33. Zoe
Chapter Thirty-Three
ZOE
F ifteen years late, but it is finally here.
My debut.
It’s been weeks since the confrontation with Jack, and my life trajectory has changed completely. I have spent the past weeks preparing for my debut fashion show. My days have been filled with fittings, final touches, and media engagements.
Valerie has evolved both as a sponsor and mentor, guiding me through the complexities of the fashion industry. I feel like I’m trekking through the galaxy, having stars for a meal.
My dream is finally within reach. And hopefully, this time it will all go as smoothly as planned. No funny tricks being pulled from under life’s hat.
Zoe Gray’s debut collection, Slavic Elegance Meets Futuristic Chic , is being released today, and I feel like I’m in a deep trance.
I feel like, at any moment, someone might wake me up, and I will see myself back in that cramped room with the other girls. At any moment, I will wake up to see that I fell asleep making costumes for the girls, daydreaming about this day.
I chose the name as a pun. The Slavic is both to support the girls who had to endure what I endured and came out to the other side as I did and also because the fabrics used for the collection were handmade in the Czech Republic by a group of widows.
A smile stretches across my face as I stand behind the stage, peeking at the darkly lit venue adorned with luxurious decor.
The ambiance is electric, filled with the buzz of excitement and anticipation. Models, designers, and fashion enthusiasts mingle, creating an air of glamor and sophistication.
I decided no seats would be needed as this is not exactly a catwalk. It’s a pathway with curves that forces the model to catwalk through the sprawling audience in the hall.
“It’s almost time,” my assistant and a dresser, one of the many Ettore found me, Alan, whispers in my ear. He has a bizarre style. He is wearing overflowing red dress pants with a shirt that is busy everywhere. His smoky makeup matches the smokiness of his hair.
“Yeah,” I breathe, my eyes searching the rope of the audience to find Ettore standing beside someone in the corner and away from the eyes of any camera. It almost seems he is using the person as a shield so he doesn’t have his pictures out. I have never seen anyone who hates pictures like that man.
“It’s happening,” Valerie clacks in her heels and simple black dress with a neon-like necklace.
I sniff, my heart full to the brim. I suck in a deep nervous breath and watch the orchestra wait for their cue so the models can start filing out on the runway.
Valerie gives me a reassuring smile. “You've worked so hard for this, Zoe. Enjoy every moment.”
“I couldn't have done this without you.” I take her hand and kiss the back of it. After all these years, I worship her still.
“Hush now,” she pulls me away from the entrance to a stool we can both stand on while watching from the backstage comfortably.
My heart stops pumping, and my pulse roars in my ears as the lights dim and the eclectic music starts.
The first model steps onto the catwalk, showcasing the first piece of my collection. A holographic white dress with slits that should be provocative but somehow doesn’t show any skin.
I’m not breathing as I watch out for the audience’s reaction. As I see them turning their heads and hear the soft gasps filling the hall, my heart picks up the beat and my tears sprint, prickling my sinuses.
“Yes,” I catch my breath. “Yes!”
The next model steps out in an iridescent green dress, looking like a slave from the gladiator era but with accessories that make her royalty. My excitement swells with the audience's entrapped reaction.
I lived for this moment. There will never be another debut. Everything is perfect, the culmination of all my hard work and dreams.
I keep watching as my models file out elegantly, my cheeks hurting from smiling so much and my eyes burning from crying so hard.
I did it, Virgilio. You are not here to see it, but I did it for you. Here is my fire sign if you are alive. And if you are dead, here is a farewell, friend.
The final model takes the stage, and then it’s time for them to come out in a single file and for me to make an appearance, appreciating everyone with my courtesy bow. I brace up for it and the models file out, cat-walking around the curves carved out for them in the audience.
My closing model comes to stand beside me, giving me her arm, and I slip mine in. We take a step forward and all hell breaks loose.
The booming sound of gunfire slithers through the air, followed by screams and panic.
My heart seizes, and my world spins before my eyes as masked men stomp into the venue with their weapons drawn.
Chaos breaks out. People take cover, and Valerie pulls me backstage, heading for the dressing room.
“What is happening?” I’m already hyperventilating. My heart is jamming hard against my corseted chest and my stomach has turned into a sea of lead.
I knew it.
It was too good to be true.
Life couldn’t let me get this one moment. Life couldn’t let me win this one time.
“I don’t know,” Valerie continues maneuvering through the chaos. We are clambering past people screaming and taking flights. “Hurry!" She yells, pulling me down the hallway that leads to the dressing room, “Get in there,” she opens the door and is about to shove me in when a gun appears pointed at her forehead.
Valerie's face goes bland. It is the first time I've seen her tremble. That perfect cloak she uses to keep her emotions in the dark fades, and her eyes are instantly watering.
On the other hand, I’m back in that dark room with prowling eyes glaring at me and the lifeless body of my father within reach.
“She is coming with us,” the masked man pointing the gun drawls, pulling me to his side. Three more of his colleagues with their weapons circle Valerie to keep her in check, and I wiggle in his hold; my back hits another fleet of them.
“Let her go,” Valerie snaps with a trembling voice.
Everything happening around me feels like an out-of-body experience.
“You stay put, or you get hurt,” Someone cocks a gun, and I scream but it’s in my head. Nothing seems to be making it past my lips.
I start to fight back before he pulls the trigger and kills her like they did with my father but my bones are weak and my legs are crippled.
“Zoe!” Ettore bursts through the hallway, two handguns in his blood-stained hands, his face covered in crimson. He opens fire instantly, dropping two of the men as he approaches like he couldn’t care if he died.
“Get her out of here,” the one pointing the gun at Valerie throws me to some of the men and pulls Valerie as a cover to himself.
“Ettore!” My lips crack open and I holler. My body picks up and fights back, scraping and scratching as they pull me away, heading for the back exit.
I’m frantic as I kick and punch.
It’s the last time life will take anything from me without me fighting back. It’s the last time I will let anyone victimize me.
My tears burning my cheeks and my heart going cold from pain, I kick and punch at everything and anything I can touch.
“Zoe!” Ettore roars as more gunshots follow, but he is out of sight now.
I’m dragged through the back door and into a waiting van.
“Get off me,” I roar as I kick one of them in the crotch. He groans, seething in pain.
I’m angling for another but the door of the van slams shut in my face, plunging me into darkness. The van speeds off, making me hit my head against the hard metal interior.
I’m trying to come back from the ping of the hit when hands ruffle me up to bind my wrists and feet, bending me in a crutch-like position with my knees drawn to my chest.
“Why are you doing this?” My voice is unrecognizable. It’s rough and croaky. “Why are you doing this?” I spurt into the darkness, “Why me? Why now? Why, why, why?” I bark, my tears freefalling down my cheeks.
How do I find myself here again?
Dejà vu.
Just as I’m about to make a breakthrough in my career, I’m tossed into another oblivion of darkness. How long will it take? Another fifteen years?
“What did I do?” My voice drops to a shuddering whisper. The question is more for me than anyone in this van with me.
“You'll find out soon enough,” a cold, steely voice thrums, his tobacco-staunched breath puffing into my face, “So this is you,” he tuts in disappointment. “Lights,” he clips, and a bulb starts to flicker, revealing a sinister figure with stony eyes.
A chill washes over me.
I’m staring at the face of death.
And its owner’s features look way too similar to Virgilio’s.
If it weren’t for the age of my captor, I would think it was him; back from the dead, to drag me to Hell.