The room hushed with anticipation as the music changed from Latin to symphony. A large spotlight drenched us in golden rays.
My heart rate exploded as I took the model’s hand, flashing her a quick smile. Her cascading blonde hair glittered with gold plaited in the strands.
We matched perfectly in height—deliberately placed together for ultimate impact. Gliding forward in thousand dollar shoes, we walked the final stretch.
My black ensemble set off the gold, yellow, and burnt orange of her layers upon layers. She looked like crackling embers and fire where I was the coal from which she sprang. We were the sunset of the show. The darlings of Milan.
Hushed silence. Bright lights. Immense concentration to stay on my feet.
The rest became a blur. There were no trips, or wobbles, or rushes of horror. Cameras clicked, praise murmured, and then it was over.
A year of hard work wrapped up in a two hour runway show.
The end of the platform became a sea of petals and strewn flowers full of accolades. Our coal and fire presence swallowed camera flashes, welcoming greedy eyes to stare.
Ten minutes I stood and drowned in praise. Vertigo hobbled my body as my gaze landed on my father and brother. They knew this part was the hardest for me. They knew my heart strummed fast and sickness rolled. Stress never sat well with my system.
Vertigo was hard to diagnose, but moments like these—where the madness of the past year culminated with yet more deadlines on the horizon—I recognised every symptom of wobbliness and fading vision. I felt drunk…I wanted to be drunk—even though I hadn’t had liquor in seven years.
Swallowing the lightheadedness, I waved and bowed and smiled before hitting my limit. Gritting my teeth, I almost fell down the steps at the front of the runway right into Vaughn’s arms.
He scooped me up, giving me a firm balanced form to clutch to. “Breathe through it. It’ll pass.”
Shaking my head, I blinked, chasing away the fear in my blood and weakness of an incurable illness. “I’m okay. Just let me go for a second.”
He did as I asked, giving me space. The crowd stayed behind their small barricade letting me suck in much needed oxygen. My phone buzzed again and this time…I couldn’t ignore it.
Pulling it from my ruffled, feathered cleavage, I unlocked the screen and indulged.
Kite007: Haven’t had a message from you in a couple of days. If you don’t send one immediately, I might have to track down your name and location and come and spank you.
My stomach flipped at the threat. He’d never insinuated a meeting…not after my bungle of asking him out and his blatant refusal.
Kite007: Still no reply. If threats of physical harm won’t make you respond, perhaps the mental visualisation of me stroking myself while reading some of your old messages will persuade you to.
My core clenched. He’d pleasured himself while thinking of me? A stranger touching himself shouldn’t give me such a thrill.
Kite007: My Naughty Nun, I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’ve disgraced myself by coming all over my hand at the thought of you naked and smeared in chocolate. Hope you’re happy.
“What are you reading?” Vaughn peered over my shoulder.
My cheeks flamed and I wiped the screen of evidence that despite his and my father’s best intentions, I’d managed to find a man interested in talking sex with me. I couldn’t wait to be in private to respond. Kite seemed more…open. Maybe we could talk about real things and not just dirt.
“Nothing.”
Vaughn scowled, then a large grin brightened his face. “Guess how many orders?”
My brain couldn’t switch from wanting desperately to respond to Kite to normal conversation. “Orders?”
He threw his hands up. “Seriously! Your collection. Sometimes I worry about you, Threads.” Still grinning, he added, “Your Fire and Coal collection has orders from all major retail chains in Europe and America, and the couture line is currently in a bidding war for exclusivity between a London boutique and Paris.” He bounced with happiness—infecting me with energy. “I told you this was your break. You’ve cemented your name. Nila will be worn by celebrities around the world at their red-carpet premieres.”
He lowered his voice. “You’re your own, sister. You’re more than just a Weaver. You’re you, and I’m so damn proud of what you’ve achieved.” Twin intuition had always been strong—showing just how much he understood without me ever having to voice it.
Tears sprang to my eyes. Vaughn didn’t get sentimental often, so his praise was a well-placed dagger in my self-control. This time I couldn’t stop the smile breaking through my defences or my heart glowing with accomplishment. “Thank you, V. That means—”
“Nila.”
I spun around to face my father. Instead of the grin and look of love I expected, he stood cold and fierce. My stomach tensed, sensing something was wrong. So, so wrong. It was the same look he got whenever he thought of Mum. The same look I’d grown accustomed to hating and running from.
“Dad…what—” He wasn’t alone. My eyes trailed from my father’s pressed tux toward the tall, svelte man beside him.
Holy hell, who on earth...
Thoughts died like windless kites, littering my mind with silent dumbness. He was a stranger. But I felt as if I’d seen him before. He was a mystery. But I sensed I already knew everything about him. Two extremes…two confusions.