Page 2 of Blurred Lines

I flash a grateful smile. "Thanks, Maria. Just trying to keep up with your artistry here."

Nearby, a hairstylist named Brian is wrestling with a mountain of curls on another model. "We're going for 'tamed tornado' here," he jokes, his hands a blur of motion. "Emily, darling, that was the statement of the year! You're a force!"

I chuckle, watching him tame the rebellious locks with a spritz of hairspray. "And you're a wizard with that hairspray, Brian. I'd never dare."

A designer's assistant rushes past, her arms laden with a cascade of fabric. "Emily, the second look is ready for you. We're going for quick changes tonight!" she calls over her shoulder.

"Got it, quick change it is," I reply, mentally preparing for the next transformation.

Sasha approaches with a clipboard in hand. "Emily, that walk was nothing short of magnificent," he says, eyes scanning the room. "But remember, the night is young, and we have more magic to create."

I nod, feeling a surge of energy. "Let's make some magic then, Sasha."

In another corner, a minor crisis unfolds. "This zipper is jammed!" exclaims a flustered dresser, fumbling with a stubborn piece on a model's gown.

"Here, let me try," says a calm voice. It's Jake, another stylist known for his cool under pressure. He deftly unjams the zipper in seconds, drawing a relieved sigh from the dresser. "There, crisis averted. The show must go on, right?"

Everywhere I look, there's a story, a mini-drama playing out, contributing to the larger narrative of the fashion show. This backstage world is a microcosm of the industry itself—fast-paced, intense, and often relentless.

I have just enough time to slip into my second outfit, a breathtaking ensemble featuring a cascading, feather-light gown that feels like a second skin.

"Emily, you're up in two," Sasha announces, eyeing the lineup with the precision of a general. I nod, slipping into the towering heels that accompany my second look. They're skyscrapers, but I've walked in trickier.

I step out for my second walk, the lights hitting the gown and turning me into a walking galaxy. Halfway down the runway, I feel a sudden give in my right heel. Time slows. The heel snaps, but panic is a luxury I can't afford.

In a split second, I make a decision. I slip off the broken heel, then the other. Ripples of conversation break out. I walk barefoot, my posture unbroken, my head held high. I reach the end of the runway, strike a pose, and the crowd erupts in applause. I've turned a mishap into a moment.

Backstage, the energy is electric. "That was … incredible!" Sasha exclaims, his eyes wide. "Only you could turn a broken heel into a triumph."

I laugh, the tension melting away. "When life gives you a broken heel, make a fashion statement."

The show draws to a close, and it's time for the final walk. All the models line up, the air buzzing with the collective high of a successful show. We step out onto the runway. At the end, the designer herself, Cristina Vitto, emerges. We cluster around her.

As I smile at the audience and clap, my gaze falls on one man. There's something about him. He's older—he has to be in his late thirties or early forties. God, he's sexy. Curly hair, the shade of dark chocolate, an electric smile, and dimples. He's all muscle but no brawn. But it's really his eyes that draw me in.

Green pools of forest-soaked light sparkling softly, their gaze holding mine. Suddenly, it feels like the world has only him and me in it. I shake my head slightly. I'm not one for insta-love, so this feels pretty alien. Maybe I do need a drink.

"Okay, everyone," Cristina says enthusiastically. "Time for dinner!"

The other models and I change into our after-party clothes. I'm wearing a beige maxi skirt, and a white blouse accentuated with a golden belt. I've left my brown hair loose.

We head toward the grand gallery, where she is hosting a follow-up dinner for everyone. I glide through the space, taking in how beautifully maximal everything is. I've never been one for minimalism, I like things bursting at the seams. I note that this blend of Victorian and Art Deco is my kind of aesthetic. Polished onyx floors, inlaid with swirling silver veins, mimic the Art Deco sunburst motif repeated in the stained glass ceilings above.

The chairs are streamlined and clad in emerald velvet. They stand by sculpted marble tables carved with sunray patterns. Chandeliers abound on the ceiling. There is a smoky whisper of sandalwood and champagne, punctuated by the sharp tang of bergamot and the musk of patchouli. The dimpled velvet of the cushioned chairs is so inviting I just want to sit barefoot and breathe. But there's more to be done because the food—oh, the food.

The tables are lined with towers of macarons, each a jewel-toned geode waiting to crack open secrets of raspberry and pistachio. There are lobster rolls nestled in wicker baskets, looking like tiny nautical picnics overflowing with buttery bliss. And the cake! Martha Stewart would be proud. It features layers of chocolate so dark they swallow the light, crowned with a single, impossibly perfect raspberry, a forbidden jewel waiting to be plucked.

"Everything looks amazing," I say to no one in particular.

"Thank you," a voice replies conversationally from behind me. I turn, and it's him. Tall, easy smile, green eyes. He has broad shoulders. It wasn't visible when I first spotted him, but his dark hair is dotted with silver threads that glint. Suddenly, I'm feeling like jelly all over again.

Shake it off, Em.

I fall back on the voice in my head and frown slightly. "Excuse me?"

"Well, it would be terribly rude if I didn't say thank you to a beautiful lady for complimenting me on the efforts of this evening," he replies, the smile never fading from his lips.

I blush. "You're the chef?"

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