SCARLET MEETS MILA

12

The hot sun disappears behind the glittering skyscrapers, casting long, daunting shadows over the perfectly laid red carpet, stretched ahead like a river of fresh blood. Hundreds of heavy cameras snap photographs of the biggest names in fashion as they flaunt their way toward the entrance of what has been dubbed as the world's most exclusive event this decade.

Nerves buzz, the sea of flashes praying they will capture the winning picture of Scarlet and her famous team. The profession chose, now a battle for life as they position themselves as close as the security guards will allow them.

The sky quickly comes to life as the golden beams of light, shooting from the top of the Dubai arena take ownership over the stars. Anyone, who is anyone, is here tonight, the city bled dry of its royalty now taking their seats in front of Scarlet's runway.

Then, in a moment of awe, a hush violently rips through the crowd now stammering to lift their cameras. A train of sleek, black fitted cars glide to a stop at the head of the runway, they pause, not a single door opening in hopes to build tension.

Suited men approach the first car and pull open the back door. White flashes flood the exit of the tall black heels now stepping out of the car. The crowd roars, a rumbling of yells and screams all hoping to get Scarlet's prized possession to look their way.

"Mila!" They beg. "This way! Mila!"

Mila stands still, confident and poised. She allows them to capture her stillness and the power that oozes from her stature. She wears a handmade silk gown, black with slits in all of the right places. A subtle sheen of glitter sparkles against her chest, a ridiculously expensive diamond necklace trailing between her breasts.

"Mila! Please, eyes over here!" Mila is well trained by now, and she moves her eyes slowly toward the left side of the crowd before shifting to the right. She moves shortly after, meeting the entrance with a strut while the cars realign to prepare for the next exit.

Scarlet, as expected, exits last.

She is given a welcome like nothing ever seen before, the throaty screams of need calling her from left to right. Men with tight shirts and earpieces line the railings and make sure nobody dares to touch her. They try, but they are no match for the loyal muscles Scarlet pays handsomely to protect her.

Her expression is stern, unlike her smiling wife. She sends a message of authority, letting everybody with eyes know, she is the boss. Her gown matches Mila's almost identically, except hers, while raunchy, exudes a level of class the world will talk of for years to come. She makes sure, as always, to place her left hand over her right, the pride in her wedding ring no match for the diamonds around her wrists.

****
Mila

The atmosphere is euphoric. I can barely breathe with the tension in the air, and the anticipation of Scarlet's runway still stings when reminding myself of what it should have been before she took over. I can't change her decision to cut me, and despite holding a grudge, I couldn't dare miss the show.

People all over the world would ask questions in my absence, wondering with the tip of rumours why Scarlet's wife wasn't at the event of the decade. It would be catastrophic, the media just waiting to twist a story that doesn't exist. Really, there is a story that nobody but us knows. We sit uncomfortably in conflict, barely speaking, barely communicating.

I sit at the head of the runway with Harlow beside me, she taps my leg gently, but even now I feel vulnerable in her presence. She knows what Scarlet has been up to. She was a part of it, she probably helped design this undercover operation to begin with.

I guess I came to terms with the whole media thing. Scarlet has worked for years to build this company and now the movement of an egotistical jerk has threatened to shake the very foundations we have worked so hard to protect. Still, I'm hurt all the same.