Page 48 of Omega in Love
"My muse!" he cries, hands flared as if summoning the heavens, his accent thickening with emotion. "Mon dieu, you are more beautiful than even I imagined under the lights. That skin, that walk, that aura!" He practically vibrates, circling me like an artist admiring his masterpiece. "The camera will devour youtonight. I want you in Milan. My Winter line is screaming for you, Brookes. You must. The collection needs your energy, your presence."
"I'll think about it. Talk to Gregory," I say with a tight smile, trying to ground myself amid his enthusiasm. I've learned to navigate these waters, the flattery, the demands, the creative desperation. The backstage area is electric, bodies moving in choreographed chaos, but my heart's steady. I'm ready. This is my element, the eye of the storm where I find my power.
I peek past the divider curtain while Camilla adds final touches to my contour. Through the gap, I can see the press row beginning to fill, cameras being positioned, notebooks at the ready. A smile blossoms on my face instantly, because there, right where I need her, Charlotte sits off to the side in a front-row seat. She's radiant, wearing a gold shimmering maxi dress from one of the plus size designers that no doubt Beaux introduced her to. The fabric catches the light with every breath she takes, making her glow like a beacon among the sea of fashion industry standards. After all of this is said and done, he and I are going to have a chat about all things fashion.
She catches my gaze across the distance, her eyes finding mine unerringly, and nods once with a proud smile, mouthing,you've got this. In that moment, everything else fades away, the noise, the pressure, the lingering fear. My best friend, my sister in all but blood, believing in me when I needed it most.
Music cues.
I'm called.
The first walk happens in a blur. Sharp angles. Fabric swishing. Flashbulbs. A roar of sound I can't separate into individual voices. The runway stretches before me like a gleaming path of possibility, each step carrying me forward through the haze of lights and expectations. I don't stumble. I don't freeze. My body remembers what to do even as my mindfloats slightly above it all. I feel present in a way that surprises me, grounded in the moment yet somehow transcendent.
Then it's back. Off the runway and into the next frenzy of backstage chaos.
Clothes come off with practiced efficiency. Next look appears as if conjured by magic. Tailors are pinning the hem as I step into the towering shoes, their fingers working with lightning precision. Camilla's fixing a curl that went rogue, her touch gentle but purposeful against my scalp. "Perfect, Brookes," she murmurs, eyes critically assessing her work. Someone sprays my arms with shimmer, the cool mist settling on my skin like morning dew. The designer himself brushes invisible lint off my shoulders, his eyes narrowed in concentration, muttering something in Italian I can't quite catch.
Back on the runway. Applause washes over me like a wave. Backstage. Rinse. Repeat. The rhythm becomes hypnotic, transformative—each emergence onto the catwalk a rebirth into light.
Somewhere between look four and five, it happens.
"Free Senator Blaine!"
A voice from the back of the audience. Loud. Sharp. Jarringly discordant, misplaced in the carefully orchestrated glamour and shine of this sacred fashion space. There's a brief scuffle. A scream and a shout for "Justice!", but security is on it instantly. I catch a glimpse of someone holding a crude handwritten sign before being dragged out by two burly guards. The moment hangs suspended in the air like a dropped stitch in an otherwise perfect garment.
My pulse spikes, but only for a second. I want to rage, to shout back at their audacity to come in here and demand justice for a man who's stolen so much from so many Omegas. Senator Blaine, the man whose policies have decimated Omega protection laws, whose private actions have left scars bothvisible and invisible on bodies like mine. The man whose supporters still believe he's been wrongfully accused despite the mountain of evidence. I could scream until my throat bleeds about what justice really means, but I refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing me falter.
Rolling my shoulders back, I breathe through the flash of panic threatening to claw up my throat. I don't miss a step, don't break my rhythm. I walk like nothing happened, like their words are merely dust beneath the gleaming platforms currently adding five inches to my height. Let them see that their idol’s name can't even make me stumble.
The final outfit is regal. A floor-length silk pantsuit, in deep midnight hues that seem to absorb and reflect light simultaneously. The fabric whispers against my skin with each step, cinched at the waist with an intricate golden belt that catches the spotlight in brilliant flashes. The designer called it his ‘phoenix piece’, fitting for more reasons than he knows. When I turn the last corner of the runway, I hold my head high, my spine straight as a blade, eyes focused forward and deliberately unflinching. I can feel the weight of hundreds of gazes, hear the soft collective intake of breath. This moment is mine, not theirs.
Exiting the stage, I take a deep breath and open my eyes, eyes I didn't even realize I'd closed, to thunderous applause from everyone backstage. Makeup artists, dressers, models, assistants, they're all clapping, some whistling, some wiping away tears. Standing among them, towering above most, is Levi. His massive frame seems to take up more space than physically possible, and he's beaming at me, those devastating dimples on full display just for me. The warmth in his eyes a balm against the cold memory of that protester's voice.
When the show ends, Mathéo joins me for the final bow. His arm wraps around my waist like we're old friends who'vesurvived war together, and he practically lifts my hand in the air like a trophy. The lights are blinding, the applause deafening, and for a moment I'm floating somewhere above myself, watching this beautiful scene unfold.
"You were divine!" he hisses between enthusiastic kisses to both my cheeks. "Transcendent! Milan. Promise me. Winter collection. You must!"
I nod, still catching my breath, still feeling the electric current of adrenaline coursing through my veins. My smile feels genuine for the first time in hours.
Backstage is a whirlwind of controlled chaos. Clothes stripped away by efficient hands, makeup wiped off with cool, soothing cloths that smell faintly of cucumber and aloe, camera flashes creating starbursts in my peripheral vision that leave ghost images dancing across my retinas. Congratulations and praise flow around me like water, words blurring together into a pleasant hum of affirmation. "Breathtaking!" "Iconic!" "Revolutionary!" Someone hugs me, a stylist with perfume that's too strong and bracelets that jingle against my back, I think, and someone else presses a glass of champagne into my hand that I tactfully pass to a nearby assistant with a grateful smile that doesn't reach my eyes.
The air is ripe with excitement, bodies pressing too close, everyone wanting a piece of the moment, a piece of me. I feel my pulse quicken slightly, that familiar tightness creeping into my chest when too many people crowd my space.
Camilla appears through the crowd like an angel of mercy, her familiar face a welcome anchor in the sea of movement. She slips a bottle of water into my hand, replacing the champagne I'd declined, her fingers brushing mine in a gesture of understanding. Her eyes are bright with pride, mascara slightly smudged from what might have been tears, the deep brown of her irises shining with genuine emotion.
"You did it, babe," she says, squeezing my arm, her voice pitched low enough that only I can hear it beneath the cacophony. "Showed them all. Every single doubter in that room."
Then Hero's at my side, his presence solid and reassuring before I even turn to see him. His hand is firm at my lower back, not possessive but protective, guiding me through the exit with a gentle pressure that says I've got you without words. Levi and Dante materialize like shadows, flanking us, their bodies creating a buffer between me and the chaos. We move as a unit, synchronized, as we're ushered into the waiting SUV before the press can descend again with their hungry cameras and hungrier questions.
The door shuts with a heavy thunk.
Silence.
The transition from sensory overload to this cocoon of quiet is almost disorienting. Outside, New York pulses with light, neon signs and streetlamps creating a kaleidoscope against the tinted windows, the city that once nearly swallowed me whole now just another skyline. I sink into the leather seat, letting the adrenaline melt off my skin like rain, feeling the fine tremors in my fingertips that always come after a show, especially one like tonight's.
I think of that voice. The protester. That single shout meant to shake me, to remind me of my place, of my past. The words echo in my memory, trying to find purchase.
I walked, and I didn't break. Didn't stumble. Didn't let them see anything but strength and grace.
