“What?” With the noise, I’m not sure I heard correctly.
“God, I hope I catch his eye.” She fits her shoes.
“Hart, you’re on,” the organizer calls from the stage door.
“That’s us,” the model says, making her way over.
The rest passes in a blur. It’s crazy and exhilarating. It’s so damn stressful, and I love every minute. I run on pure adrenaline by the time the wedding dresses are paraded. Standing backstage with the rest of my class, I revel in the moment our ultimate creations are revealed on the runway. For an unreal moment, I lose myself in the lights and music as my eyes follow that dress, knowing it’s perfect because I made it for him.
I search the crowd until I find Maxime. He sits in the front row on the left. The stage lights illuminate his face, making the shadows under his eyes run deep. The groove between his eyebrows begs me to trace the line and drag a finger over the bump at the bridge of his crooked nose. His eyes are bright with pride and his lips pulled into the slightest of smiles. I turn hot knowing what those lips have said and done to me, knowing how deft those strong, slender fingers are. I love watching him like this, when he’s unaware and his guard is down, but then there’s applause and Madame Page gets on the stage.
I miss most of her speech, my thoughts being scattered in every direction. I’m rerunning the show in my mind. I should’ve pulled out the seam and re-stitched the body. My head is spinning with everything I’ve realized tonight. I can’t look away from Maxime’s face or strong body. I imagine his broad chest and well-cut muscles underneath his shirt. All I want right now is to straddle him and claim him as my very own forever.
Someone takes my hand—Christine—and we form a line to walk onto the runway. I take my bow like the rest, feeling like somehow this is a dream, and the only real thing is Maxime in his tux, looking as if he may eat me alive.
We stand on stage as the judges call their verdicts. The panel is made up of a mix of fashion editors, designers, and label owners. One by one, our average scores out of ten are called. Seven for Thérèse. Eight for Christine. Loud applause. Six for someone else. Four for another. One for me.
One.
It hits me like a bucket of ice water. The shock travels from my head to my toes, freezing its path down my limbs. I feel the blood drain from my face in shame. Automatically, my gaze finds Maxime’s. His jaw bunches, but his gray eyes are sympathetic.
It’s over. I blew it. I’m out. I’m not entering the next level. I’m not going to graduate or become a fashion designer. Worse, I suck. The panel agreed. Their decision is irreversible.
We bow. I smile like is expected of me, but inside I’m burning and freezing in interchanging bouts of humiliation and disappointment. I’m devastated. All those hours. All that magic I felt when I held my pencils and needles. All gone.
“Sorry,” Christine whispers in my ear. Her eyes glitter when I meet her gaze. “Maybe next time.”
The rest of my classmates enjoy their well-deserved glory as family members come up to congratulate them. I escape to the garderobe and start gathering my equipment.
“Hey,” Maxime says behind me.
I soak up his warmth as he folds his arms around me from behind and presses his nose in my neck.
“Yours is my favorite,” he says. “I’m proud of you, little flower. You’ve outdone yourself.”
Turning in his embrace, I put my arms around his neck. “Don’t lie to make me feel better.”
He takes my hand and places it over his heart. “I promise. Cross my heart.”
And hope to die. “Thank you.”
His eyes are filled with understanding. “Shall we get out of here?”
“God, yes.”
“Gather your stuff. I’ll pack your dresses.”
I’m so grateful to him right now. It doesn’t matter that he got me into the course by pulling strings. I’m just happy he’s here for me. I’m happy he’s here when I need him most.
Chapter 19
Zoe
It takes me a few days to get over my disappointment. I hang my collection in a closet in one of the spare rooms where I don’t have to look at it, but the knowledge that it’s there remains. Every time I walk past that room, my failure screams at me.
By the end of the week, I pack everything into a box and donate it to charity, everything except for the wedding dress. I can’t get it out of my heart to part with it, not after I’ve realized what it means. I only hang the dress deeper in the closet, hiding it in a black dry-cleaning bag.