Page 137 of Tangled Hearts
Paris movedlike a current around them. Cameras flashed, hands reached, names were called from every direction but Cash kept one hand on Noir’s lower back. Always anchoring her as they slid from cars to carpets to backstage hallways. He tucked her into every conversation, introduced her to everybody like she belonged.
“Black Excellence, two minutes,” his publicist waved.
Cash nodded, fingers never leaving Noir’s waist. “You good?” he checked, leaning in close.
“I’m great,” she grinned, phone already rolling for her vlog. “Paris Fashion Week. Don’t play with me.”
He laughed, his mouth brushing her temple before an interviewer caught them. Questions flew like bullets. Album timing, tour stops, the capsule collab he teased last week. Cash answered everything like he had been practicing all his life. He pulled Noir a half-step forward.
“This is Noir,” he added, palm resting at her hip. “Y’all gon’ see her everywhere soon.” Cameras swung her way. She didn’t flinch, only smiled.
“What’s your favorite look tonight?” the reporter pushed the mic toward her.
“The tailored ones,” Noir answered, steady. “Strong shoulders, clean lines, low back. It’s giving power and pretty.”
Cash smirked like he knew she was gonna kill it. “You see why I keep her with me?”
They moved again—another publication, another step-and-repeat, a quick bite snuck in a corner as stylists rushed past with garment bags. Noir soaked it all up. The hum of it. The rush. The way people looked at Cash with respect and still felt comfortable joking with him. He tipped the coat check kid extra, dapped the lighting tech like an old friend, and never let her drift more than an arm’s length away.
“This big for you?” he asked as they slid into a back row at the next venue.
“It feels like the start,” she admitted. She caught her reflection in a mirrored column. She looked happy. It scared her for a second. “It’s a lot.”
“I know.” He squeezed her thigh. “But you was made for the cameras, pretty girl.”
Noir shimmied her shoulders then the show started.
Noir watched the models, jaw set in that focused way Cash loved. He knew that look from home—back when they were kids and she’d argue him down on any topic and still ask if he needed a ride. He thought about Christian, then pushed it away. Tonight was about her.
After the finale, they slipped backstage to congratulate the designer. The room was moving in a frenzy. A man in all black paced, headset crooked, panic all over his face.
“Model down—car accident on the way—she’s okay but not coming,” he ranted to the designer in a low rush. “We need another closer with that pink column dress or we lose the look.”
The designer clocked Noir, eyes lighting. “You. Walk for me.” His English was broken but she understood him.
Noir jabbed her finger into her chest. “Me?”
“You”
“Right now?” She blinked.
“Right now,” the designer urged. “You’re the right shape, the posture, the face—perfect. Please.”
Noir glanced at Cash. Her stomach flipped. This wasn’t the plan. She only came to watch. He stepped in front of her, hands on both shoulders, looking her in the eyes.
“You got this shit,” he hyped her. “You been doing this in your head your whole life. Show the fuck out, pretty girl.”
“What if I trip?”
“Then you get up and keep walking,” he countered, lips twitching. “But you not gon’ trip.”
She inhaled once and nodded. “Okay.”
The next few minutes were a blur.
Assistants tugged a silk dress over her, pinned the hem, brushed powder across her T-zone, slid her feet into heels. Someone whispered cues in French. The designer adjusted the dress strap with careful fingers.
Cash stood just beyond the curtain, arms folded, watching like a proud problem-solver. When she looked for him, he lifted his chin—go.
