Page 143 of When Hearts Surrender

Fiona told me this was to underscore the timeless beauty of McKenzie Atelier with an emphasis on sustainability. The outfits are all in a range of deep blues, forest greens, and dark burgundy with elements of nature woven in the designs.

The crowd gasps as model after model struts down the runway, gliding over the smoke as if they’re ghosts moving in the ether, the luxurious fabrics glinting under the dark, romantic lighting.

I hear the frantic scribbles on notepads, see cell phones held up in the air as I watch with bated breath, waiting for my designs to show up, to see if the crowd will react to them.

The music transitions to a modern take of “Nessun Dorma” and my eyes immediately tear up as I think of him, the man who makes me feel too much of every emotion—love, anger, lust, sadness—someone who feels like home since the moment I laid eyes on him at the race.

The tenor sings the evocative aria and a lone spotlight falls on the next model gliding onto the runway. Shocked whispers erupt from the crowd as the model showcases the first of my designs—the shawl sweater lined with fleece. I’ve requested a special holographic thread to be woven into the organza that is part of the sweater. The end product is iridescent, the sweater glowing and changing between shades of navy and purple as the model moves effortlessly—a fallen angel owning the runway.

A quiet hush settles in the room as the tenor sings the high notes, his voice portraying the longing for his unrequited love, and another model steps into the spotlight wearing my coat, the light organza train fluttering behind her, rendering her into a ghostly apparition.

Shivers travel up my spine and Taylor murmurs, “Holy shit, Belle. This is amazing.”

The crowd seems to agree as my third piece is shown and I hear a smattering of applause. My heart pulses in my chest, my eyes watering as I feel the ghost of my grandpa next to me, and I’m reminded of the kind man who braved his anxiety and created breathless wonders for the world—the man who taught me everything.

Grandpa, this is for you.

I wish he could be here to see me, to see my creations, to see me fighting for his legacy.

My thoughts drift back to the other man I wish were here. Maxwell. Regardless of my future at the company, whether Fiona lets me join her senior team, tonight feels like a pinnacle.

It’s a success Maxwelltook part in.

He calls me his little muse, but little does he know,heis mymuse. He’s the only person who truly understands me. He sees me as beautiful, not broken or flawed.

Perfect, just the way I am.

Swiping the tears off my cheeks, I’m suddenly overcome with emotions, a tidal wave of sadness for the men I’ve lost, one to the great beyond and one to a crippling fear of death.

Millie pulls me to her side. “Shh… I got you. I know how it feels,” she whispers, her voice thick. She has had her share of losses in her life and I’m grateful she’s here.

More models strut down the runway, the designs slowly shifting from fall to winter as the lighting on the stage slowly warms to highlight the lush green foliage on the runway that was hidden by the smoke before.

Hope within the stark winter. The ray of light shining behind the clouds on a dreary day at Lake Superior.

The fashion show ends with Fiona and her team walking down the runway to a standing ovation. Her eyes find mine as she beams at the crowd. She gives me the barest of nods—a public acknowledgment.

I dip my head in response, my smile tinged with grief—happiness amid grief. Life is strange this way, and I find myself oscillating between opposing emotions—love and hate, anger and calmness.

Fiona and her team stride back to the backstage and the room brightens, signaling the end of the event. Suddenly, a murmuring travels through the crowd, camera flashes aimed toward the entrance of the room.

And I see him.

Chapter 52

The roaring in myears eclipses the shocked gasps and furtive whispers of the crowd. I was hoping to slip in undetected, to support Belle and the event she worked so hard to prepare for, but I should’ve known better. I should’ve known my anonymity went down the drain ever since the disastrous first press conference, the wedding, and the gala.

I’m suddenly transported back to Mom’s funeral, when I stood frozen under the spotlight, trapped by the claws of fear, a helpless prey succumbing to the predators around me.

Flashes erupt, the blinding lights glaring assaults to my eyes, and sweat gathers on my forehead. The crowd morphs into the familiar monster who had haunted me my entire life—my inner demon.

My nostrils flare as my breathing quickens. I scan the blurry faces, my hands fisted at my sides.

Until I see her.

My little muse, standing in the shadows, her luscious hair piled on top of her head, her lips parted, eyes widening.

She clutches a notepad to her chest and shrinks into the dark.

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