Chapter 34
Zoe
Steam hisses from the industrial iron, clouding the air with the scent of scorching fabric and hairspray. It’s organized chaos back here—models in various states of undress, dressers shouting over the thumping bass of the runway playlist, racks of garments rolling over concrete floors.
I stand in the center of it, letting the noise wash over me, sharpening my focus until it feels like a blade.
My reflection in the mirror gets one last check.
The emerald silk clings to my body, the color deep and violent, like a bruise healed into something beautiful.
The black geometric inset draws the eye—a sharp, angular slash across the torso that mimics broken glass, held together by gold stitching.
It’s armor. It’s a warning. It’s the story of us, rewritten in fabric and thread.
My hands are steady. The nerves that used to paralyze me have calcified into something useful. I am the talent. I’m not the girl standing next to the star player.
“Zoe, you’re on in five,” the stage manager barks, her headset flashing.
I nod, turning toward the heavy velvet curtain that separates the backstage dark from the blinding runway lights. I step up to the edge, peering through the gap.
The audience is a sea of heads, but I find her instantly. Elena Moretti. She’s sitting in the front row, center aisle, wearing a suit that probably costs more than my tuition. She’s checking her phone, looking bored, completely unimpressed by the student walking the runway right now.
My stomach tightens with the weight of the moment. This is it. The line between who I was and who I’m becoming. I take a breath, smoothing the silk over my hips. I’ll give them something worth looking at.
A shadow falls over the gap in the curtain, cutting off my view of the front row. I know the weight of that silence.
Gio steps into the dim backstage light, the chaos of the runway prep parting around him like water. The suit he’s wearing fits him like a weapon—dark charcoal, sharp lines, no tie. There’s something dangerous and expensive about him, entirely out of place in a room full of pins and silk.
Stopping in front of me, his eyes drag over the emerald silk, lingering on the black geometric slash across my ribs.
“Strap’s twisting,” he says, his voice low, cutting through the thumping bass.
Before I can react, he reaches out. His fingers brush the bare skin of my shoulder, calloused and warm.
He catches the thin spaghetti strap that has slipped, sliding it back into place with a precision that contradicts the violence usually in his hands.
He smooths the fabric, his thumb dragging once against my collarbone.
It’s such a small, domestic gesture. It feels alien coming from him.
“You look like a queen,” he murmurs, his eyes locking onto mine. There’s a flat, terrifying honesty in his gaze.
I hold his gaze, my heart hammering a rhythm that has nothing to do with the runway. “I’m here to be seen, Gio.”
“I know,” he says, dropping his hand.
Putting space between us, he steps back. The rules are clear to him. This stage isn’t his to step onto—not with me. This is my war, and for the first time, he’s content to guard the perimeter instead of leading the charge.
He reaches for my hand, lifting it from my side. He presses a kiss to my knuckles—his lips dry, the pressure firm. It’s a benediction.
“Go destroy them,” he says.
He turns without waiting for a response, blending back into the shadows to find his seat in the back. He’s quiet, uncharacteristically so, but his presence lingers in the air like smoke.
I take a breath, the strap on my shoulder feeling heavier than before. Steadier.
The stage manager gives me the signal. I step forward, the velvet parting like water, and the roar of the backstage chaos cuts out instantly, replaced by the heavy, expectant hush of the runway. The music kicks in—a deep, pulsing bass that vibrates through the soles of my heels.
Movement takes over. One step, two steps. The rhythm settles in. My body knows what to do. I am the weapon, and the dress is the blade.
At the top of the catwalk, the mark meets my feet and the lights slam into me. They’re blinding, white-hot, and for a second, I can’t see the audience. The heat of a hundred gazes burning against my skin is all I can feel.
Stillness follows. Feet planted. Chin lifted.
The emerald silk catches the light, shimmering like oil, while the black geometric slashes across my torso absorb it.
I feel the weight of the gold stitching, heavy and grounding.
This is a declaration. Here is the damage. Here is the repair. Look at it.
The murmurs die out. The silence that follows is sharp, physical. It’s the sound of people realizing they’re seeing something they can’t ignore. I scan the front row, my eyes adjusting to the glare.
There she is. Elena Moretti isn’t looking at her phone anymore.
She’s sitting forward, her spine straight, her eyes locked on me.
She tilts her head, her gaze dissecting the lines of the dress, analyzing the construction, the drape, the sheer audacity of the design. No applause comes. No smile follows.
Instead, she rises slowly, blocking the view of the people behind her, demanding a better look.
For a single, terrifying second, the air rushes out of my lungs. The world tilts. It’s the ghost of my father’s voice, sneering from the shadows of my memory. You’ll never be good enough, Zoe. You’re a pretty face, a distraction. You don’t have the guts.
The heat of the lights becomes oppressive, the weight of a hundred stares a physical pressure crushing my chest. My knees feel weak, the urge to buckle almost overwhelming. I’m a fraud. They’ve seen through the gold stitching and the sharp lines to the broken girl underneath.
My gaze flickers instinctively, desperately, away from the front row, scanning the darkness of the back of the room.
And I find him. Gio. In the shadows, he stands apart from the cheering crowd, hands loose at his sides.
All he’s doing is watching me, his gaze heavy and intent, stripping away the lights and the applause until there’s nothing left but the two of us.
To him, I’m the only thing in the room that’s real.
That steady gaze becomes my anchor in the blinding glare. It’s a silent promise.
The strength floods back into my legs, the steel reinforcing my spine. My father was wrong. I am good enough. My chin lifts higher, a silent refusal of the past and a declaration to the future.
They can look. They can see exactly what I’m made of.
The air in the room shifts. The other critics follow Elena Moretti’s lead, craning their necks, the whisper of pens scratching against notepads rising like static.
I hold the pose until the final model exits, the lights cut, and the applause hits the wall of the runway like a physical blow. It’s a roar, chaotic and deafening.
I step back out into the center of the catwalk, the spotlight searing my retinas, and take my bow. The noise swells, cresting over my head. My breath catches, a sharp hitch in my throat.
He sees me. Just me.
“Zoe,” a voice cuts through the haze. I drag my eyes away from Gio. A woman in a sharp blazer is standing at the edge of the stage, holding a headset and looking impatient. She gestures toward the side wing.
“Ms. Moretti wants to see you,” she says, raising her voice over the fading applause. “Backstage. Now.”
I nod once, the spell breaking. I turn on my heel and head for the wings, the silk of the dress whispering against my legs.
Backstage is a wall of noise and heat, but Elena Moretti stands in the center of it like a vacuum. The chaos seems to bend around her, unwilling to get too close. She's checking her watch, looking bored again, but when she sees me, she looks up.
I stop in front of her, forcing myself to breathe. My heart is still hammering against my ribs, but I lift my chin. I need a verdict.
"The line is bold," she says, skipping the preamble. Her voice is cool, clinical. "The construction is impeccable. You took a risk with the geometric inset—it could have looked messy. Instead, it looks intentional."
She steps closer, her eyes sharp as they rake over the emerald silk.
"I want you for the internship."
The air leaves my lungs in a sharp rush. It's vindication. Cold, hard, and absolute. I got it because I'm good. Because I designed something that couldn't be ignored.
"Thank you," I say, my voice steady. "I'll take it."
A flicker of a smile touches her mouth—approval, not affection. "Good. Be at my office on Monday at nine. Don't be late."
She turns on her heel and walks away, her assistant scrambling to keep up.
I stand there for a second, the adrenaline finally crashing, replaced by a fierce, burning triumph.
I spin around, searching the dim perimeter. Gio is leaning against a stack of equipment crates, arms crossed over his chest. He's watching me, his expression unreadable in the shadows. He didn't interfere. He just let me stand in the fire.
Our eyes lock. He nods once. Just a sharp, decisive dip of his chin.
I nod back, the tension in my shoulders finally unspooling.
We walk out together, leaving the noise behind. The heavy steel door of the design building clicks shut, cutting off the roar of the after-party. The alleyway is cold, quiet, smelling of rain and asphalt.
The silence is a shock to the system after the noise, but I'm vibrating, electric with the win.
I stop and turn to him. Gio is watching me, his hands in his pockets, looking like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. He thinks I’m going to analyze it. He thinks I’m going to pick apart the victory.
Closing the distance, I step into his space, crowding him back against the brick wall.
“Zoe—” he starts, but I cut him off.
His lapels come up in my fists as I haul him down, crashing my mouth against his.
It’s teeth and tongue and the taste of iron and desperation.
The adrenaline, the triumph, the sheer fucking relief of the internship pours into the kiss.
I bite his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood, and he groans, a low, ragged sound that vibrates against my chest.
The reaction is instant. Hands leave his pockets—one fisting in my hair, the other gripping my waist with bruising force. Control shifts as he tilts my head back, deepening the kiss until I can’t breathe, until I don’t want to.
The way he kisses me is ravenous, like he’s starving, like he’s trying to crawl inside me and mark me from the inside out. This is the only language we have left that doesn’t need words.
He breaks away, his breath ragged, his forehead resting against mine. His eyes are wild, dark, completely undone.
"I'm taking you to dinner," he growls, his voice rough, scraping against my throat. "Right now. Somewhere expensive. I'm going to buy you a fucking steak so big you can't finish it."
I laugh, breathless, my lips swollen and tingling. "Is that an order, Rossi?"
"It's a celebration," he says, leaning in to bite the sensitive spot under my jaw, sending a shockwave down my spine. "And you're coming with me."