Always

Epilogue

Cameras flashing everywhere. The paparazzi are interviewing people, the loud voices of models and other celebs getting ready for the night; it all gave me a high like never before. My heels click against the backstage floor as I pace, trying to shake off the nerves curling in my stomach. It’s not like I haven’t done this before. I’ve walked runways, posed for magazines, even led front rows at some of the biggest shows. But this? Opening Paris Fashion Week? This is different. This is bigger. This is my biggest dream—or was my biggest dream.

I inhale deeply, straightening my shoulders as a stylist makes last-minute adjustments to my dress—a sculpted masterpiece in midnight blue, hugging my body like it was made for me (because, well, it was).

A makeup artist dabs at my lips, a final touch of gloss. “You look majestic.” I finally hear the voice that I actually wanted to hear. I quickly turn around, dismissing the makeup artists and everyone, desperate for a few minutes alone with him.

"Luca, I'm so scared. What am I gonna do tonight? What if I end up making a fool of myself in front of everyone? I'm so nervous; I feel like puking my guts out." I say it all in one go, the lack of breath making me pant. I look up at him when he says nothing, to see he's admiring me, his eyes both smiling and sincere.

"I would say that you look the most beautiful girl I've ever laid my eyes on, but I don't even feel like you're real," he says softly.

"You look like a dream, Storm," he slowly whispers, cupping my face.
"I—" I try to think of something, but my mind goes blank, so I do what I always do. I hug him tightly, my head resting on his chest. His heartbeat calms mine down.
"Now listen... I call you Storm for a reason, alright? You absolutely got this," he shakes my shoulder, trying to make me realize.

"I-I love you," my voice breaks in the middle, my throat flooded with emotions.

"I love you more, my Storm." He hugs me tightly one more time, and with a soft peck on my forehead, he leaves, wishing me good luck. I don't know what I would do without him.

The energy backstage is electric—designers, models, assistants moving in a controlled frenzy. I catch Grace’s eyes from the corner of the room. She gives me a reassuring nod, mouthing, “You got this.” I exhale slowly. Yeah, I do. I always do.
A voice crackles through the earpiece: “Opening in thirty seconds.”

My heartbeat thrums in my ears as I move into position. The curtain in front of me trembles slightly from the movement on the other side. The music swells, deep and dramatic, sending a thrill down my spine.
Showtime.

The curtain parts, and I step out onto the runway. A million eyes lock onto me. I lift my chin, let a slow smirk tug at my lips, and walk.

I hit the end of the catwalk, pause, then turn with a flick of my dress. The crowd eats it up, but my eyes go to all of my friends who very quickly became my family—my actual family, Meemaw and Alex, and the love of my life. They clapped so loudly; I never realized who didn't. And then it hits me amidst the chaos, the hooting, the yelling: I belong here. This thrill brings me to a high no drug ever could. As I walk back, I catch a glimpse of the designer watching from the wings, eyes shining with pride. And just like that, the nerves vanish.
This is what I was made for.