Page 27 of Say It Isn't So

And the fashion council had been nothing but supportive of me since I’d applied.

So, yes, this was my first presentation as a fashion designer, and let me tell you—it was no easy feat. I was well aware of how lucky I was, and the immense amount of time, energy, and money I put into this presentation to get here was a stark reminder.

Although, I knew that this could be make-or-break for my career. I wasn’t even being melodramatic, that was just the hard truth. This industry wasn’t forgiving, and it certainly didn’t forget.

Not wanting to focus on any of that, though, I took a deep, fortifying breath in as I steeped in the chaos surrounding me. The models were still being styled and getting their hair and makeup done.

“Excuse me,” a woman said as she bumped into me, a bottle of hairspray in one hand and a comb in the other. She rushed past me to get to a model who waited in a chair, a makeup artist standing in front of her as another finished putting the model’s hair up in an elegant French twist.

A man breezed past me next, then another, then a woman, then a tall model, then another man. All right, you get the picture, it was like a circus. But I loved it, every single second of it.

“This is all for me,” I spoke to myself as I let my eyes dart every which way, taking it all in one last time before turning on my heel to leave.

As I did, though, I all but ran into Stefan Becker—fashion designer, trend-setter, and the one man who’d given me my start, plucking me from New York and quite literally taking me under his wing. As far as looks went, he wasn’t too bad on the eyes, either, with his nearly six-foot height, dark brown hair that always had this tousled look, and brown eyes that were like pools of chocolate you could swim in. That all came second to his brain, though. He was a genius, no two ways about it. Although, his wife of ten years, a former model, would probably argue his attractiveness came in first place.

“Rina,” he greeted me with a warm smile, bringing his hands to my shoulders and leaning down to give me air-kisses on either side of my face. “Mwah, mwah,” he said with each kiss, which I returned, of course.

He leaned back and took a good, long look at me. “Beautiful!” he exclaimed. “Are you sure you’re the designer and not one of the models?”

I rolled my eyes and smacked my lips. “You’re going to make me blush.” Then I exhaled the deepest breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding. It was the nerves. “Which probably wouldn’t be the worst thing, since it would bring some color to my cheeks. I’m pale, aren’t I?” Without him answering, I began freaking out. “Of course I am, because I’m sort of going crazy over here. I can’t believe this is finally happening and now that it is, I think I need a paper bag.” It was like seeing him made this all so much more real. The butterflies in my stomach needed to stop moving. For. One. Second.

He crossed his arms and gave me that don’t-even-go-there look I knew all too well. “You’ve worked too hard to get here to mess it all up with nerves.”

“I know,” I agreed and closed my eyes as I took another fortifying breath before opening them again. “I wouldn’t have gotten this far without you, though. Sure, I’ve been on my own for a year now, but I won’t ever forget how I got here. You made me what I am.”

“Sweetheart,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Two years with you was nothing. It was in you when you came to me, I just showed you the way.”

I shook my head. He needed to know the truth. “You pulled me from a horrible situation in New York where I was hitting the pavement every day and getting nowhere.”

“Until you did,” he said, a smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eye.

“Until I did.”

He sighed. “To think, you’ve gone from Rina Blum, my protégé, to Rina Levana, designer, who is about to show her new collection at London Fashion Week. You’ll be among some greats who debuted here,” he pointed out. But he wasn’t saying anything I hadn’t already thought of.

Meanwhile, I didn’t think I’d ever not smile at my new surname. See, the thing was Rina Blum no longer suited me. Blum was droll, it was mundane. It was poor. It was fine for the girl from Minnesota, but it no longer suitedme.

So yes, Rina Blum was as good as dead. She was a nobody, someone people saw as a doormat, a woman who wasn’t worth much and came from even less. Here was a for instance, so you knew what I was talking about: when I’d first started working with Stefan, a man from his team asked me to “fetch his coffee.” That was Rina Blum.

But I’d taken back my dignity and became who I was today—Rina Levana.

Levana just fit better. It signified how far I’d come and my new life, my fresh start.

Shaking my head, I pushed all those thoughts of the past where they belonged—to the back of my mind. “And I can’t thank you enough. But don’t you have your own show to be getting ready for?”

Stefan had a catwalk at a well-known theatre tomorrow night and it promised to be the event of the week. He’d always gone all out for fashion week, and this one was no different, because, hello, look at the venue he’d selected. It didn’t get more extraordinary than that.

He shook his head. “Today is all about you. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”

* * *

Countdown to show: 20 minutes

When it was time for the models to get dressed, I snuck away for a second to slip into my sheer lace black dress. Paired with black leather ankle boots and an oversized faux chinchilla fur coat, it made the exact statement I was going for—look at me.

Until this point, I hadn’t allowed myself to be photographed. I’d wanted my worldwide debut as Rina Levana to coincide with that of my designs.

I’d waited a long time for this moment, and it felt good to finally be here.

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