rushing around for last-minute fixes.
As the previous designer's models all disappeared, I knew we were up very soon, the stage manager rushing around with her clipboard and headset. I did a last minute adjustment to the model order, breathing deeply, trying to listen to my gut instincts which usually steered me in the right direction.
I thought of my family out there, my sisters, mom, and dad sitting in the front row, decked out in my designs and bringing even more attention to my show with our family name. No pressure or anything.
But despite the ramped-up stakes, I was glad they were here, and I knew I was lucky to have them.
Of course, it'd be nice to have—
No, no, no. I wouldn't let my mind go there. I wouldn't even think of that man.
"Clear the entrance!" the stage manager said. "First look lining up."
Nerves pummeled me as energy pulsed through the models backstage. We were on. Oh, my God. The moment was really here.
The music that we'd agonized over began, the voiceovers loud enough—thank goodness—to hear over the soft classical music.
"Sorry for taking up space."
"Sorry for asking for what I deserve."
"Sorry for loving my body."
I held my breath as my voice—my actual voice!—kicked off my runway show and then faded as the beat kicked in, the first model hitting the stage.
The rest were lined up ready to go, and I took a second to look them over, resisting the urge to poke and prod and adjust, instead soaking in the moment and the designs.
I'd worked my ass off, and I couldn't be prouder of the final product. The looks were romantic and ethereal, the signs of my "Not Sorry" campaign subtly woven in to fabrics, a shimmery bodice here and a flowing skirt there, plus a few of the bolder pieces which were more in your face unapologetic.
"Two minutes until finale walk!" someone shouted.
Right. Finale.
Yanking up my bra, I then adjusted my hair, my eyes never leaving the backstage screen that showed what was happening on the runway.
So far so good.
No one had tripped, no one had made a single wrong move.
I barely breathed, my trembling fingers absently smoothing down the bodice of my own dress, the gown I'd worn to the winter ball, the night I'd felt so unstoppable, mysterious, beautiful.
Katie stood beside me, still as a statue, bless her heart, just as invested as I was.
The models started their final loop down the runway, the music rising, applause breaking out along with a few whoops and hollers.
Was it me? Or was the reaction a lot louder than it'd ever been for past shows?
I couldn't be sure.
The stage manager waved at me, and now it was my turn.
Oh, Lord.
"You've got this," Katie said, giving me an encouraging nod.
Smiling at her, I took a deep breath and snapped my shoulders back. I simply had to fake the confidence until I was sure my show had been received well.
Holding my head high, I stepped out onto the runway for my designer's walk, the applause swelling to an almost painful level, the flashes of cameras nearly blinding me.
My family was off to my right, and even though I couldn't see them clearly, I could definitely hear their shouts. Even my dad. Oh, my God.
I smiled. I waved. I walked. All floating on a cloud.
Even if this whole endeavor turned out to be a failure, I was still proud. Proud of my models, proud of my assistant, and most importantly, proud of myself.
If this didn't hit, I'd do it again. And again. And again. Until I got it right.
When I finally reached the backstage area, breathless, laughter bubbled up in my chest as Katie barreled into me at full speed, almost knocking me off my feet.
"You did it!" she screeched, her voice high and wild with adrenaline. "You absolutely killed it!"
Models swarmed me, still glowing from their own successful walks, hugging me and surrounding me in their perfume and laughter.
All the gushing brought tears to my eyes, and I tried my best to blink them away, a few escaping and probably making a mess of my makeup. Although I'd had the foresight to wear waterproof mascara at least.
And then, I heard the voices of my sisters and my mother, calling my name. My mom reached me first, her arms open, somehow managing to look like a Vogue cover model as she crushed me to her, my dad beaming at me from behind her.
"We're so proud of you," she whispered fiercely into my ear.
My sisters swooped in next, talking over each other so much, I couldn't understand what either of them were saying.
But I didn't need to because the sentiment was all there. They were proud. Beyond proud.
Katie, I think it was Katie anyway, handed me a glass of champagne, and for the first time all day, all week really, I let myself take a breath.
This was it.
This was everything I'd worked so hard for.
As the champagne flowed, the chaos began to settle slightly. Models changed, makeup people cleaned up, photographers packed their gear, and the energy backstage shifted from frantic to something looser, almost giddy.
The adrenaline high eventually faded, but a warm glow settled in, especially as the compliments continued to stream in, actual genuine compliments. I could see the difference now between this and my last shows.
The elation inside me was indescribable. What a sense of accomplishment.
Hashing over everything, basking in the glow, Katie and I continued our cleanup mission, overseeing all the extra assistants who were carefully packing the designs into garment bags and rolling the racks toward the loading dock.
We had to move quickly, knowing the next designer was already waiting to move into the space. The turnover at Fashion Week was brutal.
Katie and I double-checked everything, our practiced rhythm kicking in without even needing to talk. Extra motivating? The celebratory dinner with family and friends that we had to get to soon.
Once the last garment bag was zipped and the racks were safely wheeled out, Katie gave me a quick hug. "I'll see you later," she whispered, her face still bright with excitement. "We are so going to party."
"Yes, we are. Thank you for everything. I couldn't have done it without you."
"Oh, please." She snorted. "You could have. You just would've cried more."
I laughed, nodding at the same time.
And then she was off, rushing toward the bathroom with a giant bottle of water in her hand. Grabbing my own things, I gave the area one last look around before slinging my bag over my shoulder.
The buzz of the show still clung to the air while infusing every part of me, a magic excitement pumping through my veins.
God, I was in love with my job.
Heading toward the back exit, I flung the door open, the cool air a welcome blast against my overheated skin.
Inhaling the crisp air, I paused to close my eyes for a moment, soaking in the vibe one last time before I moved on.
And when I opened them, that's when I spotted him.
My heart stopped. Then thudded to life again, sprinting in my chest like it was a wild beast trying to escape.
Holy shit.
Holy. Shit.
Tristan Hawthorne stood there, leaning casually against a wall by the loading docks, half in shadow, his tie loosened, his dark hair slightly messy, and his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
He looked... wrecked. Tired. Beautiful. Hopeful.
For a split second, I thought I might be hallucinating him. That my exhaustion had conjured up an image of him, a ghost of my past and present colliding.
But when he smiled at me, looking straight into my eyes, I knew he was real. Very real.
And he was here.
He knows who I am.
And I am well and truly fucked.