The music coursed through the structure like an electrified current, pulsing in tandem with the heartbeat of the show itself. It reverberated along the concrete walls backstage, where stylists barked hurried commands, models slipped into final ensembles with urgent precision, and interns dashed in every direction as though the very air might combust.
Eliana stood against the far wall, clipboard in hand and a headset pressing against one ear. Her gaze scanned the controlled chaos with the intensity of someone holding the last thread of a fraying world together.
Luca had explicitly instructed her not to come.
But she had insisted.
She needed this—the order, the demand, the focus. She craved the kind of structure that didn't ask questions, didn't look her in the eye and wonder how she was doing. She needed something that didn't care if her heart still ached.
Still, she felt the panic threatening to rise like floodwater in her chest.
Her phone buzzed again.
