Chapter 37
I slouch down in my seat, heart hammering like it’s trying to escape my chest. Every instinct screams that I’m risking everything—Antonio would kill me if he knew I slipped out of Turin to come here, and my Da wouldn’t be far behind if he learnt I used him as my scapegoat—but I can’t not be here.
Not tonight. Not when this means so much to her.
Not when it’s my fault she’s here alone, with no one to cheer her on.
Watching her own the runway with every sure stride is a privilege all on its own.
And then seeing the design that—even without confirmation—I know she poured her heart and soul into…
it’s breathtaking. The contrast of the light pink colour against her sun-kissed skin, catching the light in ways that make it impossible to look anywhere else.
She’s confidence and temptation personified.
My Lily, turning the world into her stage, owning it like she was born for it, is a sight to behold.
The crowd doesn’t see what I see. They see a promising designer, a beautiful model.
I see the woman who used to sit on my bedroom floor, sketching by lamplight with a pencil tucked behind her ear.
I see every fight, every broken apology, every night I’ve watched her through a screen, trying to convince myself it was enough.
And now she’s here. Flesh and blood and fire, mere steps away.
When her eyes meet mine across the room, it’s like taking a punch straight to the ribs.
She falters for half a heartbeat, barely noticeable to anyone else, but I feel it.
That moment of recognition, disbelief, maybe even anger.
But she doesn’t stop. She only walks fiercer, chin high, hips swaying like a challenge.
Like she’s saying, you don’t get to have me anymore.
God help me, it only makes me want her more.
Applause erupts when she reaches the end of the runway, but it barely registers. I’m still caught in that moment, her gaze cutting through the noise, her body speaking a language I’ve always understood too well.
When the lights shift, and the next models take the stage, I sink back into my seat, forcing air into lungs that don’t want to cooperate.
I shouldn’t have come. I know that. But the thought of her walking that stage alone—surrounded by strangers, believing there was no one there for her—was unbearable.
Now that I’ve seen her, I’m not sure I can walk away.
Eventually, every piece has its moment to shine.
The lights dim again as the applause crests, loud enough to rattle the space between my ribs.
The models file back out together in a clean, polished line, designers following close behind.
The judges are already on their feet. Hands are shaken.
Smiles exchanged. A few words exchanged—measured, practiced, the kind of praise that carries real weight in rooms like this.
Beside me, people rise, clapping, cheering, already turning to dissect what stood out.
My attention never leaves her.
She stands among them steady and unflinching, like she belongs here in a way no one ever handed to her. Like she built this future herself and dared anyone to try and take it back.
I can’t move. My pulse roars in my ears, my body locked in place.
She did it.
And Christ she was magnificent.
My phone vibrates against my thigh. No doubt a text from Liam wondering why I’ve missed our daily debrief. I silence it. He doesn’t need to know where I am. No one does.
The crowd starts to thin as people flood toward the exit or the reception area, hoping to corner one of the student designers for a quick handshake or a business card.
I stand too, tugging at my collar, trying to look like I belong among the buyers and critics.
But my attention is locked on that far corner where the curtain leads behind the stage.
I shouldn’t. Every instinct tells me to walk away.
I’ve risked enough just being here. I should get in my car, drive back to Turin, and pretend this never happened.
But then the curtain shifts and I catch a glimpse of her—hair swept up, cheeks flushed, laughing at something one of her classmates said—and the decision’s made before I can think.
I move toward her.
A security guard stops me at the hallway entrance, palm up. “Backstage access is for staff and participants only, sir.”
I manage a polite smile, the one that usually gets me through doors I’m not supposed to walk through. “My girlfriend’s one of the designers,” I lie easily. “I just want to congratulate her.”
He hesitates, eyes flicking toward the lineup of students still being photographed. I catch another flash of her dress, that silk whispering against her skin as she leans in to hug someone, and my throat goes dry.
“Make it quick,” the guard mutters.
I slip past before he can change his mind.
The noise is softer back here, muffled laughter and the rustle of fabric. She’s half-turned away from me, fixing a pin in her hair while Jamie chatters beside her. There’s a moment where I could stop. Walk away before she looks up. Pretend I was never here.
But then she turns, and there’s no way in hell I’m going anywhere.
Her smile freezes, eyes going wide. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. It’s like the world narrows to the two of us, the smell of hairspray and perfume suspended in the air between us.
“Matt,” she breathes, taking a step towards me.
“Hey, baby.” My voice comes out rough, too low. “You were incredible out there.”
She blinks, the shock hardening into something sharper. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know.” I step closer anyway, because I can’t help it. “But I needed to be.”
Her chin lifts—defiant, proud, everything I’ve missed. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Completely,” I admit. “But I wouldn’t have forgiven myself if I missed this.”
Her gaze flickers down my chest, lingering just a second before she catches herself and looks away. “You shouldn’t have come,” she says again, quieter this time.
“I know,” I whisper. “But you looked up and saw me, didn’t you?”
She swallows. “Yeah.”
“Then it was worth it.”
A shout from the other side of the curtain breaks the moment—someone calling for Jamie—and Lily steps back, putting distance between us before anyone sees. But even as she turns away, I can still feel the heat of her body in the air, the ghost of her perfume clinging to me like a brand.
I’ve risked everything for a handful of stolen minutes, and I’d do it again.