Stella's POV
"This one looks remarkably similar to the 'Ocean Era' that was auctioned at Sotheby's three years ago and purchased by a mysterious wealthy collector..." The design director trailed off, his eyes widening as he examined the exquisite piece I had just removed from its protective velvet case.
I glanced up briefly from adjusting a model's collar, my expression deliberately casual. "That's because it is the 'Ocean Era.'"
The director's jaw literally dropped. His fingers, which had been hovering near the pendant but not quite daring to touch it, jerked back as if the jewel might burn him.
*God, you look like I just told you I'm wearing Lady Gaga's meat dress or something.*
"And this..." he pointed to another set I had just unwrapped—an elaborate diamond earring and tiara set that sparkled under the bright backstage lights. "Is this the 'Ice Rose' from Christie's auction last year? The genuine article?"
"Of course," I replied, carefully lifting the tiara and securing it to a model's elegantly styled hair.
The director ran his hand through his already disheveled hair, eyes darting between me and the open cases of jewelry. " Stella, you do realize that kidnapping wealthy collectors is illegal, right?" His attempt at humor barely masked the genuine concern in his voice.
I couldn't help but laugh as I fastened a platinum and diamond necklace around another model's neck. "Relax. These pieces are on loan from a friend. She was generous enough to let us use them for today's show."
*Not technically a lie. I'm my own friend. Probably my best friend, if we're being honest.*
"Frank?" he guessed, naming the only person he knew I was close to in the fashion industry.
"No, not Frank. Another friend," I replied, deliberately vague. I wasn't about to explain that most of these pieces were from my own collection—investments I'd made over the years, carefully acquiring museum-quality jewelry as both assets and personal indulgence.
The director's anxiety didn't fade. "Shouldn't we arrange for additional security? These pieces must be worth..." he trailed off, apparently unable to even estimate their collective value.
"Security is already arranged outside the venue," I assured him, nodding toward the discreet earpieces worn by several muscular men positioned around the backstage area. "Everything has been handled."
"The pianist should be ready for styling now," I reminded the director, checking the time on my phone. The show was scheduled to start in less than forty minutes, and we still had several key preparations to complete.
The director nodded and gestured toward a tall, handsome mixed-race man in his late twenties, who had been sitting quietly in a corner, occasionally reviewing sheet music. The pianist stood up, but instead of heading toward the changing area as expected, he approached us with a stiff posture and cold eyes.
"I'm sorry, but I agreed to work with your company because I'm a friend of Grace's," he announced, his voice carrying just enough to attract attention from nearby staff. "Since you're no longer using Grace's jewelry, I must also breach my contract."
*You've got to be fucking kidding me. Another one of Grace's minions?*
The pianist's lips curled into a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "Since the styling director Stella here found a way to replace Grace's jewelry, I'm sure you can solve the piano problem as well." The malice in his smile was unmistakable.
The director's expression instantly hardened. "You're willing to violate a legal contract over a personal grudge?" His accent became more pronounced in his anger.
The pianist simply shrugged, his body language clearly conveying "what can you do about it?" The gesture was so dismissive, so deliberately provocative, that I felt a surge of disgust.
*Grace really has her little soldiers everywhere. I bet they have weekly meetings where they practice being assholes in unison.*
I gave the pianist a coldly appraising look, quickly assessing the situation. While pursuing legal remedies would be satisfying in the long run, it wouldn't solve our immediate crisis.
"Director," I said decisively, "you should immediately check if another suitable pianist is available. If not, I can step in."
"You?" The director looked at me with a mixture of hope and doubt.
"Yes," I confirmed, already mentally reviewing what I knew about Light's musical selections for the show.
"Good!" he agreed, perhaps too quickly, his relief evident.
As the pianist stalked away, I could see the director's expression shifting from relief to concern as he began to process what had just happened.
*He's probably regretting his life choices right now. Honestly, same.*
I turned back to the jewelry, focusing on preparing the next model. Piano crisis or not, we still had a show to run, and these pieces needed to be showcased perfectly.
The show had been running for nearly an hour and forty minutes. Backstage was a whirlwind of activity as models returned from the runway, quickly changing into new outfits before heading back out. The director had tried desperately to find a replacement pianist, but with such short notice, no one suitable was available.
I had been using every spare moment to review the sheet music, my fingers occasionally moving in the air as I memorized the complex passages. Between styling models and managing last-minute adjustments, I'd barely had time to fully process what I was about to do.
*Haven't played in front of an audience since Lucy's party. Fuck, this could be a disaster.*
The director approached me, his face pale with stress. "Stella, I just realized something important," he said, watching my fingers silently practicing on an imaginary keyboard. "Did you... did you not see our musical selections before today?"
"No," I admitted, my eyes still on the sheet music. "I'm looking at them now."
His face crumpled in despair as he finally grasped the magnitude of our predicament. "I should have found a professional pianist!" he groaned, covering his face with his hands. "This is madness!"
"Too late now," I replied, setting aside the sheets as I adjusted a model's jewelry for the final runway sequence. "It'll be fine."
*I'll either perform perfectly or fail spectacularly.*
Without even time to change my outfit, I rushed to the grand piano positioned at the corner of the runway. I was still wearing the same simple chiffon blouse and casual pants I'd worn while styling—hardly appropriate for a performer at a high-fashion event—but there was no help for it now.
*I look like I'm here to tune the damn thing, not play it.*
As I settled onto the bench, I took a deep, steadying breath, allowing my fingers to hover over the keys for just a moment. The lights dimmed slightly, signaling the finale was about to begin. I closed my eyes briefly, centering myself, then pressed down on the first keys.
The clear, pure notes of the piano cut through the silence, establishing a deliberate, regal rhythm. Each note resonated through the venue as I found my confidence growing with every measure.
I poured everything into the performance—my frustration with Grace's petty sabotage, my determination to ensure Light's success despite the obstacles, and perhaps most powerfully, my own love for the music itself. My fingers danced across the keys with practiced precision, building the melody to a magnificent crescendo as the final models appeared on the runway.
*Take that, Grace. Your little pianist buddy isn't the only one who can play.*
From my peripheral vision, I could see the director's expression transform from regretful worry to shock, and finally to delighted amazement. His body language shifted from tense anxiety to something approaching wonder.
As the last notes faded and the final model completed her walk, I stood silently and slipped backstage, preferring to leave the spotlight to the designers and models where it belonged. The audience's applause thundered behind me, the sound following me like a wave as I made my way through the crowded backstage area.
I had barely taken three steps when I was engulfed in an enthusiastic bear hug from the director.
"Stella, you are incredible! You're an absolute treasure!" he exclaimed, his earlier stress completely forgotten. He moved as if to give me the traditional European double-cheek kiss, but a hand suddenly appeared between us, firmly pushing him back.
"Back off, my friend," Frank's distinctive French-accented voice cut through the backstage noise, rescuing me from the director's embrace. "Keep your distance."