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The next hour showed me a part of the event I hadn’t really understood until it was happening. I was there early for prep, but the array of celebs were there for a different reason entirely. While the models sat wearing barely anything and had our hair teased and makeup caked and baked on, the guests flitted from station to station, studying and judging us like we were pieces of art at an exhibit. It was very odd, more like doing a car or boat show than a runway, where we were on display in a different way.

It wasn’t pleasant, but I plastered a fake bemused smile on my face and bore it well. On the upside it kept me too busy to linger on nerves over the catwalk.

Several of the famous attendees even deigned to speak to me, and the ones that did were even nice. Not surprisingly, Chester’s scuffle with the recording artist had the whole gathering astir. A famous entertainment reporter had caught the entire thing on her phone and insisted on showing it to me.

I watched initially with reluctance, but as I took it in, even I thought it was funny. The man had grabbed at me and been plucked clean away in one second flat. Meanwhile as Chester was clearly berating him, looking like he might pulverize him where he’d stood, I’d watched the whole thing with calm eyes and sipped casually at my champagne.

“It’s already gone viral. They even made it into a meme. You want to see?” the woman asked me.

I said sure and she showed me a GIF of myself. It was the moment I’d sipped the champagne, watching the scuffle with utter composure. Someone had put thug life glasses over my eyes and captioned it with the word BADASS in bold caps.

I found myself smiling. The whole thing had turned into an unexpected confidence booster and it was no doubt good press for me, less so for the pop star, but I supposed that’s what you got for grabbing random women.

The whole event flew by in a frenetic rush that seemed to come to a standstill and rush by in a blur at will, feeling both too quick and too slow. The backstage pre-game passed by too quickly for me to process but also felt like it dragged on with agonizing leisure.

After forever of waiting and before I was ready, I was squeezed into various pieces of exquisitely sheer white lace, strapped into a set of angel wings that almost tipped me over on the spot, and sent down the runway.

This was the first of the two looks I was walking for the show, and even though I had to wear pieces of stick-on nude tape to keep it TV friendly, it was the more conservative of the two. That being said, I was practically naked and felt it keenly with every strutting in five-inch stilettos step.

The usually narrow stage was built wide for the show to accommodate live music acts. I walked to the heavy beat of the drums, letting my hips sway. We hadn’t had a real dress rehearsal. We’d had the music but not the band, so it was only about halfway down the catwalk that I realized who was crooning into the mic.

Brooks Ainsley. Awwwkward.

Luckily, I had too much momentum to let it so much as pause my steps. I was wary as I passed by him, but he didn’t come near me, in fact tensed up and took a few notable steps away as I moved by. He’d learned his lesson.

I smiled at him and winked. He winced, looked away, and kept singing.

There was a discernible reaction from the crowd: gasps, laughs, cheers. Might as well have fun with it. I added a little jaunty bounce to my steps and an extra sashay air kiss at the end of the catwalk.

I didn’t dare look into the crowd. While an awkward rock star might not make me falter in a walk I’d mastered years ago, I didn’t think I could react so blithely if I spotted my husband in the throng.

As far as I was aware he’d never attended one of my runway shows, and it was easier to just pretend he wasn’t at this one. Finding out otherwise would be hell on my already grated nerves. The man got to me like nothing else could.

At least five pairs of hands started peeling my clothes off my body the second I hit backstage. The show was too frantic to honestly entertain something as frivolous as modesty, so all the dressing room rules were quickly thrown out. I opted for penance over permission on that one. At one point, I clashed eyes with a fuming Asha and it left me no doubt that I’d be getting hell for it later.

Oh well. No time to worry as I was unwrapped from white lingerie and twisted back into a complicated series of thin black velvet straps that materialized into a teddy and somehow managed to show even more skin than the first look. Goodbye, runway virginal color theme. Good riddance.

A small team shrugged enormous black feather wings onto my shoulders, and another helped me step into thigh-high black velvet boots before pushing me gently back into line.

It must have been a quick wardrobe changeover because there were over a dozen models waiting in front of me, eyes plastered to a screen showing live coverage of the show. Everyone was dancing and cheering each girl’s walk as they watched. I had a naive moment where I thought everyone was just being nice before I realized we were all still on camera.

I had the whimsical thought that they should do this at every show. Even fake kindness was worlds better than the usual bitterly competitive backstage vibe.

I took my second walk slower, in time to the now sultry music number. There was no exchange between me and Brooks this time, in fact everything was going smooth as could be right up until I hit the end of the runway. I lingered at it, forcing myself to hold my spot and pose when all instincts pointed to moving through that catwalk with all due haste.

I was doing great, giving all my best angles, face calm, mouth relaxed, eyes smiling when I made the colossal mistake of letting myself look at the crowd.

Shit. He was in the front row. Banks. Staring right into my eyes like he wanted to fuck and throttle me simultaneously.

I didn’t blow it completely, in fact it probably looked like I was just milking my moment to the nth diva degree, but inside I was a wreck as I made my slow way back up the walk.

Why was he here? And . . . What was with that look he’d given me? Why was he so hostile? Why was he always mad at me? And . . . How could he manage to turn me on with one brief, contemptuous glance?

I exited the stage thinking that was the end of the show, but I was sorely mistaken. Backstage had turned into an after party between one blink and the next. I was led back to my prep station.

Someone handed me champagne, and I actually took a real sip before another someone took it from me so that a new team of helpers could shrug me out of my wings.

“You okay, Duchess?” Chester asked. I hadn’t even seen him, distracted as I was in my own thoughts.