Page 69 of Pretend To Be Mine

“What? No. Annika, I can’t.”

“You can. We can tailor the dress to you. It will just take a couple minutes.”

“Annika, I am so not a model.”

“You did fine in practice,” she said. “I saw the videos.”

“That was different! That was one dress, one walk, and I barely survived it. This is the opening night of Fashion of Love Week. This is being livestreamed to half a million people!” My voice was climbing toward panic. “I’m not a model. I’ll ruin everything. It’s too important to Adrian. I will not embarrass him.”

“You won’t.” Annika grabbed both my shoulders, forcing me to look at her. “Elizabeth, you’re a natural. I’ve seen you walk. When you’re relaxed, when you’re confident, you’re better than half the professionals out there. Adrian will be more embarrassed if the show doesn’t go as planned.”

“I can’t. The dress won’t even fit. Look at her.” I gestured at the model on the couch. “She’s like six feet tall and ninety pounds. I’m—I’m definitely not.”

“Different doesn’t mean wrong. Your body is beautiful, and I can make that dress work for you.” Annika’s eyes were intense, pleading. “I can pin it, use body tape, make adjustments. Trust me. Have faith.”

“Annika—”

“Adrian needs this to go perfectly,” she said quietly. “He’s been working toward this for a year. One missing model, one empty spot in the lineup, it throws everything off. The timing, the pacing, the visual symmetry. Please. He’ll love you forever if you do this.”

That did it. Not the pleading, not the talk about my ability to walk. The mention of Adrian.

Adrian, who was out there right now commanding that stage, who’d poured everything into making his father’s vision real. Adrian, who had taken a chance on me and had been brave enough to show me his vulnerable side.

What was the worst that could happen? I fell on my face? Broke an ankle?

“Give me the damn dress,” I said.

Annika’s face lit up. “Really?”

“Really. But if I faceplant out there, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal. Come on, we have maybe eight minutes.”

What followed was a whirlwind of activity. Annika pulled me into a private changing area and helped me into the dress—a stunning piece in deep emerald green that had looked sculptural on the model but looked different on me.

“It’s too tight,” I said, barely able to breathe.

“Hold still.” Annika moved around me pinning fabric, adjusting seams, using body tape in strategic locations to create structure. Her hands moved quickly. She managed to transform the dress from ill-fitting to actually kind of perfect.

“There,” she said finally, stepping back. “Look.”

I turned to the mirror and gasped. The dress hugged my curves. It complemented my body and made me look great. I felt good. The emerald green made my eyes pop. The fit was different from how it had looked on the model, but it actually worked.

“Oh my God,” I breathed.

“Told you. Now come on. You’re number seven in the lineup.”

She pulled me back to where the models were assembling. I took my place in line. I forced myself to walk slowly. I fought the urge to wipe my clammy palms on the gorgeous dress.

The music changed. The first model went out to applause and camera flashes. Then the second. The third.

I could hear Adrian’s voice, amplified across the space, describing each look. He had designed most of the dresses and could explain the inspiration.

Then it was my turn.

“Next, we have a reimagining of one of Buck Blackwell’s most iconic pieces from 2018.”

I stepped onto the runway. The lights nearly blinded me.