The venue was already humming when Eliana arrived at 6AM, hair pulled into a sleek low bun, clipboard in one hand, triple-shot coffee in the other. The floor smelled like fresh paint and panic. Giant light rigs swung overhead. Chairs were being lined. Models were still yawning. And Luca?
Luca was already floating across the chaos like a couture ghost in head-to-toe black, yelling instructions in French to someone who definitely didn't speak it.
"Eliana, love of my life, please tell me my pearl-stitched chiffon gown is still alive."
"It's steamed, pressed, and guarded like a national treasure," she said without looking up from the call sheet.
"Bless you. Marry me. I'll give you a yacht."
"We don't have time for a honeymoon."
He kissed her temple and spun away.
—
Backstage was a war zone of glitter, nerves, and body tape.
Someone lost a heel. Another cried because their lashes fell off. The male model in Look 9 refused to walk unless his eyebrows were bleached "properly." Luca was threatening to walk barefoot himself if someone didn't find the correct sash.
Eliana? She was everywhere.
Pinning, steaming, adjusting, taping a model's nipple shield back into place. She kept her smile clipped in place like a brooch, even when her heart wasn't in it.
Nicky hadn't texted.
Not a "good luck." Not a "you'll kill it."Nothing.
And she told herself it didn't matter.That she had a show to run.That the ache in her chest was just caffeine withdrawal.
Liam found her mid-chaos, smirking, hair perfectly messy, wearing a headset like he was born to command a runway.
"You look terrifyingly hot when you're in boss mode."
She snorted. "Tell that to my back pain."
He offered her water. "Fifteen minutes till showtime. Luca's doing a pre-run meditation-slash-prayer-slash-diva rant. Want me to keep you from passing out?"
"Please."
And he did.
For the next fifteen minutes, Liam became her shield. Distracting her. Teasing her. Making her laugh with commentary on the VIP front row: "That's the editor who called Luca a manic unicorn last season. Be nice or she'll tank us."
She was grateful.But not whole.
Then the lights dimmed.The music started.
And magic happened.
The first model stepped onto the runway in liquid silver silk, trailing shadow and starlight. Then another. And another.Each look—strong, dreamy, defiant.Luca's world, born and breathing.
Eliana stood in the wings, holding her clipboard like it could steady her heartbeat.
She'd seen these clothes a hundred times—on racks, in mirrors, pinned and unpinned—but nothing compared to this.
This was the moment.This was art.
Even Luca stilled beside her, eyes gleaming as his soul strutted down that runway, worn by gods and captured by flashing cameras.
She didn't cry.Not really.Just a little.The good kind.
She caught Liam smiling at her from the other side of the curtain.
And for a moment—it was enough.
When the final model took her bow, when the lights flashed gold and applause cracked through the air like thunder, Luca stepped out.Graceful. Sharp. Radiant.He bowed, waved, blew a kiss to the audience like a true star.
Then he turned, eyes locking with hers, and mouthed:
"We did it."
And she smiled. Wide. Real. Aching.
But when the lights came back on, and the chaos of congratulations began, her phone buzzed once.
A name she hadn't seen in days.
Nicky: Show looked amazing. Proud of you.
Her breath caught.
One text.
Too late.Too soft.And yet it lit up every part of her she wished would stay dark.