BABY DADDY (33 page)

“Wow,” Raiden remarks appreciatively as he looks at the model. I don’t know if he’s appreciating my design or Melania’s tall, sexy body that fits it perfectly. I favor curvy models. I’m known for my designs that real people can wear, not just by skinny models and celebrities.

The bulk of my clientele who subscribe to my exclusive brochures are plus-size matrons— queens, princesses, wives of sheiks, wives of presidents, wives of billionaires, you name it.

Melania smiles sweetly at him. “You’re not bad-looking yourself.”

“Thanks. I scored this from Ella’s boutique. I’m gonna blog about the perfect fit later,” he jokes.

Melania laughs. “Yeah, go over to the front so the street photogs can take a pic of you. Or you can walk with them.” She looks at the male models getting fitted in another part of the huge tent.

“Unfortunately, I have stage fright.”

“Shame. You can easily be on the cover of GQ.”

“Thanks. I’m flattered but not for me.”

“Hey, your SI pics are awesome.”

“You saw them?”

“Yeah. How do you walk on water? I’d like to learn, too.”

I catch him grin at Melania and the little bitch is probably thinking how to wrench him away from her fat, aging employer right now.

Well, she can have him!

She can fucking try.

“First, you gotta learn how to swim.”

Melania makes a duck face. “I swim like a puppy.”

Oh cute. Bleh.

“Puppies are good swimmers,” he replies. So fucking nice I want to elbow his perfect abs. The model is about to jump him in my fucking dress.

They continue to exchange small talk as I work. The way Melania is looking at him is tempting me to turn into one of the Witches of Eastwick and start pricking her sexy body with the needle. But I can’t blame Melania for trying to catch his attention. Raiden is rocking one of my suits. I have to admit, he’s perfect for the Paris runway, or in a brand new ad for StellaR for Men. Not that I’d ever put the secret Prince of Monte Franco on my billboard. That would reopen a scandal Europe hasn’t revisited in ages. The royals will surely boycott my label from then on. God forbid! The European royals are huge business!

My crazy thoughts momentarily took me away from my asshole ex presently enjoying my show somewhere in the crowd. He’s 43 now, engaged to one of New York’s prize catches, still gorgeous, and I’m still fat and single at 37.

Did he come here to taunt me? Flaunt his new conquest? His resurging career? I wish he would leave soon. What he said in that old video are making vivid flashbacks in my head and I can’t concentrate. God, I don’t ever want to see him again!

Rowann signals for Melania to line up.

The model winks at Raiden and flounces off like a fucking dream in my original creation, which I know now will start a little war among the megastars who’d like to wear it at the next Oscars. I’m one of the rare designers who don’t beg any of those demigods and goddesses to wear my clothes. They come to me demanding I prioritize them in my short list to dress.

Raiden puts his arm around me again. I stiffen.

“Hey, relax.”

God, I hate his favorite word again. ‘Relax’, like we’re at the fucking beach sipping pina colada and killing time. Like how can I relax in the middle of this with my ex and his fiancee in attendance and a pack of hounds ready to score a fucking scoop on my poor ass again?

“Why are you here?” I snap at him. It’s not just because Melania was flirting with him but the fact that he seemed to be enjoying it, too. Oh, I really hope he hooks up with Melania next. That would take him off my panties. They’re better suited and would probably rock those tabloid covers better together.

Noooo!
my ovaries scream.

“I wanna be with you, watch you work.”

“I’d rather you don’t.”

“Not going anywhere. I missed you.” He kisses my cheek again.

I close my eyes and count to ten. “Raiden, will you please stop it?”

“What baby?”

“You’re crowding me. I’m working.”

He slowly lets me go. “Sorry,” he utters quietly.

“Will you stop saying sorry?” I hiss at him. I hate his constant apologies. He’s too fucking nice I can’t stand him right now!

He steps back and I see the hurt in his eyes. Shit. I’m constantly hurting him these past few days and I feel horrible, about myself, about everything in me. God, I’m a fucking mess and I can’t deal with him right now in the middle of all this! This is hardly the time for our little drama and I can’t breathe!

“I’ll see you later,” I say and leave him to go to Rowann.

Raiden is a tangled pile of a road block I can’t pass right now, so I’m taking a detour, just to survive this night.

God, I don’t know how long I can hold up.

“Stella! Guess who just arrived for the show!”
Rowann greets me with a giddy smile.

“Who?”

“Princess Antoinette! She arrived with Prince Cesare, no less!”

I nearly fainted.

“They came with Carine Roetfeld herself! I can’t believe we have royalty for guests! We are so gonna rock next Vogue’s ish!”

Oh god. Shit keeps piling up and I feel like the world is caving in on me. How is it possible that my current dirty little secret love life, my well publicized past shitty marriage that lasted shorter than Kim K’s to that cager and my red hot career, are colliding in one place?

I have the feeling Princess Antoinette and Prince Cesare’s presence here is no accident. Neither is Aiden’s. Either way, both spell disaster of unimaginable magnitude for my business. Losing my valuable royal clients will ruin half my stellar reputation, fucking pun intended!

“Are you okay?”

“Huh?”

“You look like you’re about to OD.”

You have no fucking idea.

“Do the models look okay? All of them? Have you checked everyone? This is the finale, Rowann!” I say in a high-pitched voice. I know when I start sounding like a fucking hyena on labor, I’m about to lose it. But not here. Oh God, not here, please! Please, help me hold it together until I’ve taken the final walk.

“The bitches are on it, Stella, don’t worry. We got this!”

I take several deep breaths. I feel like throwing up.

“I think you need to sit down, dahling. Over there.”

I don’t protest when Rowann holds me by the elbow and guides me to a chair in one corner of the tent. He orders one of the gofers to get water.

I’m glad for the chair as it catches my weight. I’ve been standing for hours in my freakin’ heels and my feet are killing me.

“Now, we can’t have you looking like a vampire victim, dahling. You have to walk at the end of the show. You gotta look fab!”

The water arrives and I gratefully drink it.

Rowann snaps his fingers. “Abbi!” he barks at one of the make-up artists hovering around Adriana who’s getting prepped up for the last walk in that gown I designed that would make Juancho so proud of me. Juancho likes all my stuff. I’m so thankful he’s here to help me entertain my guests tonight. At least, I have someone to back me up when shit finally hits the fan.

Oh god, I hope not!

Abbi comes over.

“Retouch Stella’s make-up, please, Abbi-girl.”

“Oh, sure!” Abbi says with a cheerful smile. I’m so thankful for my always happy employees despite them having a bitch of a boss. I promise to give them not only fat but obese bonuses this Christmas.

I sigh as Abbi begins working on my face. Her light fingers and the feathery touch of her brush relax me a bit.

Okay, don’t panic. Walk out there with your head high. Look into that bastard’s evil eyes across the stage. Smile at him.

Bitch, this is your fucking show! Own it!

“Mother, I have to do something.”

“Will I be angry?”

“Furious.”

Silence.

“I trust you. Do whatever you need to do.”

I snap back the phone in place and put it back in my coat pocket.

As Ella’s show is approaching climax, I walk out from the front entrance of the set where dozens of paparazzi are waiting to get more shots of the celebrities and royalty inside the venue.

The Viscontis are in there.

They actually think they can just come in here like gods and harass my girl, intimidate and overwhelm her with their royal presence?

I’ll show them what fucking royal presence is.

I approach a group of paparazzi.

“Hey!”

They all look at me curiously.

“I’m Stella Rhodes’ new boyfriend.”

They all just stare further, then chorus in shock. “Oh Shit!!!”

Cameras start clicking.

I fight not to blink. This is my first official photoshoot as the bona fide half of the next tabloid head-lining couple. Gotta make my Ella proud. Have to look my best.

I hear people running towards us like stampeding buffaloes.

More cameras.

You came here. Now eat this, Cesare.

“Hi. May I?”

The woman stares at me from under the rim of her glasses.

I give her my most charming smile.

She clears her throat.

“I guess nobody’s sitting there, so you may,” she says curtly.

I sit beside her.

“So how did you find the show?”

She turns up her nose. “Stella is attempting to do what Karl Lagerfeld did, reinventing Chanel. Sadly, it falls short by a mile. Shame because the set’s so fab. The clothes, blah.”

I have no fucking idea who she’s talking about but I figure it’s a bench mark for greatness in her book.

Misha is right. This Cathy Varys is a barracuda masquerading as a cute poodle. But she holds vast influence in the business as the most brutal critic, feared by all designers. She has a Pulitzer under her belt for criticism and only the second woman to receive such award in the entire history of the fashion industry. Not bad.

“I kinda think she’s done a brilliant job. I saw Kandinsky in her designs, and some Klimt and Picasso.”

Her brows raise a bit. “You know art.”

Bingo. One of those arty-farty snobs. I can see her doubt as her eyes assess me shrewdly.

“Sure. I have several of those.”

She leans closer to me. “Prints?”

I smile. “I have to ask my mother if her Picassos are fakes.”

“And who’s your mother, pray tell?”

“Akiko Hara.”

She gives me this blank look. Then her eyes bulge.

She removes her glasses and peers at me.

She opens her mouth then closes it.

“You wanna have an exclusive?”

She swallows. “For what…?” she croaks.

“Forget your fashion column. Write a book. Maybe you’ll get a new Pulitzer out of it.”

She gasps. “What book?”

“About my mother and I. I can bring you to our place and you’ll meet her. Would you like to be the first journalist to see her after all these years, Cathy?”

She makes this choking sound. She nods wordlessly, repeatedly.

I smile at her. “And Stella Rhodes is my girlfriend.”

The wine glass she’s holding snaps in her fingers.

“Cathy, please say you’ll come visit our place?”

She grasps my hands and holds on for dear life, her eyes euphoric. “Yes! Yes yes yes! Oh God, yes!”

My heart is breaking for my baby.
I can see how she’s trying to be brave in front of her ex, acting like she didn’t have an ugly history with that motherfucker. I want to take her away from here. This is a snake pit.

They’re all on her at once. I don’t know how Aiden got connected with the Viscontis but knowing Cesare, he’d stoop as low as licking shit from the gutter to protect his throne. As if I’d ever cared for that blasted throne.

I can see what they want to achieve by showing up here. They want to show Ella they have the power to destroy her business. They want to pressure her to drop me from her life. They’re so afraid I’d stay here for good.

I was silent all these years but they dared to touch my Ella. They crossed the line. Nobody hurts my Ella. They’ll have to go through me. Now, I will remind them what I can do to them.

I wade my way through the crowd gathered on one side of the venue, toasting Ella’s success. Lights and cameras are on them, the most important guests.

Royalty?

Here’s another one.

I watch Cesare freeze as he realizes who’s approaching. His arm goes around his mother’s shoulders, as if to protect her.

I smile to myself. Cesare has been closely watching me all these years, I can tell. He recognizes me even from afar and we’ve never met in person.

Antoinette sees me, too. I smile at her. She does look like father. I hope the press doesn’t notice our resemblance.