17. Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
~JESSICA~
Fabric drapes over every available surface of the atelier. A bolt of silk is slung over a chair, muslin hangs half-pinned on the dress form, seams sketched in red marker. Scraps litter the floor beneath my feet, paper patterns overlapping where they dropped mid-thought.
I tug the tape measure from around my neck and scribble a note in the margin of my sketch, then immediately cross it out, replacing it with a sharper line.
The place between my legs aches faintly when I shift my weight, reminding me of what Dom and I did. I shake my head, reach for another pencil, but my mind drifts anyway .
I still don’t know what to call what he took me on.
A date feels… loaded. Romantic in a way that implies intent: candles, expectations, a future tense I don’t think he’s ready to conjugate yet.
But it also wasn’t nothing. It wasn’t PR.
It wasn’t an obligation. He didn’t have to rent out an entire rink, teach me how to skate, or give me a piggyback ride.
I smooth fabric over the form, my hands moving automatically, muscle memory taking over while my thoughts spiral.
He didn’t deny it when I teased him about having fun. That thought sends a quiet thrill through my chest, sparkling and persistent.
I pin a seam, step back, tilt my head. I don’t know what Dom wants. I don’t know what this is turning into. I don’t know what this means to him.
My phone buzzes on the worktable and I peel my eyes off the mannequin to check who it is, expecting either Dom or Dannie.
Unknown number.
I sigh, already tired. Probably another reporter who found my name by proximity and wants a quote about Dominic Moreal’s sex life, playoff routine, or whether I’m “handling the pressure” of dating a professional athlete.
It feels like I applied for a public interrogation when I agreed to this arrangement.
I let it buzz twice more before swiping to answer, forcing my voice into polite boredom. “Hello, this is Jessica.”
“Hi, Jessica. This is Elena Cruz. I’m a coordinator with the Horizon Collective. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
The name slides through my brain and doesn’t immediately land.
Horizon Collective.
“Um. No. No, you’re fine.” My brows pull together.
“Great. I’m calling regarding your portfolio.”
I blink. “My… portfolio?”
“Yes. We recently reviewed submissions and recommendations for our upcoming Emerging Designers Showcase in Los Angeles, and your work came up through a referral. We spent some time with your digital portfolio and concept work, and I wanted to reach out personally. ”
The room tilts just a degree. Enough that I grip the edge of the table.
“Oh,” I manage. Brilliant. Articulate. Pulitzer-worthy.
She laughs softly. “That’s usually the reaction. Your tailoring is very strong, Jessica. The structure, the way you play with restraint and release. It feels intentional and confident. We’d love to see the pieces in person.”
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“In person?”
“Yes. We’re inviting you to present your collection, your concept boards, and up to eight finished designs. From there, our panel would select five or six looks to be featured in the show itself.”
My heart starts beating in my ears. “I… I wasn’t aware I’d been submitted,” I say honestly, because my brain is sprinting and my mouth can’t keep up.
“That’s not uncommon,” she says. “We often receive recommendations from industry professionals who believe a designer is ready for the next step.”
Industry professionals. My hand starts shaking. I switch the phone to the other ear, pressing my palm flat to my sternum like I can physically hold myself together.
“Is this,” I swallow, “is this confirmed? Or is this preliminary—”
“This is an official invitation to present,” she cuts in gently. “The next step would be an in-person review. If selected, you’d be included in our showcase alongside five other emerging designers.”
Five or six looks. A runway. My work. Under lights. On bodies that move.
“I—yes,” I say immediately, too fast. “Yes, absolutely. I can do that. I have the pieces. I have the boards. I just… yes.”
She laughs again, brighter this time. “I love the enthusiasm. I’ll send you an email with dates, logistics, and what to prepare. Take a look, and if you have any questions at all, my direct line will be included.”
“Thank you,” I breathe. “Thank you so much. I really appreciate this.”
“We’re excited to meet you, Jessica. Truly.”
The call ends and the silence after is deafening while I stare at my phone.
Then I scream .
It rips out of me, echoing off the walls of the atelier as I spin in a tight, unhinged circle, laughing and half-crying and clutching the phone to my chest.
“Oh my God,” I gasp to no one. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”
I jump. I twirl. I press my forehead to the dress form and laugh again, breathless, electricity coursing through every limb.
This is it. This is the call you fantasize about at three in the morning when you’re pinning seams alone and wondering if any of it matters. This is the yes that cracks the ceiling open.
My hands shake as I look around the atelier.
They see me. They want me.
I wipe at my eyes, still smiling so wide my cheeks ache.
I almost don’t go inside my old apartment.
I stand for a second with the key in my hand, staring at the door like it might bite.
I’ve been avoiding this place, telling myself I’ll deal with it later, that there’s time.
There isn’t. The landlord made that very clear in his message three days ago.
Everything needs to be out by the end of the week.
So I push inside.
The apartment smells familiar and faintly sad. Half-empty in that way that makes it feel like a memory instead of a home. The walls are bare where my frames used to hang. What’s left are boxes shoved into corners and the remnants of a life I already started living somewhere else.
I don’t linger. I go straight for the closet where the good stuff is: old sketch folders, fabric samples rolled and tied with ribbon, notebooks swollen with ideas I didn’t have the courage or resources to chase at the time.
I crouch on the floor, knees creaking, and pull everything out in a messy avalanche.
I gather what I can carry, stuffing folders into a box, tucking loose sketches between them, grabbing another box when the first one fills too fast.
By the time I lock the door behind me again, my arms are full and my chest feels tight in that good, forward-leaning way .
When I get to Dom’s place, I drag the boxes inside one by one, grunting and swearing under my breath, and push the large door shut with my heel.
I kick my shoes off by the dresser, drop my bag wherever it lands, and head straight for the kitchen without even bothering to turn on music.
I don’t need it. My head is loud enough.
I drag the boxes across the kitchen floor, then onto the island, then onto every available surface until the pristine, minimalist space looks like it’s been taken hostage by me.
The kitchen island becomes a zoo.
Folders spill open and sketches fan out. I don’t bother being neat. I can’t. My energy is still crackling under my skin from the call.
I climb onto a stool and start sorting. I spread everything out across the marble, a paper storm of ideas I wasn’t ready for then but might be now.
Okay. Breathe. Think.
I sort quickly. Finished, almost finished, delusional but interesting. The pile I keep coming back to sits in the center. Designs that always felt too ambitious.
My fingers pause on one .
It’s a tuxedo with a coat, but not a traditional one. I played with different textures, adding black and red velvet. It’s extravagant, yes, but elegant in a way that doesn’t beg for attention—black-on-red with subtle texture shifts.
I lift the sketch; my heart does a weird little stutter.
I can see him in it immediately. Dom standing still while everyone else moves. The added coat hanging perfectly off his frame, tailored to his shoulders, his height, his presence.
Would he even agree?
I chew on my bottom lip, imagining the look he’d give me if I suggested it. That slow, assessing stare. The quiet question behind his eyes.
I shake my head at myself, smiling, and lay the sketch flat on the island. I could do it. I have time if I’m smart, don’t sleep, and commit.
The front door opens.
I startle, spinning halfway around as keys hit the counter, and Dominic walks in a few seconds later, back from practice. His presence fills the room before he says a word. White T-shirt and grey sweatpants. That’s it. That’s the outfit .
And yet somehow, he looks unreal. He looks too big for the fabric to handle, muscles filling and stretching it. He strides in, poised and unhurried, and his dark eyes sweep the space.
“Hey,” he says, eyes flicking to the chaos spread across the kitchen.
“Hey,”
He pauses, studying the island, and his gaze lingers, sharp and curious. “What happened here?”
“I did.” I shoot him an apologetic look.
That earns me a brow lift. “Clearly.”
He moves closer, scanning the sketches with a thoughtful calm that doesn’t match the way my pulse spikes when he gets within arm’s reach.
“How was practice?” I ask, distracted, my fingers still resting on the tuxedo sketch.
“Like usual.” His eyes follow the movement. “What’s this?” he asks.
I glance down, then back up at him. “Just an idea.” I grin, joy still buzzing under my skin, wild and barely contained.
The excitement won’t sit still in my chest. It keeps climbing up my throat, fizzing there, bright and sharp and impossible to swallow. My hands won’t stop moving.
“You’re wired,” he says finally.
“Am I?” I glance at him.
“Yes.” A beat. “Who put that smile on your face, hm?”
That does it. I laugh, a breathless sound that feels like it’s been waiting behind my ribs all day. I brace my hands on the edge of the island, grounding myself, because if I don’t, I might actually start bouncing on my toes.