Page 166 of Until I Own You

I take my seat just in time for the show to begin. Deborah Angelise gives me an appraising smile, watches the show from behind amber tinted sunglasses.

I’m a fine dresser, but I do not get fashion.

The moment the first model walks out, though, my worries fade away.

I’m here for Bridget. To support her and all the work she’s done the past year now that her brand isn’t just hers, but so many others. There have been nights where she gets into bed after me which is a feat since I spend too many nights working late. Less so since Bridget came into my life.

Now, to see all her work pay off…I’ve always been proud of her. But I’m overwhelmed by the way my heart swells in my chest as model after model comes out.

Her signature mixing of materials, lingerie playing with elegant lines and classic forms of lace, interspliced with latex, leather. Good girls gone bad. Flouncy skirts and garters paired with silicon ball gags. Leather cut and formed to move like silk, paired with a matching flogger.

The final piece is a model wearing a metal negligee that has been detailed and cut to resemble lace. It is incredible, the craftsmanship and detail.

I grin, remembering the moment Bridget came home and declared she needed to learn how to weld.

It’s innovative. It’s brilliant. It’s Bridget. Smart, talented, fucking amazing.

Mine.

However, knowing it’s the final piece means…

Solomon grabs my shoulder and squeezes. “You’re up, kid.”

I look at him and then my mom. The fear in my eyes must be more apparent than I’d like it to be because Mom touches my chin. Our eyes lock.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she says.

I take a deep breath and return my gaze to the runway. The final model walks off, the music changes again, and one by one the line of models struts down the runway. This time, though, the big reveal is not the final piece in the collection.

The reveal is Bridget. In a blue blazer without a blouse underneath, matching pencil skirt, and tall stilettos. She could have been a model out there with the best of them. She throws a glance in our direction, her long brown ponytail bobbing with her head.

Her collar gleams.

God, the way she teases me with that thing drives me nuts.

Her smile, the flash of her eyes, however brief, is everything to me.

The audience showers her in applause and cheers.

She waves at them, blows kisses, spots our friends in the back and waves to them. I’m almost taken away by the moment, watching her receive her metaphorical flowers. The culmination of all her work.

That is, until the stage manager, the one with whom I cleared all of this, pokes his head out from the wing and snaps at me, points to the catwalk.

I leap out of my chair and rub my sweaty palms down the fronts of my pants before reaching into my pocket and…yep, the box is still there.

The stage manager holds his hand out for me.

I grab it, letting him swing me up onto the stairs.

I find my balance only to be totally overwhelmed by lights and the skyscraper models filing past me, faster than they would during a normal show.

They have been briefed and have already started scurrying backstage faster than they already move on their mile-long legs.

I hurry down the center of the runway.

I can see audience members flabbergasted and concerned that this strange man is wading through a sea of models, but I can’t be bothered by them. I have to focus on my prize.

Bridget takes a step back with the intent to turn around and tag onto the train of models.

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