Only he hasn’t told you this in weeks.

Chase: Dinner tomorrow?

Maddie: Sure. Burnt chili sound good?

Chase: My favorite.

It was the day of the runway show during Fashion Week, and my nerves were tattered and torn on the floor as I paced from side to side.

“I told you!” I growled at Sven, shaking my finger in his direction. “I told you we couldn’t count on her. What kind of model doesn’t show up to Fashion Week? What agency did she say she was from?”

The model was a no-show. I repeat: We had no one to walk the runway with the Dream Wedding Dress, which I had designed. Which I’d put my heart and soul into.

“I mean, she did get pneumonia. I know you’re no longer Martyr Maddie, but a bit of sympathy would be nice.” Sven winced.

I fell down into a chair, burying my head in my hands. “I can’t believe this is happening. It was a dream come true.”

Sven, Nina, and Layla, who’d taken a day off and tagged along for moral support, all looked at me with a mixture of horrified fascination and pity.

“You know,” Layla started, “you could always model the dress yourself.”

My head jerked up, and I twisted my face at her, aghast. “What?”

“It is your measurements,” Nina said quietly, folding her arms over her chest with half a shrug.

“And . . . I mean, we do have the dress. All we need is a model,” Sven finished, rubbing his chin.

“I can’t model my own dress.” I shook my head violently. “I can’t.”

“Technically, you can,” said Layla.

“Logically, you can too,” Sven pointed out.

I looked between the three of them, knowing my eyes were red rimmed. My hands shook. I hated the limelight. Hated to be the center of attention. But I also acknowledged that there was no other way. Any other model in this venue would swim in this dress. It was way too big for a regular-size model.

“God.” I closed my eyes. “I’m really doing this, aren’t I?”

“Seems like it.” Layla took my hands, tugging me up to my feet. “It’s showtime, girl.”

Half an hour later, I was throwing up into a bucket backstage, wrapped in the wedding dress I’d designed all by myself. Sven had quickly hemmed up the length, and it was a surprisingly easy fix. The ball gown had long sleeves made out of crème lace, a deep V neckline, and a three-foot train. The satin nude trims, soft lines, and bare back made it uniquely memorable, or so Layla kept telling me.

It would help if I knew where Sven, my boss, was right at that second, when I needed his support the most, puking the reduced-fat turkey-bacon sandwich I’d had for breakfast into a bucket that had been the home of iced champagnes until a moment ago.

“Just please let me go to the bathroom. The nausea is only getting worse,” I moaned into the bucket, heaving. Layla patted my back while Nina held the bucket up for me.

“No way,” I heard Nina say, tsking in revulsion. “The dress could get dirty in the bathroom, and Sven would kill both of us. I’m not taking any chances.”

“C’mon, the bathroom is occupied by models only. The only dirty thing about it is traces of cocaine, and they’re already white like the dress.” Layla tried to persuade Nina to budge from her stand, but the latter shook her head.

“I’m sorry, I can’t let that happen. I’m actually trying to keep my job for a change.”

I whipped my head up from the bucket and looked around. The backstage of the fashion show was buzzing with event coordinators, models, and stylists. All the other models seemed to be twice my height and so skinny I could make out their individual ribs when they were topless. Which was the case with nearly half of them. They walked around on high heels and skin-toned thongs, chatting among themselves.

“Where is Sven?” I whined just as one of the assistants walked briskly toward us, talking into her Madonna mic as she gave me a wink.

“Ten minutes and you’re up. We’re wrapping up Valentino right now.”

Layla dragged a folding chair behind my butt, and I collapsed onto it, squeezing my eyes shut. I wasn’t exactly a wallflower, but showing myself off was never something I’d wanted. Still, my nerves weren’t solely about the show. Chase had been acting weird the past few days. And by weird I meant nice. He was oh so very nice. Attentive, sweet, caring . . . not himself. I worried he was going through a mental breakdown or something.

Which I found . . . horrible. I couldn’t help but think something was seriously wrong, but when I’d confronted him about it, he’d played dumb. I liked it when we fought and teased and taunted each other. This new, sweet version of him disconcerted me.

“Coming through. Coming through. Make way. God, what is this, American Horror Story? Just kidding, Ms. Westwood. Love your stuff. And mucho respect. The Sex Pistols was my favorite band in high school. Admittedly because it made me look cooler—the music is so not my cuppa—but still. Have you seen my designer? Maddie? Maddie Goldbloom? Short, pixie hair, a look of pure horror on her face . . . oh, never mind. There she is.” Sven giggled, waltzing past designers and assistants and models, a cup of coffee glued to his hand. He gripped me by the shoulder and yanked me up from the chair.

I wanted to throw up all over again as he righted me.

“Wow. Seriously, Maddie, the dress is not half as bad as I thought it would be. I’m going as far as calling it cute.”

I eyed him skeptically—miserably—and nodded. “Hmm, thanks?”

“I need to talk to you.” He pulled me away from the backstage area and into the hallway. A narrow white thing full of side doors leading to different rooms.

I was thinking of pointing out that I had a runway to walk in less than ten minutes, but really, no tears would be shed if I were to miss what ought to turn into an embarrassing farce.

I stumbled over my feet as Sven pulled me a little too forcefully down the hallway. Not only was I inherently clumsy, but because of my lackluster height (“Fun size sounds better,” Layla had said, attempting to console me), I had to wear six-inch heels, which made walking impossible, let alone running.

“So congratulations—your Wedding Dress to End All Wedding Dresses has been officially purchased,” Sven said airily.

“Purchased?” I panted, trying to keep up. “You mean by Black & Co.? They always pick up our collection. I thought we had a three-year deal with them.”