1. Emily

Ready to roll? Sashas eyes glint as he adds the finishing touches to my makeup. I nod briefly. He brushes glitter on the hollows above my collarbones. Youre going to be amazing.

I have to believe him. From a clinical point of view, Im good at what I do. I run a finger over the thin gold bracelet on my wrist and exhale. Pulsating bass lines vibrate through the soles of my Jimmy Choos. A shiver dances up my spine that has nothing to do with the glacial waves from the air conditioning blasting backstage.

Whats on your mind? Sasha persists, flicking an array of brushes, one after the other in quick succession. I dont know what hes doing to my face, but Im sure itll be good.

Tonights pretty important, I admit softly. Its my first time opening a show. I kind of feel like a glamzilla about to scare what should be a very elite audience.

Sasha snorts. This, I observe casually, is something he does when he emphatically disagrees with something. Em, could this be because of the … stuff Celia showed us in the green room?

A little while ago, Celia, one of the models in tonights lineup, had casually shoved a picture of me from her Instagram feed in our faces. Its one of my favorite stills, with me standing in my favorite spot in Central Park.

The first comment is by a self-proclaimed fashion influencer who has amassed a following of upwards of two million, Andrew Graham. His words shouldnt hurt, not when Ive read and heard renditions of them multiple times over the last few years.

She literally gets paid to look good but cant be bothered to care. Shes one of those typical Instagram models trying to sell toxic body positivity.

I hear glasses clink. The champagne is gushing more than a geyser in the Med, but my throat feels dry.

Want a glass? Sasha offers.

Absolutely not.

I cant afford a slip-up. Thats an express ticket to Critiqueville, population: me. They call me Emily Earthquake Martin. Yeah, that monikers fresh off the press from some fashion guru. My Instagram has become a playground for keyboard warriors schooling me on how my fat paycheck should mean an Insta-fit body.

Newsflash: equating health with being a human pencil? I dont care for that brand of beauty, even if its still shoved down our throats.

Girl, dont let the assholes get to you, Sasha murmurs as he examines me one last time. Those heels youre wearing? Theyre designed for only wow, no wobble. Youre brave, amazing, and beautiful. Go show the world what youre made of.

I incline my head momentarily—Sashas right. I have a lot of time to worry about what influencers think about my life. Right now, I need to walk.

The silk taffeta crackles, protesting the backstage draft, shimmering like a disco balls less flashy cousin. The moment I hit the ramp, its showtime.

Confidence, he smiles, tapping my shoulder lightly. Has always been your thing. Sell it like its going out of style.

This time, Im the one to snort. Ive got Owning It stitched right between Awkward and Vertigo-Victim, I quip, dry as a martini. I look down at my emerald bodice. It hugs my curves just the right amount. Everyone thinks Im confident, but honestly, on most days, Im faking it till I make it.

But tonight has to be different. I take a few deep breaths. If I cinch this, Ill have more opportunities to open shows. I can project what I truly believe: that beauty and health dont necessarily need to fit a mold thats been set by people who have no idea how womens bodies function. If I could get a dollar for the number of times Ive wondered how I fit in the size medium of one brand while feeling like a walrus in the size large of another, Id be a billionaire.

Sasha holds a compact mirror in front of my face. I check my makeup one last time. Smokey eyes, subtle lips, shimmer bathing my shoulders. I smile slightly.

Its time, Sasha says as a countdown begins, crackling through our earpieces. My heart begins a mambo in my chest, growing louder as I begin walking. Stage lights flare blindingly white. A beat of silence, then the music—a sultry samba, slithers into my soul.

Heads turn as I reach the main ramp. I keep my eyes fixed. My insides are squirming like jelly, but Im okay. Im okay. The stage shrinks to the familiarity of a catwalk. My heels click defiantly. I walk to the very front, where camera bulbs pop like firecrackers.

My skirt flows behind me as I move, left, right, a slight sway. Every pleat carries like a river of green silk. I reach the end of the runway and pause for one moment.

Breath, Em.

I tilt my chin upward, exposing my long neck and the single diamond necklace that graces it. Then, I flick back the strand of hair falling on my collarbone. The cameras go wild.

Applause breaks through the room. The crowds enthused energy drenches me like mulled wine. Ive made my statement. I turn on my heels and strut backstage.

The space is buzzing. Makeup artists, hair stylists, designers, and models all merge into one vibrant tapestry of organized chaos.

Emily, that was stellar! exclaims Maria, a makeup artist with a flair for dramatic eyeliner. Shes huddled over a young model, deftly applying a burst of glitter to her eyelids. You owned that runway!

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. Were going for tamed tornado here, he jokes, his hands a blur of motion. Emily, darling, that was the statement of the year! Youre a force!

I chuckle, watching him tame the rebellious locks with a spritz of hairspray. And youre a wizard with that hairspray, Brian. Id never dare.

A designers assistant rushes past, her arms laden with a cascade of fabric. Emily, the second look is ready for you. Were 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. Lets 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 models gown.

Here, let me try, says a calm voice. Its 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, theres 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, youre 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. Theyre skyscrapers, but Ive 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 cant 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. Ive 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 its 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. Theres something about him. Hes older—he has to be in his late thirties or early forties. God, hes sexy. Curly hair, the shade of dark chocolate, an electric smile, and dimples. Hes all muscle but no brawn. But its 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. Im 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. Im wearing a beige maxi skirt, and a white blouse accentuated with a golden belt. Ive 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. Ive 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 theres 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 its him. Tall, easy smile, green eyes. He has broad shoulders. It wasnt visible when I first spotted him, but his dark hair is dotted with silver threads that glint. Suddenly, Im 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 didnt 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. Youre the chef?

He nods his head slightly. And youre the star of tonights show.

I laugh lightly at that. Good cook, seasoned flirt. Youre Michelangelo with spatulas. I need the recipe for this cake. I cut myself a second slice and dig in, hoping hell disappear. I dont particularly care for how hes making me feel.

He moves closer, and his shoulder brushes against mine. Theres more than a recipe that goes into baking a cake, you know? Youre speaking a dialect.

I slide my eyes up to meet his. My lips curve when I see the desire in them. He takes the plate from my hand and sets it aside.

Come with me, he says huskily.

I should refuse. This isnt good. Instead, I let my fingers curl around his as he pulls me away from all the light and people. A beautiful lawn stretches under a sea of dotted stars outside. Its reasonably empty.

Whats your name? I breathe as he leads me to a cluster of trees and pushes me against the trunk of one.

Caeleb, he replies in perfect baritone.

Who—

Before I can ask the question, his arm curls around my waist, and his lips land on mine, hot, ravenous, and delicious. A tiny moan escapes my mouth as I part open the folds, welcoming his seeking tongue inside. He kisses like a man who knows what he wants and isnt afraid to claim it. His free hand pulls my leg, and I instinctively wrap it around his hip.

My fingers seek the zipper of his pants.

At that very instant, he stops me, laying a gentle palm on my shoulder. Before we move any further, you should know something. Im a single father. Does that change anything?

I blink, momentarily confused. Does it matter? Not really, no. I look into his eyes. It matters if you make a thing out of this. It doesnt if we just … go with the flow.

Go with the flow, he repeats, watching me with a slight smile. I like that.

Good, I reply. The next second, Im pulling him to me again. I dont know how we do it, but then, his cock is in my palm, a big, pulsating thing, begging to nest inside me. I groan as his kiss deepens, and he bites down on my lower lip. His fingers are pulling my panties down. I dont want him to stop. He breaks the kiss and dots my chin with kisses.

Youre so beautiful, he breathes against my neck.

Mmm. Thats all I can manage. My skirt is bunched up at my hips, his cock just an inch away from my core. I pull him in, closing that paltry distance, and gasp as the first inch slides in.

Oh gosh, he growls, beginning to move. Fuck, youre glorious. My breath snatches in my throat as his speed builds. I bite his ear, feeling the roughness of the bark, his thick cock pounding into me, and his lips hot on my skin. Im seconds away from a climax, and this also … never happens.

Ah, I cry as it comes, washing over me. Im coming!

He pulls out just the second it hits me, making me gasp harder. He turns me around and enters me again. My hands slam against the trees bark as I attempt to steady my trembling legs. I groan harder as his skin slaps against mine, his pace becoming feverish.

Good God, he calls out, and I feel him beginning to build his way to his climax. I realize I dont want it to be over right when it does.

His breath is still flush on my skin as he rests his head on my shoulder for a quick moment. Then, he releases his hold on my skirt. I turn around, laughter in my eyes. I didnt think thats how Id end tonight.

There are so many questions in his eyes. I see what he wants in them. He thinks there can be something here. Hes going to ask for my number, I know it. After many years, I actually want to give it to someone.

His dimples ripen.

Dont, I say before he can ask the question. Itll just complicate things.

I think I see something shift in his eyes, but its gone too soon. Lets go back inside, he says instead.

I let the silence stretch as we gather our bearings and walk back. When we reach the main entrance, he touches my arm lightly. I turn to face him.

Im sorry, I mumble. I dont do … relationships. Theyre too messy for me.

Fair enough, he replies. What if we just do coffee instead?

Against my instinct to stay noncommittal, I giggle. How badly do you want that?

Try me. He pauses for a beat.

I merely watch his expression.

I mean, he clarifies, Im going to hunt down your socials and be one among the million fans you already have, but it doesnt hurt to shoot my shot.

I think, I laugh. Were a little past that stage. But lets see.

He nods slightly. Lets see.

I want to say something else, but my phone rings. I fish it out and look at the number. Its my sister, Flora.

Hey, Flo, I answer. I just finished my show.

I have news, her voice replies, tight and strained. Its about our dad.