Chapter Eight

Rina

london, united kingdom

Countdown to show: 45 minutes

Not everyone was so lucky to have their dreams come true; some people worked their entire lives to get nowhere. That was why I’d practically clawed my way to where I was now. I wasn’t going to let that be my fate.

It didn’t help that the fashion industry was especially cut-throat. I’d heard everything you could imagine while working my way up.

Quit while you’re ahead.

It’s not going to get any easier.

Not everyone makes it.

You may not have what it takes.

No one would blame you if you went back to where you came from.

The big break you’re looking for may not be in your future.

Don’t worry, you can always be a model, you’re pretty enough.

It was all always there, in my head, taunting me, but today it became background noise. Because today I was officially standing behind the scenes at my very own presentation in London. That was right, I was presenting my designs to the media, buyers, and the public. All the haters could bite my butt. Hard. I got farther than most people did and definitely farther than people thought I would. And in record time. So they could take their commentary and cruel words and stick it where the sun didn’t shine.

I was presenting designs from my new Spring/Summer collection.

In case you missed it, I didn’t do anything in a small way, so this collection was going to feel like a sucker punch—like it came out of nowhere.

One year ago, I’d launched my namesake luxury ready-to-wear and accessories brand. With a refreshing blend of bold femininity and modern sophistication, my designs were defined by asymmetrical lines, glamorous prints, and impeccable tailoring.

I was proud of everything I’d accomplished, but showing during fashion week was the next step. I wasn’t looking to take baby steps, but make big, bold leaps, so it felt only right. And choosing to make my debut in London was not happenstance.

I chose London.

Well, I supposed you could say London chose me.

I’d wanted to debut where self-expression, creativity, and confidence were next level. Where looking hot didn’t matter, but what was truly coveted was looking the most intriguing, the boldest. That was London.

And the fashion council had been nothing but supportive of me since I’d applied.

So, yes, this was my first presentation as a fashion designer, and let me tell you—it was no easy feat. I was well aware of how lucky I was, and the immense amount of time, energy, and money I put into this presentation to get here was a stark reminder.

Although, I knew that this could be make-or-break for my career. I wasn’t even being melodramatic, that was just the hard truth. This industry wasn’t forgiving, and it certainly didn’t forget.

Not wanting to focus on any of that, though, I took a deep, fortifying breath in as I steeped in the chaos surrounding me. The models were still being styled and getting their hair and makeup done.

“Excuse me,” a woman said as she bumped into me, a bottle of hairspray in one hand and a comb in the other. She rushed past me to get to a model who waited in a chair, a makeup artist standing in front of her as another finished putting the model’s hair up in an elegant French twist.

A man breezed past me next, then another, then a woman, then a tall model, then another man. All right, you get the picture, it was like a circus. But I loved it, every single second of it.

“This is all for me,” I spoke to myself as I let my eyes dart every which way, taking it all in one last time before turning on my heel to leave.

As I did, though, I all but ran into Stefan Becker—fashion designer, trend-setter, and the one man who’d given me my start, plucking me from New York and quite literally taking me under his wing. As far as looks went, he wasn’t too bad on the eyes, either, with his nearly six-foot height, dark brown hair that always had this tousled look, and brown eyes that were like pools of chocolate you could swim in. That all came second to his brain, though. He was a genius, no two ways about it. Although, his wife of ten years, a former model, would probably argue his attractiveness came in first place.

“Rina,” he greeted me with a warm smile, bringing his hands to my shoulders and leaning down to give me air-kisses on either side of my face. “Mwah, mwah,” he said with each kiss, which I returned, of course.

He leaned back and took a good, long look at me. “Beautiful!” he exclaimed. “Are you sure you’re the designer and not one of the models?”

I rolled my eyes and smacked my lips. “You’re going to make me blush.” Then I exhaled the deepest breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding. It was the nerves. “Which probably wouldn’t be the worst thing, since it would bring some color to my cheeks. I’m pale, aren’t I?” Without him answering, I began freaking out. “Of course I am, because I’m sort of going crazy over here. I can’t believe this is finally happening and now that it is, I think I need a paper bag.” It was like seeing him made this all so much more real. The butterflies in my stomach needed to stop moving. For. One. Second.

He crossed his arms and gave me that don’t-even-go-there look I knew all too well. “You’ve worked too hard to get here to mess it all up with nerves.”

“I know,” I agreed and closed my eyes as I took another fortifying breath before opening them again. “I wouldn’t have gotten this far without you, though. Sure, I’ve been on my own for a year now, but I won’t ever forget how I got here. You made me what I am.”

“Sweetheart,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Two years with you was nothing. It was in you when you came to me, I just showed you the way.”

I shook my head. He needed to know the truth. “You pulled me from a horrible situation in New York where I was hitting the pavement every day and getting nowhere.”

“Until you did,” he said, a smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eye.

“Until I did.”

He sighed. “To think, you’ve gone from Rina Blum, my protégé, to Rina Levana, designer, who is about to show her new collection at London Fashion Week. You’ll be among some greats who debuted here,” he pointed out. But he wasn’t saying anything I hadn’t already thought of.

Meanwhile, I didn’t think I’d ever not smile at my new surname. See, the thing was Rina Blum no longer suited me. Blum was droll, it was mundane. It was poor. It was fine for the girl from Minnesota, but it no longer suited me .

So yes, Rina Blum was as good as dead. She was a nobody, someone people saw as a doormat, a woman who wasn’t worth much and came from even less. Here was a for instance, so you knew what I was talking about: when I’d first started working with Stefan, a man from his team asked me to “fetch his coffee.” That was Rina Blum.

But I’d taken back my dignity and became who I was today—Rina Levana.

Levana just fit better. It signified how far I’d come and my new life, my fresh start.

Shaking my head, I pushed all those thoughts of the past where they belonged—to the back of my mind. “And I can’t thank you enough. But don’t you have your own show to be getting ready for?”

Stefan had a catwalk at a well-known theatre tomorrow night and it promised to be the event of the week. He’d always gone all out for fashion week, and this one was no different, because, hello, look at the venue he’d selected. It didn’t get more extraordinary than that.

He shook his head. “Today is all about you. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”

* * *

Countdown to show: 20 minutes

When it was time for the models to get dressed, I snuck away for a second to slip into my sheer lace black dress. Paired with black leather ankle boots and an oversized faux chinchilla fur coat, it made the exact statement I was going for— look at me .

Until this point, I hadn’t allowed myself to be photographed. I’d wanted my worldwide debut as Rina Levana to coincide with that of my designs.

I’d waited a long time for this moment, and it felt good to finally be here.

With a final glance in the mirror and swipe of a blush brush across my cheeks, I spun on my heel. I was ready.

Nothing and no one could ruin this moment for me.

* * *

Countdown to show: 5 minutes

All around me were models, hair stylists, makeup artists, stylists, photographers, and, of course, my team.

Cameras were clicking non-stop, so much so that it became background noise. I barely noticed the cameras until I all but ran into a guy holding one. “Sorry! Sorry!” he yelled, because the dramatic music that had begun playing out front was deafening.

“Rina!” I heard my name being called from the front of the line the models were forming.

Just as I began walking over there, though, I heard, “Rina!” from another direction and then, “Rina, this is all wrong!” from somewhere else.

Geez, everyone needed to hold their horses because I couldn’t very well make carbon copies of myself. But this was what I had a staff for. “Paula!” I called. When I saw her head pop into view, I pointed to one of the people who needed my help. “Assist there?” Then I called for, “Sandy!” I didn’t know where she came from, but she appeared right behind me. “Over there.” I pointed to a corner.

There was no time to take a deep breath like I wanted, so I just continued, walking to the woman I was eyeing since she called my name. Finally, I made my presence known. “The lip color is all wrong.” The makeup artist didn’t question me, only brought out two new shades for me to choose from. I shooed them both away and placed a hand on my chin, thinking. “We need a darker lip with a lighter liner. What we have doesn’t make the look come together nicely, but that will.”

She nodded and did as I instructed. I couldn’t stay to see the result, though, just having to go with my gut (as I did most times in this industry) because I was already being called elsewhere.

“Rina, the sleeve ripped,” one of the women said in a panic, on the verge of tears.

I rolled my lips together. “Don’t you dare cry,” I ordered. “We don’t have time for that. Let’s just go with the flow here. Maybe it’s for the best, right? Let’s get rid of the sleeves and make it look intentional.”

“But this dress,” she started, her voice shaking, “won’t look good sleeveless.”

My head snapped to her and I gave her a say-that-again look. She didn’t dare say anything else. Instead of saying another word, I simply clutched the sleeve in my hands and yanked, tearing it off completely. Then I did the same with the other one. “Yes, that’ll do.”

Before leaving, I yelled, “The show must go on!” and it was for anyone who needed to hear it. Including myself, to be honest.

I wanted to live in the moment and truly remember this for what it was—a miracle that it was even happening. To me, I meant. There had been a point in my life when I didn’t think it would, but I never gave up, and I’d quite literally given up everything I had to make this one dream (my biggest dream) a reality. So everything—and I meant everything—needed to be perfect.

Click. Click. Click. Cameras went off rapid fire.

“Oh, my sweet girl!” I heard my mother’s distinct accent.

Yael Blum was a strong woman, a woman who was not to be ignored, so of course I turned to her. And if you thought I was wrong, then let me tell you what she was wearing—my new signature leopard print trench and black leather knee-high boots—and she looked fabulous for a woman her age. My mother might have had all her dreams crushed, but she was still a woman of grandeur, and it was apparent.

“Mom,” I gushed, “you’re a vision in that.” I leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I hope you’re telling everyone who stops you who you’re wearing.”

At one time we had been a spitting image of one another, but not anymore. See, she still had shoulder-length blonde hair, but I had dyed my hair red and cut it into a layered bob with side swept bangs that had a deep side part. Not to boast or anything, but it looked fantastic when I blow-dried it. Most importantly, it suited the new me.

She arched a brow and took off her black gloves, placing them in her purse. “What do you think? Of course I’m telling everyone this design is my very talented daughter’s.” She sighed and pursed her nude-colored lips. “Rina, this”—she looked around, her eyes watering—“this is what I’ve always wanted for you.”

“I know, Mom,” I answered, proud of how far I’d come, too. I smiled at her. “This is all because of you, you know.”

She shook her head and closed her eyes momentarily. “No, this is all because of you.” She enunciated that last part, widening her eyes. “I gave you your start in New York, but you got here because of your drive and tireless dedication.”

“Rina!” The sound of my name being called had my gaze darting elsewhere.

Whoever it was, didn’t they know I was sharing a moment with my mother?

A man walked over to us with a model. “Rina,” he said my name again, though he didn’t need to because he clearly already had my attention.

I blinked when I really saw the model. “Why is she wearing glasses?” I asked, pointing to her.

She opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by the stylist, who explained, “Her contact ripped and someone didn’t bring a back-up pair”—he turned and gave her a pointed look—“but the glasses hide the smokey eyes.”

And the eyes drew the whole look together. This one was going for a contemporary mob wife aesthetic—black fur-trimmed top, black leather mini skirt, and snakeskin heeled boots. Glasses destroyed that.

Did no one here have vision?

I let my eyes roam over the outfit once more and then back at her glasses. “You know what, it’s okay,” I decided. “She’s contemporary. At least they’re black frames, so they don’t look that bad. With her dark hair, it actually looks quite good.”

The model nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”

What I wanted to say: don’t thank me, you idiot . But I bit my tongue.

Meanwhile, the stylist rolled his eyes and pointed to the line of models. “Go stand over there.” As she walked away, he turned back to me, and gave me a sympathetic look. “Thank you, Rina. One wrong thing and—”

“I know,” I cut him off, holding up a hand. I didn’t need him to say what had been on my mind since the very start of this day.

Giving me a curt nod, he walked away and left me alone with my mother again, who was staring at me, bewilderment in her eyes. “What?” I asked, chuckling. “What’s that look for?”

She placed a hand on my back and steered me to the line, leading me to the curtain. She pulled it back slightly, and whispered in my ear, “This is all for you.”

I looked around at the guests—some with my pamphlet in their hands, taking their seats, others enjoying a beverage I had being served. Then there were some who had their heads buried in their phones, and others still looking around, waiting for the presentation to start. This was it, I thought to myself.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see who needed me now. A cameraman.

“We’d like to get some pictures with you and the models,” he told me.

“Absolutely!”

I walked with him to where he’d already had about half a dozen of my models waiting for me. “You’ll go in the middle,” he instructed.

I did as he asked, smiling as we got into position.

Click, click.

I didn’t think life could get much better than this.

Click, click, click.

“All right!” he called out. “We’re good to go.”

“Showtime!” someone shouted. “Everyone in position!”

Rina Levana “Delightfully Criminal” Collection

In a world where trends come and go, style is left in its wake. That zest for style is at the heart of Rina Levana “Delightfully Criminal” Spring/Summer collection.

Think fringe mini dresses that make you feel liberated yet sexy, lighter fur pieces and trims for mixed textures that were made to strut down the streets, low V backs, embellishments and jewels that shine as bright as you.

Taking inspiration from the most popular fashion choices from generations before, this collection revitalizes those looks while making use of contemporary elements. Incorporating a dark palette of black, brown, and charcoal, the pieces draw the eye as they are attention-seeking and bold. Leather and animal print have been utilized as they are reminiscent of confident girl energy.

This collection is about more than clothes, it’s about being fiercely and unapologetically yourself—the very definition of a Rina Levana wearer.