Anna circles me. “Incredible, Chanel?”
“Head to toe.”
“My God.”
I pick up the matching bag with the customary gold chain strap. “You like?”
“I fucking love,” Anna gasps.
It’s Paris Fashion Week and today we are hitting circuit.
My long dark hair is out and my makeup is understated, the gorgeous blue is the star of this outfit, I don’t want to overpower it with anything. “Which sunglasses should I wear? These ones.” I put a pair of gold Ray Bans on. “Or these ones.” I put on a pair of chunky tortoiseshell glasses.
“Hmm.” Anna twists her lips. “The gold.”
“Yeah, I thought so too.” I look her up and down, she’s wearing a hot pink dress and matching stilettos. “Wow, you look amazing.”
“I can’t beat Chanel, they just get me.” She puts her hands on her hips and gives a little sashay.
I giggle. “He really does.”
The car pulls up and our driver gets out and opens the door for us, Anna gets out first and then me, cameras flash. “Miss Ferrara, you look amazing, who are you wearing?” someone calls.
“Chanel,” I reply with a smile, I link arms with Anna and we pose for the photographs, first with the two of us together and then alone. This is the one and only place I will have my photo taken willingly. I know what a privilege it is to be here and to able to support the insanely talented designers is an honor.
After all the things they constantly send me, I owe them this exposure.
Anna and I walk hand in hand through the concourse and into the Chanel Hall.
“Hello.” The usher smiles, he’s in a fitted black dinner suit and I’m sure he’s an off-duty model.
Anna’s eyes widen and she smiles at him.
“Hello.” I hand over our invitations. “This way please.” He walks off in the direction of our seats.
“Delicious,” Anna whispers.
He leads us to our seats in the front row and we both sit down.
“This never gets old,” Anna whispers. “Did you see David Beckham by the door?”
“No.” I glance over to the door. “Where, I can’t see him?”
“He’s the one wearing the fuck-me T-shirt.”
“Isn’t he like old now?”
“No way, he’s like a fine wine, gets more fuckable every year.”
I giggle. “Good to know.”
The music pipes through the space and the lights dim, a hushed excitement falls over the audience. I love Fashion Week, the buzz from the press, the hushed excitement of the new collections, even the gossipy paparazzi have their place here.
A funky beat comes through the speakers and I smile, I love this song, “Give It To Me Baby” by Jarina De Marco. The room collectively holds their breath as the first model floats down the catwalk. Brunette and elflike in her appearance, the perfect show opener.
“I love that jacket,” Anna whispers. “I wish they sent you that.”
“Me too.” I smirk as I keep watching. Model after model, gorgeous after gorgeous, and as the show continues, the evening gowns come out, my gaze floats around the room and I stop dead in my tracks.
What the?
In the darkness, on the other side of the catwalk, Giuliano is sitting in the front row, his eyes are focused on the runway and I don’t think he’s seen me. I snap my eyes away, how dare he come here! This is my domain.
Paris is my safe space, away from him and all things Italy.
I discreetly slip my dark sunglasses on, hoping that he doesn’t see me, also they will help me to look over at him without being seen.
“What are you doing?” Anna whispers.
“The lights are hurting my eyes,” I lie.
“Oh, that’s fucking weird,” she replies. “Maybe you’re about to have an epileptic fit or something.”
“Maybe.” I drop my head to hide my smile, trust Anna to catch me out being weird. I keep my face looking straight ahead but turn my eyes.
He’s staring right at me.
Oh no.
How dare he even look in my direction!
I square my shoulders and straighten my back. He keeps watching me…and watching…and watching…what the hell is he doing?
Is he even interested in the show at all? I mean, obviously I’m not, now that my infuriating bastard hot brother is here.
God, that sentence is so wrong that I don’t even know where to start with it.
He’s in jeans and a tweed jacket over a white T-shirt, the fawn colors make his dark hair and square jawline pop. They should have got him to model for them, he’s the most handsome man in the whole damn arena…or planet earth.
Ugh…why is he here?
His words run through my mind for the ten thousandth time. “Fuck off back to France and get married, Francesca, I don’t want to see you again. Ever. Your vanilla lifestyle is fucking boring and I’m not interested in anything you have to say.”
Good…that’s just what I am going to do.
Get married.
To a normal person, one who isn’t a fucking asshole.