25. Chapter 25
Chapter twenty-five
~JESSICA~
It’s been a little over a week since the beach. A week since the sandcastle and the picnic and Dom’s secret house and the way he looked at me when he said, You.
A week since I finally met him. Not Captain Dominic Moreal. Not the man the internet screams about in comments. Him.
In that week, he’s flown out for away games and flown back in as soon as he could.
I’ve spent every waking moment sewing, fitting, ripping, re-sewing, while he spent every waking moment on the ice or on a plane…
and somehow still found time to come home and make everything feel better. And filthier .
But tonight is a different kind of high. I’m backstage at a fashion show. My fashion show. Well, not mine mine, but mine enough that my name is printed in the show run as “Guest Designer: Jessica Brooks,” which feels like a clerical error no one has fixed yet.
My hands hover over the bodice of Look Three. They’re shaking.
“Breathe,” I mutter, smoothing the same piece of fabric I’ve already smoothed twelve times.
The backstage area is a barely controlled riot.
Models weave around racks and rolling mirrors, hair sprayed to architectural levels, and liners sharp enough to cut.
Dressers crouch on the floor zipping and pinning.
Someone yells for a steamer. Someone else yells back that it’s being used and they can “get in line or get in God’s hands. ”
Overhead, the bass from the opening track thumps through the ceiling in test bursts. It smells like hair products, fabric, and my panic.
This is exactly where I’ve always wanted to be. And it feels like it might crush me .
“Jessica?” one of the dressers calls, already halfway under a rack. “Do you want tape on the neckline for Look Four, or are we trusting it?”
“Double tape,” I say automatically.
She gives me a thumbs-up and vanishes again.
I force myself to step back and look at the row of pieces with my tags on them. I know every seam by heart. I know where I cried into which hem. I know exactly how much thread and hope is holding each one together.
What I don’t know is how half of them look, fully styled, on the actual models.
I got added to this show last minute. We had one casting session last week where I saw a few of them walk in my samples.
The rest were done by the show’s team, pulled from their board, approved over email while I was sitting on Dom’s kitchen counter seam-ripping a sleeve.
So technically, I haven’t seen all of my looks on all of my models.
My stomach does a slow, horrible flip.
What if the tailoring is off on one of them? What if a seam pops mid-runway? What if the lighting hits my satin wrong and it looks cheap and shiny and every editor in the front row decides I’m a joke?
“Hey.” A voice cuts through my spiral. “You good?”
I turn to see one of the show coordinators standing there with a headset, clipboard, and the kind of calm I’m jealous of right now.
“Define good,” I say.
Her mouth twitches. She flips the clipboard around so I can see the run-of-show. My name is there in black ink near the end: “Segment Four – Guest Designer: Jessica Brooks.”
“We’re lining up first looks in ten,” she says. “Hair and makeup are locking. I just wanted to check you’re happy with casting.”
Happy. Yeah, sure. Not that I’ve seen all the models.
She taps a section on the sheet. “We’ve put some of our strongest walkers in your stuff. Girls with clean lines and good social reach. And we’ve secured a celeb for your closer.”
“I’m sorry,” I say slowly. “A celebrity?”
“Mm-hmm.” She flips back a page, checks a note. “They specifically requested to walk a guest designer’s look instead of one of the big houses. We thought your collection fit their vibe.”
“Who?” I ask. “Like… reality-TV ‘celebrity,’ or real celebrity? Be honest. Is this a Bachelor reject? A YouTuber? Am I about to send a TikToker down the runway in my finale look?”
I’m spiraling.
She laughs. “They asked us to keep it a surprise. Their team emailed twice about it.”
“A surprise,” I repeat.
“Yes.” She pats my arm once in a way that says she has seen designers cry, yell, and pass out, and I am somewhere in the mid-range. “Don’t panic. They look incredible in the look. You’ll be proud.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.” She glances past me as someone yells her name from the other side of the racks. “Okay, I have to go. Five till guests are seated. Line-up in ten. You’ll be great, Jessica. And hey.”
I look up. She smiles. “House is full. Your section is packed.”
My section.
I swallow .
Somewhere out there, past the curtain and the lights and the thumping bass test, is the audience. Real people. Real eyes.
Dannie is out there. I asked the organizers for extra tickets the second the invite became real. Sent her a screenshot with about thirty exclamation marks.
And Dom…
I squeeze the edge of the garment rack to stop my hands from shaking harder.
Dom is here, sitting somewhere in the VIP area with Melody and Jace and some of the other guys. The coordinator told me earlier that “the hockey table” was confirmed and had already caused a mild stir on the guest list.
I caught a glimpse of the seating chart when she wasn’t looking.
Front row. On the corner. Right where he’ll see every look. Right where, if I screw this up, he’ll watch me do it in high definition.
My lungs forget how to work for a second.
I picture him out there, long legs spread, watching the runway with that laser-focus. Melody, Jace, and whoever else they brought, by his side .
All of them here. For me.
“Breathe,” I whisper to myself again, dragging in air that feels too thin.
I asked for this. I begged the universe for this.
Beyond the curtain, the music cues shift. The crowd noise dips, then swells again. Someone yells, “First looks, to line-up! Let’s go!”
The coordinator’s voice cuts through on her headset: “We’re locking doors in three, lights in five. Places for Segment One.”
I smooth Look Three again. This is happening. My clothes. My name on the run sheet. My best friend in the crowd. The captain of a Stanley Cup team in the front row because he decided to bet on me.
My hands are still shaking, but I step toward the line-up anyway.
I’m halfway there, passing a cluster of models getting last-minute hair touch-ups, when a voice knifes neatly through the noise.
“Brooks.”
I freeze before my brain even matches the name to the tone. Then I turn .
Valencia stands near the end of the garment racks in a black blazer dress, legs for days, press lanyard, headset hooked over perfectly blown-out hair. She has a tablet in one hand and a phone in the other.
For one second, my stomach drops.
I knew she existed in the abstract. In Dom’s past tense. In that ugly little corner of memory labeled they slept together, remember? I did not expect to see her standing ten feet from my clothes.
My mouth feels dry. “You’re… here.”
“Very observant.” Her sarcasm almost slaps me in the face. “PR for the event. My agency’s running the press for the whole week. Front of house, step-and-repeat, backstage features, sponsor content. All the grown-up parts of fashion.”
The world tilts a degree. Of course she’s PR. Of course tonight wasn’t allowed to just be mine.
“I didn’t know,” I say. It comes out flatter than I mean it to.
She shrugs a single shoulder. “You weren’t on the lineup when we signed the contract. You were… added later. ”
There’s a hitch on “added” she doesn’t bother to hide.
“I’m not here to pull your little capsule off the schedule,” she adds, noticing whatever flashes across my face. “We’re past the point of no return.”
Valencia’s gaze slides over the rack behind me, taking in the tags with my name, the looks locked and ready.
“You’ve done well for yourself. Most influencers peak at free protein powder and affiliate links.”
“I’m full of surprises.” I force a thin smile.
“I’ve noticed.” Her eyes find mine again, sharp now. “Runway this size, coverage this big, guest designer spot… it’s a lot for someone so new.”
“It’s a lot for anyone,” I say. “New just means people finally started paying attention.”
“Optimistic.” Her lashes lower, just for a beat.
There’s a muffled swell of music from the other side of the curtain. The first segment must be starting. Models rush past us toward the wings, heels clicking on the concrete.
“You look… nervous.” Her gaze dips to my hands, then back up. She tilts her head. “It’d be a shame if ne rves got the best of you right when people finally started paying attention.”
The stakes slam back into me all at once. And underneath it, like a bruise: the knowledge that this woman has had Dom. She’s touched the same skin I kissed on the beach, heard the same voice in the dark, touched and felt his… The thought sickens me.
“He’s not here yet, is he?” She studies my face a little too closely.
“Who?” My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
“You know who.” Valencia’s mouth curves.
She glances toward the vague direction of the runway, where guests are still being seated, then back at me.
“It’s a big night for you. I would’ve thought he’d already be in his seat. Front row, camera-ready. Very… supportive boyfriend.” The last two words are dipped in something bitter.
“My supportive boyfriend’s whereabouts are not your concern,” I say, before I can stop myself.
I know his schedule by heart now. I know his flight landed an hour ago. He texted me a picture from the car, telling me he’s on his way .
“Of course.” Her tone is light, but her eyes aren’t. “He does like an entrance. Though, he’s never been late with me, if you know what I mean.”
Something ugly twists in my chest. For a second, I see them together instead of here. Valencia in some hotel room, Dom younger, undressing without thinking twice what it meant. I hate that my brain gives me the image so easily.
She watches me absorb it.