Page 64 of Saint
“And the clock is still ticking. To my recollection, a year is twelve months. Three hundred sixty-five days. Fifty-two weeks… You broke her heart and the agreement and still paid her? There’s simps, and then there’s you, Saint.” He chastised, positioned on the edge of his seat.
“Watch your mouth, Pre. She wouldn’t take the money, and she has yet to sign the divorce papers.”
“Because you fucked around and got a real one.”
“I know.” Flustered, I shuttered my eyes and massaged my temples. I know. “It took her declining the cash for me to realize everything was real.”
“So why the fuck are sitting here on your lonely man shit? Go get your wife.”
“She’s probably at work right now or preparing for her show.”
“If you don’t–mmmh,” Supreme groaned in frustration, turning his head in tandem. “Saint, get out of here before I whoop your ass.”
Victoria
With a waiting crowd of friends, family, buyers, photographers, and bloggers of Demure’s brand scattering the audience, I released a burdened sigh. Hundreds of souls packed the audience. Of the many were several familiar faces, including Serenity, Saint’s sister.
Seeing her subpoenaed thoughts of Saint. Thinking of him made my chest ache, and I couldn’t have that. This was supposed to be my moment of excitement and exhilaration. I was preparing to showcase my art to the world. I had enough nerves surrounding that thought alone. There was no room for heartache.
“Cora!” I called out to my assistant, who was working behind the scenes alongside me for the evening. Hastily, she appeared.
“Yes, Tori?”
“I need a drink.”
“Prosecco or stronger?” She inquired of my preference, gauging the severity of my fractured nerves.
“Prosecco is fine for now.”
Cora disappeared, returning briefly with a flute filled to the brim. I directed the chilled wine to my lips, enjoying the feel it summoned once it took root in my veins.
Slightly settled, I moved around the back of the stage, shuffling into the eye of chaos. Hair and makeup artists worked at various stations, preparing models for their grand appearance. The prosecco performed at pique capacity, calming me as I assisted a seamstress in making a last-minute adjustment to the octopus dress for a model.
The show was organized to be a mixture of inventive costume pieces as well as subtler haute couture pieces that could be available to purchase as ready-to-wear in the upcoming year.
“First outfits!” My show director, Hawke, called out to the room, summoning for the first set of models to begin dressing. Dressers assisted in the task to ensure no makeup was smudged on the garments. The dressers also made sure that each article of clothing sat properly on the model’s frame and paired with the correct accessories.
Once everyone was outfitted, the models shuffled to line up and wait for their turn to step out onto the runway. Registering it as my cue, I left backstage and located my seat with my design team. It wasn’t until I was seated that I noticed Saphyre’s presence on the front row. The talented vocalist’s attendance was always a compliment of the highest tier. She sat sandwiched between her assistant and her attorney friend. I swear they would make the cutest couple, but the pair never got together.
As the lights in the audience dimmed, the sound of music muzzled the crowd. My gaze fashioned toward the stage’s entry to witness the first model walk the runway.
Holographic-like fabric adorned the deep-brown-skinned model as she strutted down the runway looking like a sea anemone. The dress had movement just like the small but formidable invertebrate. As the model neared, guests were able to note that the fabric wasn’t holographic at all but a combination of various sheer fabrics designed to resemble the iridescent creature.
The show progressed, with a host of aquatic life being represented in dress form. There was a model dressed in a coral reef A-line dress made up of thousands of beads and crystals. Following after, a model strutted down the runway in a pale blue suit embellished with aquamarine sequins designed to look like waves. Everything had come together magnificently. The models bore the evidence. I was drowning in pride.
During the intermission, a harpist played strings over the sound of the ocean while dancers moved in rhythm to the music. While some guests used the opportunity to empty their bladder, I rose to return backstage. It was customary that the creative director emerged from behind the stage prior to its conclusion. I needed to prepare myself to make my grand appearance. With the assistance of two dressers, I dressed in an experimental design of my own creation.
The gold-beaded slinky dress hugged my body while still offering movement. An A-shaped petticoat made of wicker material was layered on top. The look was completed with a strappy nude heel. The actual heel was sculpted to look like a large cowrie shell. Cowrie shells also adorned my ears in the form of earrings. The devil was, indeed, in the details.
When the last model entered the stage, I stood near the entry point and waited. Upon her return, she offered me a congratulatory nod, and I stepped out onto the stage to strut the runway. Microphoned with audio equipment beneath my dress, I spoke to the audience.
“Thank you all for being a part of this grand experience.” As I arrived at the end of the runway, I halted my movements to allow the trio of photographers to capsulize my outfit. Once I received the thumbs up from one of them, I turned and continued on the path I came from. “An Arranged Tragedy–”
As I released the words, a breakdance in my chest commenced. My eyes fastened to the melanin-infused man near the top of the stage, aptly dressed in a tan linen suit with his dress shirt unbuttoned. His hands were buried in his pockets, his feet were clad in Prada loafers planted apart in a wide stance, and his gaze was secured on me. Even amongst the crowd, his presence compelled me. My lips capsized into my mouth to wet them of their dryness. Tearing away from him, I continued with my speech as I moved down the lane.
“An Arranged Tragedy was inspired by my time on two beaches. Both very poignant, life-altering instances, they helped to birth what you’ve seen here today. I’m excited to see where Demure heads after this launch, and I hope you all will take the plunge with me.”
I ended my speech, strutting to the end of the runway where it connected backstage. Saint had disappeared, causing me to question if I’d imagined his presence. The models were all lined up and ready to return to the stage for the finale walk. Afterward, refreshments would be served, and a light soiree would commence. Bloggers and photographers would seek me out for photos and interviews, but the astounding presence of the delicious specimen dressed in linen sent me into flight mode.