Show after high stakes frantic show for top designers around the world, running from city to city, country to country like a nomad, working close to eighty hours a week, with no time for a personal life or the deep commitments she’d wanted—the stress of it had taken its toll on her.
Of course, she’d partied in the beginning—partied hard with the heady freedom of a sixteen-year-old who’d found the world at her feet—but over the years the vacuous, often cutthroat glamor of it all had paled and she’d become more and more unhappy.
Photographers who’d once loved working with her had started calling her fractious, restless, the second she hadn’t been performing to perfection. She’d been turning up late for fitting appointments, finding a myriad of excuses. Once she’d arrived late and covered in glitter and hair spray from a previous show, minutes before she was due to walk, the stress of running across the city during fashion week making her nauseous. Making her want to run away from the sea of frantic strangers surrounding her.
That particular evening, she’d confided in Javier that her heart just wasn’t in it anymore.
The creep had mocked her. From there, their argument had spiraled into a complete destruction of their relationship, the only place it had left to go. Only then had she realized she didn’t want to be with Javier. He had become another crutch.
And then she’d learned the appalling facts about the working conditions of the cosmetics company she represented. Horrified, Alex had scathingly criticized the company in an interview and quit the contract on the spot.
It had been a hotheaded, more than reckless, move. Her agent had blasted her—she was gathering too much ill will in an industry where reputation meant everything. Even the warning hadn’t been enough to make her care.
She’d had enough. So she had run off to Bali and ended up marrying the first man who’d shown an interest in her.
Seen like that, the picture of her that emerged didn’t look good.
Now, while she stood like a mannequin with her arms stretched out, her face upturned for a makeup artist to dab highlighter onto her cheeks, Alex looked at her reflection in the mirror under the overhead lights and smiled.
Relief was a river gushing through her insides.
God, she was so done with this.
Only a few minutes to the show and backstage was packed with people, all to ensure a fabulous show. She was totally aware of the strange looks she’d been getting from all of them, ever since she’d arrived.
Gossip was the backbone of the fashion industry, and she’d no doubt her stunt with the cosmetics company, her subsequent absence for the last few months and her sudden reappearance now were the hot topics of discussion.
She felt free, as if a weight had been lifted, as she shrugged on a sheer, lacy, red cover-up and moved to join the line of models about to go on.
Someone sidled up to the producer, Isha, who was one of Alex’s few friends in the industry, and a heated argument ensued. All heads turned to them as both women bent their head over a seating arrangement.
Alex sidled up to her friend in the wings and enveloped her in a side hug, being extra careful as to not smudge her makeup or even breathe the wrong way. “Everything okay?”
“Some big bajillionaire VIP has shown up, unannounced, at the last minute, and his team of assistants wants a front row seat for him, of course. Even the crazy genius that is Jean Benoit,” she said, mentioning the designer whose collection they were showing off, “doesn’t want to get on this man’s wrong side. They’re all turning themselves inside out figuring out where to put him.
“Apparently, he’s here to see one of the models.”
Alex felt a flutter of alarm in her chest. It had been a fortnight since Vincenzo and she had butted heads, then agreed to a plan. Since they both had super busy schedules, they’d barely seen each other since. It suited her just fine, even though she knew the logistics of their deal would come at her soon enough like a freight train.
Suddenly, Alex understood how a hunted animal felt. “Any idea who it is?”
Isha shook her head. “Focus on the show, Alex.”
The flutter morphed into a full-blown panic attack. “Isha, just tell me.”
“It’s the same Italian businessman—the reclusive owner of that international brokerage firm who’s been in the media spotlight the past week. It was leaked that he’s related to the Brunettis of Milan, which is why he’s been going after them. Apparently, he’s the secret illegitimate son of the old coot, Silvio. His name’s…”
“Vincenzo Cavalli,” Alex added, her insides turning into spaghetti. Her heart thumped with a dizzying excitement, and it had nothing to do with the high she usually associated with doing a show.
Alex squared her shoulders and strutted out onto the catwalk, wondering how apt the song blaring out of the speakers was.
Something about bad girls living fast and burning out.
She had to be if she wanted to change the mind of the man sitting in the middle seat of the front row, eating her alive with those penetrating gray eyes.
Too late to back out now that she’d made a deal with the devil.
* * *
Vincenzo threw back the last bit of his whiskey and walked up the curving designer staircase onto the balcony that offered a bird’s-eye view of the latest nonstop party central that was the nightclub he’d launched recently.
Seeing the final product tonight, when it had been the ruins of an old, abandoned train depot not long ago, filled him with an immense satisfaction.
The secret nightclub—not so secret anymore now that the high fashion crowd of Milan had discovered it—was bustling with people from the show. Hip-hop music blared through the loudspeakers, while bartenders delighted the crowds with colorful cocktails.
But even with purple strobe lights flashing on and off from
