By Wednesday, she was laughing again.Not the full kind. Not the belly-deep, roll-on-the-floor kind that used to come out when Nicky sent her terrible reels at 1 a.m. or when Elias pretended to be an interpretive dancer on too much wine. But it was still laughter.Tight. Polished. Practiced.But it counted.
And the source?Liam.Fucking Liam.
To be fair, she'd never really given him a chance.She'd always filtered everything he said through a defensive lens: he flirts too much, he's not serious, he just wants attention.Which was… still true.But now that she wasn't waiting on Nicky's texts anymore—now that she had nothing else to fixate on—she realized something dangerous.
Liam was actually kind of fun.
"You always go for the lemon tart," he said that morning during their fifth café run of the week. "It's the pastry equivalent of a middle child with perfectionist tendencies."
"And you always get the hazelnut croissant, which is just a personality disorder wrapped in carbs," she countered, sipping her double espresso.
"Ah," he winked, "so you have been watching me."
She rolled her eyes and didn't bother denying it.
Because here's the thing—if you didn't take Liam seriously, he became strangely tolerable. Even charming. The way he talked with his hands. The way he knew every barista's name. The way he could juggle five bolts of silk, a clipboard, and a chai latte without blinking.
If you ignored the flirty comments, he was just a boy trying to survive Fashion Week like the rest of them.And Eliana?She needed to survive, too.
The office was mayhem.The week before Pre-collection shows always was. Or everyday.Models were changing hair colors at the last minute. Two makeup artists had dropped out. Shipping delays meant Luca's imported custom pearl fringe hadn't arrived, and someone had the audacity to suggest replacing it with standard beadwork.
Luca nearly combusted.
"I will not use faux pearls. I'd rather walk barefoot across shattered glass in a Shein trench coat," he declared to the entire office at 11:17 a.m. on Thursday.
Eliana had to physically remove a spreadsheet from his hand before he turned it into confetti.
She was working nonstop.Meetings. Fittings. Scheduling.And yet—somehow—she kept laughing.She smiled at Liam's terrible pickup lines. She made fun of his handwriting. She let herself live inside the chaos and noise so she didn't have to hear the silence inside her head.
Because that silence still sounded like Nicky.Still felt like the weight of his body.Still smelled like sweat and cologne and something too warm to be platonic.
By Friday, she'd mastered the performance.Bright smiles. Sharp comebacks. High ponytails and red lipstick.
Luca wasn't fooled.
He cornered her between wardrobe racks mid-afternoon, peering at her over his glasses with the same expression he wore when he was deciding whether a sequin was tacky or transcendent.
"You're being very... chipper," he said slowly.
"I'm happy," she lied, adjusting a hanging tag.
"You hate red lipstick," he replied.
"No, I don't."
"You called it 'clown-coded trauma' last month."
She hesitated. Then smiled wider. "Well, maybe I'm rebranding."
Luca didn't blink. "You're pretending."
"No, I'm—"
"You always pretend harder when you're scared."
Her hands stilled.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
He exhaled, then softened. "Look. If you want to run away, just say the word. We'll fake a food allergy. Or a spiritual awakening. Or an ankle injury. I'm versatile."
She laughed, but it cracked around the edges.
"I'm fine, Luca."
"You're not."
"I will be."
Luca didn't push. He never did when she used that voice. Instead, he gently patted her cheek and whispered, "Smile pretty, baby. We've got gowns to steam and lives to ruin."
Later, after the fittings were finally done, and Luca was in a war call with Milan, and Liam had gone to chase down a model who skipped their scheduled rehearsal, Eliana sat alone in the dressing room and let herself exhale.
She was terrified.Not of the show.Not of the deadlines.But of the weekend.
Because the group would be together again.All of them.
And she didn't know how to be near Nicky without remembering. Without feeling.
She didn't know how to sit beside him and pretend his silence didn't make her sick.
She didn't know how to see his smile and wonder if he'd still smile like that if he knew she almost came from just sitting on his lap like a needy, disgusting mess.
So she planned her mask.Red lipstick. Extra blush.More of Liam's jokes.More of her laughter.
She'd pretend harder.Smile prettier.Laugh louder.
Because if she didn't…Someone might see the truth.
And everything—Every thread of fragile friendship and foolish hope—Would unravel.