The lights backstage were feverish, every bulb humming with tension as Riley hurriedly zipped a model into her gown, hands shaking. Cameras flashed, journalists pressed closer, and gossip thickened the air—Leclair Atelier’s runway was more war zone than celebration. Riley could feel every gaze fix on her, hungry for the rumor, the scandal, the heartbreak. In the tangle of bodies and urgent whispers, Vincent caught her eye across the chaos. His tie was askew, jaw tight, eyes darker than she’d ever seen.

She turned, avoiding him, but Tessa blocked her path: a silk-draped shadow, lips red, smile venomous. “Smile, darling,” Tessa purred, “unless you want to look guilty.” A chill slid down Riley’s spine—she knew, somehow. She always did.

Then a reporter’s question sliced through the crowd—“Is it true? Was your entire relationship staged for PR?”—and the room seemed to tilt. Delaney swept in, cool as ice, firing off reassurances, but panic prickled along Riley’s skin. Across the catwalk, she caught Luca’s desperate expression—he mouthed, “Sorry.” The press of betrayal was sudden and suffocating. Everyone knew the truth now.

Backstage, Vincent found her. His hands closed around her wrists, not gentle, not cruel—just desperate. “I never wanted to hurt you. Not like this,” his voice rasped. He was so close she could smell the storm he carried inside—bitterness, regret, longing. “You used me,” she said, but it came out breathless, less accusation than confession. She tried to pull away and he didn’t let go. “I tried not to—” His lips crashed into hers, and she didn’t resist.

They stumbled into a supply closet, the door barely closing behind them, breath tangled and uneven. Their mouths found each other again, biting and gasping. He pressed her against the wall, hands skating under her dress, urgent, raw. She clawed at his shirt, pulling it open, letting her mouth find the old scar along his collarbone. “This is insane,” she whispered, but craved more, craved oblivion. His hand cupped her face as he thrust inside her, no pretense left between them, just the furious need to feel, to anchor themselves to something real as everything else burned.

With each movement, their pain broke through the pleasure—her nails left red lines on his back; his mouth lingered on her shoulder, trembling. Eyes wet, she pressed her forehead to his. “Don’t let me go,” she begged. “Don’t ask me to,” he breathed. But the world screamed on outside, and reality clawed them apart.

When she emerged, hair tangled, lips swollen, Delaney was waiting. Her face was set in stone but her eyes glimmered with something like pity, or maybe triumph. “The show’s over,” Delaney said, voice steady. “For all of us.” Vincent, rumpled and ruined, tried to follow, but security blocked his path—ordered by Delaney, Riley realized.

Luca brushed past, not quite meeting Riley’s gaze, and whispered, “I didn’t mean for this.” She saw the hurt, the hope, the apology writ large across his face. She almost reached for him, but couldn’t.

As the runway lights flickered one last time, Delaney strode onto the stage, microphone in hand. The crowd hushed. “As of today,” she announced, steady and clear, “there’s a new future for Leclair Atelier.” Her gaze flickered toward Vincent—a goodbye, a severing. Riley’s heart thudded with grief and a strange new freedom, not sure which way she’d break.

Vincent caught Riley’s eye one last time. In his ruined expression was everything they’d lost—love, trust, maybe even hope. Sirens of the paparazzi wailed beyond the doors. Riley stepped off the stage and into uncertainty.

To be continued...