Fashion Week was war.But Luca was its general.
"NO! The bow goes on the ass, not the spleen—do people even HAVE spleen bows?!" he shrieked, practically levitating across the backstage area as Eliana chased after him, headset on, clipboard clutched like a weapon.
"Model 7 needs water and Model 3 is still crying about the nipple tape—" she called.
Luca didn't look back. "Tell her to weep faster. Tears are IN this season."
Eliana pivoted, spun, shouted at someone to fix the hem, adjusted a cuff, waved at the photographers, barked at the intern about steamers and double-sided tape—and then ran into a rack of gowns that looked like rainstorms had fallen in love with diamonds.
And this?
Was only rehearsal.
The real show was in four hours.
Her feet were bleeding in heels she hadn't taken off in 11 hours. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep. Her stomach was filled with espresso and fear.
And yet—She lived for this.
The energy. The tension. The art in motion. Watching weeks of chaos crystallize into ten minutes of absolute, skin-prickling beauty.
This was her world.
And she ruled it.
The actual show exploded.
Lights dimmed. Music pulsed. The crowd roared in approval as one model after another tore down the runway in Luca's fever dream of a collection: silk structured like armor, leather stitched with poetry, lace and metal married into sin.
Eliana didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
She was backstage, holding it all together with pins, glue, hope, and the fury of a woman who hadn't come in three days and was definitely not thinking about Nicky.
Until—
He arrived.
"Your court's here," someone muttered in her headset, and Eliana turned just in time to see them walk in.
Renee in something sheer and criminal.Valeria glowing like a goddess in a blood-red corset gown.Elias shirt half-open, drink already in hand.And at the center—
Nicky.
She stopped breathing.
He was in a floor-length structured dress, black and sharp and molten. His shoulders bare, his clavicle glistening. A platinum-blonde wig swept to one side, long and clean.Makeup smoked to hell. Lips a bruise. Heels tall.And a smirk like he already knew what it was doing to her.
Her knees buckled.
"Oh my God," she whispered.
Because it didn't matter what he wore.Suit. Gown. Crop top. Tuxedo.She wanted him in all of it.
His beauty was unfair.
He caught her staring.
Tilted his head.
Blew her a kiss.
She melted.
After the final look tore down the runway, after Luca cried into someone's shoulder screaming, "WE MADE FASHION ART, BITCH!", after the standing ovation, after the confetti cannons, Eliana stood in the shadows of the curtains with her heart in her throat.
And Nicky walked up to her, slower now, heels clicking on the concrete floor like a countdown.
"El," he said softly, eyes drinking her in.
Her mouth went dry.
"You look…" she tried. "Jesus."
He arched a brow. "That bad?"
"No. That—good. Like. Ruinous."
He smirked. "Takes one to know one."
She stared. "What does that mean?"
"Means you look like you could end me in those heels."
She nearly whimpered.
The Afterparty
They all spilled into a rooftop club hours later.
It was velvet and glass, candles flickering on low tables, champagne towers and bass thumping under every inch of Eliana's skin.
Designers. Models. Celebrities. Art kids. Editors.
And them.
Her friends.
Nicky still in the dress. His wig now loose. Glitter smudged under one eye. Even more dangerous.
Renee was on the bar dancing.
Elias was on his fourth cocktail, flirting with someone in leather boots.
Valeria was in the corner, whispering to a Vogue photographer with a voice like sex and scandal.
And Eliana?
Eliana was pretending to breathe.
Because the heat hadn't left her.
Because her thighs still clenched every time she looked at him.
Because her body was aching and her heart was stupid and she didn't know how much longer she could pretend.
And Nicky?
He didn't stop touching her.
A hand on her lower back.A brush of his thigh against hers on the velvet booth.A lean-in to say, "You were flawless tonight," his lips barely grazing her cheek.
Every touch was fire.
Every look a loaded gun.
And she was going to combust.
Tonight.
Somehow.
Some way.
She knew it.