20. Natalie
NATALIE
The street outside the old post office doesn’t even look like the same place.
Barricades block traffic. Security guards are posted on every corner.
Spotlights sweep across the sky like we’re launching a rocket.
A long runway stretches down the middle of the street, flanked by rows of white chairs.
Giant LED screens flash the Vue logo from scaffolding that wasn’t even here a few hours ago.
We actually did it. Fashion Week starts right now.
Backstage is chaos. Steam hisses from irons. Curling wands clamp and release. Stylists buzz around with pins clenched between their teeth. Models queue for final touch-ups. The air smells like hairspray and sweat. Mine, mostly. If this show bombs, I’m done. Not just embarrassed, done.
The collection is solid. Everyone’s done their part.
But I’m the one who pushed for this: outdoors, downtown, in a space no one else would touch.
I wanted to make Vue feel real. Not some fantasy on a distant runway.
The whole point was contrast. Showing elevated pieces in an urban setting.
That tension is supposed to make the clothes feel fresh.
But right now? I’m second-guessing everything.
All it takes is one bad headline. One snarky tweet from the right blogger, and the whole industry will pile on like it's sport.
I clutch my clipboard and adjust my headset. Cosmo’s voice crackles in my ear, shouting about lighting cues and timing delays. I fire off adjustments, check the lineup, flag a missing look, and kneel to fix a hem that’s suddenly too long. My heart’s pounding, but I keep moving.
Rebecca’s on the floor with a box of safety pins, muttering curses. Her hair’s pulled back so tight it looks painful. Her face is flushed.
“Who packed this mess?” she snaps.
“You did,” I say, not looking up from my list.
Cosmo sweeps past, still talking into his headset, like he’s heading into battle. His suit looks sharp, but there are sweat marks blooming under the arms. I guess he’s as nervous as me. He stops at the monitors, nods once, then ducks behind the tech booth.
I take my spot by the curtain and listen. The crowd outside is restless. Hundreds of voices packed close, rising with anticipation. They’re waiting.
The pressure hits like a weight on my chest. This still doesn’t feel real. The invites only went out two hours ago. It was on purpose. We wanted it to feel spontaneous and exclusive. Somehow, it worked.
“Positions!” someone yells.
The music hums low, a steady bass pulsing beneath it. The crowd hushes. Lights drop.
The first model steps out and everything falls silent. I’m too far away to see the front row, too anxious to read anyone’s face. I feel sick.
As the model starts down the runway, phones shoot into the air, almost in unison. Flashbulbs go off. The runway glows white for half a second, then again, and again.
I can’t tell if that’s good or bad. Are they filming because they love it, or because they want proof of a train wreck? The silence could mean anything.
I grip my clipboard so hard my knuckles ache. My headset crackles with updates, voices overlapping, but I can’t focus. The flashing makes everything feel unreal, like I’ve fallen into a dream I can’t wake up from.
The second model is already at the curtain, waiting for her cue. Rebecca steps up beside me, her phone glowing in her hand. She holds it out. It’s the livestream, shot from the end of the runway. The feed is already crawling with comments. I take it, hands shaking as I scroll.
angelicarollins23: that silk dress is INSANE
user19384: Vue is back!
fashionista_mel: finally something fresh
style_hunter: screenshotting that look
VogueWatcher: holy moly
runway_addict: this is why I love Fashion Week
The comments scroll faster than I can keep up.
Praise, fire emojis, more praise, hearts, exclamation points.
Then someone writes meh. Just one word, but it hits harder than the twenty glowing comments before it.
My stomach dips, but I force myself to scroll back up and reread the good ones, then the new ones pouring in after it.
The overall tone is clear. They love it.
A shout cuts through the headset noise. “Zipper!”
I’m already moving. The model’s pale, panicked, clutching the back of her dress like it might fall off. I grab a ribbon from a hanger, loop it through the open seam, and knot it fast. “You’re fine. Shoulders back. Breathe. Go.”
She exhales and steps out.
I watch the rest of the show unfold like I’m outside my own body. Our designer walks out, takes a bow with the models, and then it’s over. People are whistling, shouting and cheering.
Cosmo slaps my back so hard I stumble forward. Rebecca lets out a laugh-sob combo and wraps me in a hug, squeezing so tight I can’t breathe. Crew members are high-fiving, shouting, buzzing around like we just won something. I guess we did.
An editor I’ve been chasing for three years grabs my arm and says, “You just changed the conversation.”
I nod, throat tight, too full of noise to respond.
Reporters press in. Buyers circle. Stylists, influencers, publicists.
People I barely know swarm backstage and tell me I’ve set the tone, moved the needle, made the week.
I answer what I can, smile when it counts, try to absorb the moment.
But even as pose, nod, thank, pivot, I feel a little separate from myself.
I feels as though hours pass. My voice starts to go hoarse from saying the same ten soundbites in slightly different ways. Eventually, Cosmo sends me out front to speak with a few more press people. I do what I’m told.
When the rush finally breaks, I slip into a quiet corner near the scaffolding and pull out my phone. My chest tightens on instinct. I expect a message. Maybe something cold. Maybe something livid. At the very least, a question. But the screen lights up with everything except Henry.
PR messages. My parents. A stylist I lost contact with a long time ago.
I click into our text thread. Nothing new. Somehow, that’s worse.
“Natalie!” Cosmo waves me down, halfway to the exit already. “We’re going for a drink. You coming?”
“Yeah,” I say, locking my phone and dropping it back into my purse. I paste on a smile that doesn’t quite reach, square my shoulders, and follow the noise out the door.
A couple of hours later, I’m standing in a packed bar, surrounded by compliments and half-drunk applause. People keep calling the show genius, iconic, disruptive. My voice is hoarse from repeating “thank you” on loop.
The show was good. Fresh, sure. But not the revolution they’re claiming. Their praise feels just a shade too loud, like everyone’s trying to convince each other it was iconic.
Rebecca’s had one too many shots and I’m quietly keeping an eye on her. Especially around the buyers. One of them just slipped her his card with a wink.
I take in the scene. This is it. The moment I’ve been working toward for years. I should be on top of the world. But I don’t feel joy, pride or even relief. I feel nothing. It’s probably just the adrenaline.
Cosmo appears beside me just as the editor from Mode finishes gushing about our “fresh, bold direction.”
“You know,” he says, raising his glass, “when I pitched the show, I had no idea it’d land this well.”
He says it so smoothly, even I almost believe him.
Cosmo fought me on this idea from day one.
Called it over-designed and “not what Vue is about.” I had to push, inch by inch, until he finally gave in.
Now he’s rewriting the story in real time, and I’m letting him because correcting him in front of an editor would only make me look unprofessional.
So I laugh. I sip my drink. I let it go.
Someone tugs at my wrist, trying to drag me toward another round of shots but I decline. I glance at my phone. It’s full of notifications but none from Henry. I lied to him and he knows it by now. I tell myself he’ll understand, but I know how I’d feel if he did the same.
The stupid part is, this is all I ever wanted. People applauding my work. People finally seeing me. So why do I ache to leave? I need to enjoy this. I just wish I knew how.