Page 93 of Revenge Is a Dish Best Served… Wearing Heels?

Walking as quickly as I could in this dress, I rushed to her side to find that our replacement model had ripped a seam somehow.

Holy crap in a handbag.

And yeah, I saidreplacementmodel.

Because the actual model I'd done the fitting for was currently in the hospital having her appendix removed. She'd cried to me on the phone about it, not wanting to miss this and not wanting to inconvenience me, but obviously, I reassured her and told her not to worry for a second about us, that she should focus on getting better.

And when we hung up, Katie and I had called in our reserves, a few extra just in case. And that meant last minute adjustments and switching things around to fit different bodies and builds.

Did I mention this was New York Fashion Week? Not exactly the setting where you wanted to look like a disorganized hot mess.

And oh, my God, another model's heel broke at the last second too, and Katie and I ran around doing our best to stay cool, be calm, and look professional. Much, much easier said than done.

The chaotic noise around me only added to the wild drumbeat of my heart—people shouting, steamers hissing, hair and makeup artists rushing around for last-minute fixes.

As the previous designer's models all disappeared, I knew we were up very soon, the stage manager rushing around with her clipboard and headset. I did a last minute adjustment to the model order, breathing deeply, trying to listen to my gut instincts which usually steered me in the right direction.

I thought of my family out there, my sisters, mom, and dad sitting in the front row, decked out in my designs and bringing even more attention to my show with our family name. No pressure or anything.

But despite the ramped-up stakes, I was glad they were here, and I knew I was lucky to have them.

Of course, it'd be nice to have—

No, no, no. I wouldn't let my mind gothere. I wouldn't even think of that man.

"Clear the entrance!" the stage manager said. "First look lining up."

Nerves pummeled me as energy pulsed through the models backstage. We were on. Oh, my God. The moment was really here.

The music that we'd agonized over began, the voiceovers loud enough—thank goodness—to hear over the soft classical music.

"Sorry for taking up space."

"Sorry for asking for what I deserve."

"Sorry for loving my body."

I held my breath as my voice—my actual voice!—kicked off my runway show and then faded as the beat kicked in, the first model hitting the stage.

The rest were lined up ready to go, and I took a second to look them over, resisting the urge to poke and prod and adjust, instead soaking in the moment and the designs.

I'd worked my ass off, and I couldn't be prouder of the final product. The looks were romantic and ethereal, the signs of my "Not Sorry" campaign subtly woven in to fabrics, a shimmery bodice here and a flowing skirt there, plus a few of the bolder pieces which were more in your face unapologetic.

"Two minutes until finale walk!" someone shouted.

Right. Finale.

Yanking up my bra, I then adjusted my hair, my eyes never leaving the backstage screen that showed what was happening on the runway.

So far so good.

No one had tripped, no one had made a single wrong move.

I barely breathed, my trembling fingers absently smoothing down the bodice of my own dress, the gown I'd worn to the winter ball, the night I'd felt so unstoppable, mysterious, beautiful.

Katie stood beside me, still as a statue, bless her heart, just as invested as I was.

The models started their final loop down the runway, the music rising, applause breaking out along with a few whoops and hollers.