Sylvia Delafuente, 24

San Francisco, CA & New York, NY

✨

I was sound asleep when my phone started its little buzz dance across my nightstand. At that time of morning, my default instinct was to ignore.

I followed that instinct.

Jet lag had clobbered me ever since returning from Dubai and I was slowly beginning to feel human. Alas, the phone buzzed again and despite the pillow I’d pulled over my ear, that sound was going nowhere.

I moaned a four-letter word, rolled over and tilted the screen. I saw a 212 number I didn’t recognize. I picked up and mumbled something resembling a hello.

“Is this Sylvia Delafuente?” a chipper voice on the line asked.

“What time is it?” I groaned.

“It’s umm… 9:00 in New York, 6:00 your time. I’m so sorry. Should I call back when it’s more convenient? I’m calling on behalf of LaQuan Price.”

That woke me. I sat up so fast my blanket slid off the bed.

“No, no, I mean, yes. This is Sylvia. And no, no need to call back.”

I nearly choked. LaQuan Price? The LaQuan Price? The designer who’d taken the fashion world by storm with his reality show, Priceless. I had met him briefly in Dubai, just a passing conversation on the yacht. I never imagined that he would remember me.

“Mr. Price would like to know if you’re available to walk for him in two weeks.”

“Walk for him?”

“Yes. For his swimwear show at Spring Studios.”

“At what studios?”

“Fashion Week,” she said.

I just about had a heart attack.

“Yes! Hell yes! Tell him absolutely…” I caught myself, forcing a breath. “I mean, I’d be honored.”

“Great. We’ll text over the details. See you in New York.”

And just like that, I was booked for Fashion Week. I let out a whoop and spun around my apartment like a dervish. To walk a runway at NYFW was every model’s dream. The pinnacle of the profession.

Then reality stopped me short. I’d never done a live runway show in my life. Sure, I knew how to pose for a camera. But walking? In heels? In front of a crowd that lived and breathed fashion?

I needed help. Desperately and fast.

Benita, as always, had my back. She was over at my place in ten minutes.

“Runway is just physics,” she said. Putting her hands on my shoulders, she pushed them back and lifted my chin. “It’s all about balance, posture, momentum. And most of all, attitude.”

She made it sound so simple. I wasn’t at all convinced.

“You just need to practice. Take me to your shoe closet.”

And practice we did. Like a drill sergeant, she had me strutting up and down my apartment hallway in the highest heels I owned, every day for the next two weeks. We practiced half-turns until I was doing them in my sleep.

“Posture,” she’d remind me. “Don’t bob your head. Chin up. Not that far up. And for heaven’s sake, don’t make eye contact. Pick a point in the distance and glue your eyes to it.”

By the time I left for New York, my calves ached, but at least I could walk a straight line without teetering like a baby deer.

✨

Backstage at Spring Studios was like a war zone. A glamorous, high-speed war zone.

Concrete floors, bright white lights, power cables taped down in neat rows that I nearly tripped over. Screens glowed with lineup orders and look numbers while assistants shouted over the din, calling models into place.

The air smelled like hairspray, powder and sweat. People shouted in Italian, in French, in Russian, in clipped, impatient English. Racks of shimmering fabric wheeled past me in a blur. Steam hissed from last-minute garment presses.

Everywhere I looked, models were stepping into outfits or raising their arms while assistants yanked fabric over their heads. There was no time for modesty, just function. Unconscious nudity was the rule. It wasn’t sexual, just part of the machine.

I hesitated for half a second before pulling off my robe. No one so much as blinked.

Soon a team of beauticians descended on me like a pit crew on a race car. Hands grabbed at my hair, twisting it up into a sleek, glossy bun, so tight I could feel the shape of my skull. A powder brush swept across my collarbones, then down my stomach. A stylist smoothed oil over my legs, working it in so fast it was almost aggressive.

“Chin up,” someone said, and a makeup artist traced a shimmery highlight along my cheekbones. A nail tech dashed clear polish over my toenails. Somewhere near me, a girl yelped as a curling iron got too close to her ear.

“Hold still.”

A man with a measuring tape cinched my waist, adjusting the first look. He tugged the sheer black fabric at my hips, muttering to himself, then stepped back. “Done.”

LaQuan moved through the scene like a general surveying his troops, stopping every so often to adjust a look or tweak a neckline. When he reached me, his manicured hands flitted over my shoulders, adjusting my strap with an approving hum.

He whispered in my ear, “You got this, mi amor.” Then he was off to the next model.

LaQuan had a way of making everyone around him feel like they were in on some fabulous secret. I adore the man.

Somewhere beyond the curtain, the music thumped. A relentless, pulsating beat that matched the adrenaline in my chest. The first model stepped onto the runway. The crowd erupted, phones lifting, flashes flashing. The next model went. And the next.

Then it was my turn.

A hand shoved me forward, and I stepped into the blinding light.

✨

The first rule of runway walking: you walk fast.

It’s not a stroll, not a strut. It’s a pace just shy of a sprint, in heels high enough to break an ankle, while pretending it’s the most natural thing in the world.

One foot in front of the other. Boom, boom, boom. Chin up. Eyes dead ahead.

Own it.

I was wearing a black, high-cut one-piece swimsuit with mesh paneling, the neckline plunging so low Mamá would faint if she saw me.

Draped over my shoulders was a floor-length chiffon cape, its sheer fabric catching the air as I moved. And on my feet, metallic silver stilettos.

The runway was longer than I expected. It stretched ahead like a plank over open water.

The pace was punishing. My calves burned with every step. The lights were so bright they turned the audience into silhouettes. All I could really see were the phone screens glowing, lenses tracking me.

Halfway down the runway, I felt a sharp tug. The chiffon cape had caught on my heel.

Shit.

If I panicked, I’d go down in front of the entire fashion world.

Instead, I let the fabric rip. adjusting my stride so the motion looked controlled, hoping no one noticed.

At the end, stop. Pose. Pivot. Hold. Turn.

As the next model zoomed by, I turned my shoulder slightly, yielding a bit of the runway to her, never breaking stride.

Before I had time to think, I was back inside the hurricane called backstage.

A blur of hands. Shouted orders. Someone unfastened the cape, yanked off the black swimsuit. Another person held out a gold lamé two-piece with a high-cut bottom and a tiny asymmetrical bandeau top, not much wider than a piece of duct tape. I felt a spritz of adhesive and then hands wrapping the fabric around me in one fluid motion.

“Shoes,” someone barked, and a pair of clear PVC stilettos were jammed onto my feet. They made my legs look endless, like I was floating, but the lack of support was terrifying.

A stylist adjusted the bottom tight around my hips, yanking and smoothing the fabric between my ass cheeks. “You’re up,” she said, then shoved me toward the curtain.

I was walking again.

The fabric against my skin looked like molten sunlight. Every inch of me was exposed.

The pace felt even faster this time. One-two, one-two. The rhythm of my steps matched the pounding music.

I spotted Benita in the crowd. Third row, black suit, one eyebrow raised, her phone angled slightly like she might be recording. Half proud. Half anxious.

I kept walking.

I hit the end, did my turn, and roared back.

The gold gleamed. The lights flashed. I felt like a star.

By the time I stepped off, my whole body buzzed with adrenaline. But something felt off.

I had done it. But I hadn’t nailed it.

The cape blunder had cost me.

And in the fashion world, “almost” was just another word for “forgettable.”

✨

The energy backstage after the show was celebratory. Humming with energy. The professional models, so effortlessly cool, barely glanced my way. I was an outsider, a last-minute addition.

I couldn’t understand their whispered French and German. But the casual dismissal in their eyes told me what they were thinking. Who was I to think I could just waltz onto a Fashion Week runway with no experience?

I kept my head high, scanning for LaQuan, the one person who made me feel like I belonged.

“You bad bitch,” he said when he saw me. “Way to slay your first show.”

LaQuan’s bracelets jangled as he kissed me on one cheek, then the other. He stepped back, head tilted, giving me a slow once-over. He pursed his lips and nodded.

“You stomped that runway like it was your ex-boyfriend’s heart.”

I laughed, which helped ease my nerves, but only a little.

✨

After the show, I ended up in a penthouse club with glass walls overlooking the city. The whole place shimmered like champagne; the NYC skyline dazzling outside the windows.

Benita found me and pulled me into a quick hug. “You did it,” she said, grinning.

“I just wish I had nailed it,” I said.

She waved it off. “Don’t give it a second thought, chérie. No one even noticed. A few more shows, and you’ll forget all about that hiccup.”

I squeezed her hand. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

That’s when a man I didn’t recognize approached. Older, salt and pepper hair, sharp suit. He carried himself with an easy confidence that only came with money. And lots of it.

“You were incredible tonight,” he said smoothly, as if he knew me.

“Thanks,” I said, cautious but polite.

“A few of us are heading to a private gathering, something more intimate, more exclusive. You should come.”

I turned to Benita. “Let’s go, it’ll be an adventure.”

I glanced at the stunning woman beside her. A familiar face, though it took me a second to place her. Then it clicked. The daughter of a famous politician. A very famous politician. She clasped Benita’s hand in hers.

Benita smiled coyly. “I have other plans. But you go. Have fun.”

I lifted an eyebrow and grinned. “Ciao. You have fun too.”

I turned back to the man. I’d been to a few afterparties, but something about the way he said “exclusive” made me pause.

“Where is it?” I asked.

“You’ll see.” He smiled and handed me a sleek black card. No address, no name. Just a phone number.

Then, almost offhandedly, he added, “I’ll see you there, Gabriela.”

I blinked.

Gabriela?

I could have corrected him. I should have. But something about being mistaken for someone else, being invited into a world I wasn’t supposed to enter, made me curious.

✨

The exclusive party was in Hell’s Kitchen, at a private basement club.

Inside, everything was elegant, high-end, controlled. The people here weren’t models or designers. Nor were they famous. They were power players. The ones pulling the strings of the famous.

Young waiters circulated through the room with silver trays balancing champagne flutes and small vials of what I could only assume was cocaine.

I grabbed a drink, trying to blend in. A few people glanced my way, some nodding like they recognized me. Maybe they knew Gabriela. Maybe I looked like her.

Then a woman stopped in front of me. Platinum-haired, hard-edged. She seemed like a person who didn’t ask for things; she expected them.

“And you are…” she said, voice smooth as silk.

“…Gabriela?” I offered.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t look angry. Just amused. Like she’d seen this before.

“Enjoy,” she murmured, then drifted away.

But something in the way she said it made my skin prickle.

I set my drink down and made my way to the exit, but as I turned, I caught a glimpse of something.

An open door down the hall, just slightly ajar. Inside, three men sat around a table, speaking in hushed voices.

A silver briefcase rested between them, unlatched. Someone removed a stack of crisp bills.

And something else. In the shadows beyond them, the briefest flash of skin.

A nude woman.

One of the men glanced up and made eye contact with me.

I looked away fast.

A hand touched my arm. It was the man who had invited me. His smile had thinned.

“Leaving so soon?”

“You know… I just realized I have an early call time,” I forced a casual shrug.

He studied me for a beat too long, then released my arm.

“You’ll miss everything,” he said.

I walked to the elevator. It took everything I had in me not to run. As soon as the doors closed, I exhaled.

Whatever that was, it wasn’t just a party.

✨

Later that night, back in my hotel, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

You should have stayed.

I stared at the screen, my stomach twisting.

I had escaped something. I never found out what.

And I’m totally okay with that.

✨

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