40. April

40

APRIL

At the first glimpse of the runway, all my brazenness goes flying out the proverbial window. "I'm gonna lose this thing so bad."

Matvey shoots me a glare. "What did I just say?"

"‘Don't insult my woman's skill'?"

"So you do remember."

Any other day, his concern would be touching. Kind of hot, too, if we're being totally honest. But right now? I'm ready to throw up all over the front row from sheer anxiety.

"What if my dress wasn't even picked for the runway?"

"Impossible."

"I'm serious. There were, like, three hundred submissions this year. The fashion show's only going to feature the top ten. There's no way I made the cut, is there? And I was so smug with Anne, too. God, she will never let me live this down, will she? I?—"

"April. Breathe."

I do as instructed. Matvey's commanding voice is a balm: as soon as his words reach me, I feel like I can let myself relax, just a little bit. Like I have no choice but to obey. Did I already mention it's hot as all hell?

"Okay. Breathing."

"Repeat after me: you will do great."

I fumble through a long, shaky inhale. "I will do great."

"You worked hard for this."

"I worked hard for this."

"You deserve this."

"I…" I hesitate.

Luckily, I'm saved by the bell: the lights dim. Everyone falls quiet all at once. The spotlights start revolving all over the crowd, hyping up an already over-excited public.

The music starts, and the first model glides down the runway.

It's a dress I don't recognize, but I'm immediately glad I didn't go for my idea of hand-gluing three million mother of pearl scales to a skirt: the theme is clearly Little Mermaid -y. The gown is siren-shaped, shimmering in a thousand shades of blue, purple and green, and the Japanese model's long, black hair complements it perfectly. She's moving like a creature of the deep, flowy gestures and invisible steps, and I wonder if she's barefoot underneath. It'd definitely be a bold choice. As she passes me by, the light catches on her see-through dragonscale sleeves, making them look painted on her skin.

Envy surges through me, but it only fires me up more.

More models come out: a fairycore gown with a forest-green hood; an asymmetrical half-tux, half-dress that screams gender revolution; a gilded Greek-style dress with actual goldwork in the stitching. The fashion-loving part of me is in awe, wanting to track down each designer and squeeze out all their secrets, a thousand questions per minute crowding my mind.

The rest of me thinks, I'm screwed.

When the eighth piece finishes its round, I can feel my chances start to dim. But what chances, really? Did I truly think I could measure up to all these amazing people? All these actual designers?

Did I think a measly tailor could swoop in at the last minute and win it all?

Maybe with the Daphne dress I might've stood a chance, but…

As if summoned by magic, a familiar silhouette appears: that dress. My dress.

The one Anne stole from me.

For a second, I forget this one isn't mine, that it didn't get in this competition with my name on it. All I can feel is a weird sense of exhilaration. Because, while it might not be the exact one I made…

It's still mine. My dress made the cut.

The model is simply stunning: rich ebony skin and gold makeup, complementing the ivory tone of the dress perfectly. She seems to have caught the theme, because her tree bark side keeps stretching upwards, arm reaching up from under a cascade of embroidered leaves. Yearning—for a freedom it might never reach.

It's beautiful.

I feel my eyes grow misty. It's the first time I've thought that about something of mine. The first time I don't have a snide voice at the back of my mind implying otherwise.

Actually, not the first. There was another time that voice was nowhere to be found.

The day May was born.

Silently, Matvey squeezes my hand. I can feel all his support in that gesture, even without words to back it up. I know this must be hard for you. Keep it together. You're stronger than they think.

I dry my eyes and focus on the dress. I don't know why, but something's been bothering me about it—the tailor side of me. I concentrate on that, on trying to figure out what's wrong.

Then I see it.

When the model passes me by, she makes a wide bow, as if to spread leaves all over the crowd. Her arm brushes right past me, and there.

The stitching is wrong.

When I was making my version of this dress, I made sure to hold the needle at a certain angle, widening my stance with each foot of fabric. I wanted the stitching to reflect Daphne's transformation: the movement, the change. It's the only part that wasn't in the sketches and notes. I came up with it in the moment.

It's not just that, either. Looking at it, I can tell it wasn't the work of one artist, but a hired équipe that didn't fully understand the concept they were bringing to life. When I was crafting my gown, I poured everything I had into it: not just blood, sweat, and tears, but a vision. I wanted whoever wore it to feel seconds away from their own metamorphosis, trapped and freed at the same time. And the spectators—I wanted them to feel it, too.

So I researched sculptors. Not just Bernini, but all the big names: Donatello, Canova, Wildt. Back then, a quote by Michelangelo stuck with me:

"The sculpture is already complete within the marble block."

Now, I'm not so presumptuous to think I've actually managed that. He was freaking Michelangelo—I'm just little old me. Still, I tried. I treated the fabric with respect, working to reveal the potential that was already there. I did it with my own two hands.

Here, it's like thousands of hands passed this piece back and forth between them, treating the fabric as a simple tool. Like an assignment they had to complete. Like…

Like it has no soul.

I feel a pang of pain for my creation. Stolen or not, it deserved better than that.

I'm so caught up in my thoughts, I almost don't notice the tenth model walking out. Gasps rise from the crowd, a thousand murmurs at once.

"Is the dress torn on purpose?"

"What a strange bodice!"

"My God, are those… guns ?"

I lift my gaze, and there it is.

Ripped hems. Pure white tulle. Pitch black Kevlar.

And two Kalashnikovs poised to strike.

The model is a slim thing, blonde and petite—the closest thing I've seen tonight to a Petra-like figure. It's uncanny—almost like they knew.

But they didn't. If I had to guess, I'd say they picked the most innocent-looking model of the bunch to maximize contrast with the veritable armory she's currently carrying. It's a brilliant choice—she has the kind of dollface that wouldn't look out of place in a group of Girl Scouts, like she's never had a single bad thought. Her arms are so delicate, they look like they might break from the strain.

Except that they don't. The model keeps marching on, threatening the crowd with her huge props, as if to say: Look at me. I'm ready to go to war.

God, I really hope they're props.

"That's…"

"Your dress," Matvey whispers in my ear. "Good job."

I melt all over. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Name it."

"Pinch me. Like, right n— ow !"

Unsurprisingly, the pain sparks from my ass. Of course he'd aim there. "Feeling awake yet?" Matvey teases.

I stare at my dress strutting down a world-class runway, the tenth of ten finalists. I listen to the crowd go wild. I watch the model carry that mountain of torn tulle like a princess answering a call to arms halfway through the happiest day of her life.

"Yeah," I murmur in a daze. "Yeah, I think I am."

And I'm never going back to sleep.

"You realize they also have water, right?"

"Yes," I gasp, then down the third champagne flute in a row. Not because I'm celebrating early—because I'm losing my freaking mind. "Thanks for the tip."

My dress made it to the top ten. My dress. Something I made!

In forty-eight hours , my anxiety reminds me. Good luck making the cut with that , champ!

When I reach for my fourth bubbly, Matvey swipes it right out of my hand. "Hey!" I protest. "I was drinking that."

"Not anymore, you're not."

I make a grab for it, but he's already dumped it in the potted plant behind him. "That was my liquid courage," I pout.

"That was a pounding headache tomorrow morning."

"That's Future April's problem."

He rolls his eyes, but there's unmistakable fondness there. "You can't give your acceptance speech drunk."

"Ha-ha. ‘Acceptance speech.' You're hilarious."

"I fail to see what's so funny."

I steal a devilled egg from a passing tray. My stomach's in knots, but I've read somewhere they were good for hangovers. Wait, was that raw eggs? I can't remember. I can barely remember my own name right now.

"Acceptance speeches are for winners."

"You sound awfully confident that you won't win."

"It's not that. It's just that I've already girlbossed too close to the sun. Time to get back down to Earth, Icarus." I tap myself on the head just to make sure the message gets through.

"You're already drunk, aren't you?"

"Yes— No . Maybe? You pick."

Honestly, I could get drunker. This is barely taking the edge off. I can still feel my anxiety gnawing at me like some starved squirrel. Which is weird, ‘cause I'm pretty sure it's the one emotion I constantly keep fed.

"April."

"It's just…" I sigh. "I don't want to get my hopes up. Isn't it enough that I got this far?"

Even as I'm saying it, I know it's a lie. Of course it's not enough. Whoever says, "It's an honor just to be nominated" is a bold-faced Pinocchio.

Who could possibly be happy with second place when first place exists?

When first place gets you a full ride to the Mallard Institute?

"No," Matvey says predictably. "And you don't believe that, either."

He's right, but I'm not going to give him the satisfaction. "Mm." Still, when his hand finds mine, I squeeze it with all I have.

"Everyone, please gather to the main stage," the announcer calls.

"Moment of truth," I murmur.

We gather. Take our seats. The curtain slowly rises. Only three pieces can make it to the podium—and we won't know the placements until the last moment.

"The first piece to make it to the final round is…" the announcer pauses dramatically. "‘Mermaid Dream' by Anton Gutierrez!"

No surprises there. I clap along as a young man with gold eyeliner climbs onto the platform, bowing in thanks to the crowd.

"Next up, we have…" Metaphorical drumroll. "‘Daphne' by Anne Flowers-Le Blanc!"

My nails dig into my palm. I'm prepared to lose tonight, but there's one thing I won't stand for: Anne claiming the grand prize with my design. Flawed execution or not, the idea still belongs to me.

If I have to watch my father's replacement family steal another dream right out of my hands…

"Breathe," Matvey whispers, squeezing my hand tight. "There's still one more."

I force myself to do as he says: Breathe in, breathe out . "I'm glad you're here," I whisper back, voice almost cracking.

"I'm not going anywhere."

That finally calms me down. Even if tonight ends up a disappointment—even if I lose my dream all over again—I'll still have something I didn't have last time.

My family by my side.

"Thank you," I breathe.

"And finally…"

I resign myself. There's no way he'll say my name. Oh, well. I had a good run.

"‘The Bulletproof Bride' by April Flowers!"

Wait, what?

"April," Matvey shakes me by the shoulder. "That's you. Go."

"But—"

"Go," he repeats, then pushes me to the front of the crowd.

For a second, I can only blink around. Anne's face is a mask of disgust, as if the idea of sharing the same podium with me repels her.

That's the last push I need: I make my bow and take my place.

My rightful place.

Calm down, I tell myself. You've made it to the top three, but there's still no guarantee. Don't dream too big.

But what's the point of dreaming small? "And the winner is…"

I can do this , I start chanting in my head for the first time in my life. I'm here. I can win this. I can be good enough.

And even if I'm not…

In my anxiety, I see the announcer's lips move, but miss the actual words entirely. It's like all my blood is sloshing around in my ears right now. All I hear is the roar of my racing heart.

Who won?

Then I see it. There, in the crowd, one dot in a sea of clapping hands…

Matvey. My Matvey.

And he's grinning.

"Oh my God," I murmur.

The mermaid dress guy pushes me forward with a chuckle. I almost trip and fall, but I manage to right myself at the last second. The crowd's laughing now, but it doesn't feel like they're laughing at me.

It feels like they're laughing with me.

"Congratulations, Ms. Flowers," someone in a suit says. "We look forward to having you here."

It's like a scene from a movie: just like that, I'm handed a cartoonishly giant check. The crowd's applause is a dull roar, the judges nodding approvingly from their dais. Nora's seething, and I can't imagine Anne's much happier behind me. Admiration, envy, irritation—whatever the emotion behind it, everyone's looking at me now. All of them.

But I only have eyes for one.