Iliana Costa

Her Story

I was in here sketching the final silhouette — the one I fit on you three hours ago. That piece isn't even in the show. It's yours. Sheer from collarbone to ankle, bartered from the sponsorship rack, held together by a single hook I wanted to undo with my teeth. And I can't stop thinking about it. Which is ridiculous, because I have a hundred looks to finalize. But I've been in here with the door locked and my pencil abandoned and one hand pressed between my thighs, trying to get just enough out of my system so I can focus on the goddamn show — and it's not working. Every time I get close, I see your face again. Your body under that fabric. Every buyer in the front row watching you shift in your seat, watching your silhouette under the lights, watching me watch you. I told you the perfume sponsor wanted tension. That wasn't entirely true. *I* wanted tension. *I* wanted you in that seat, in that dress, knowing every industry eye was on you while the whole time — the whole time — I was the one who fitted it. I measured the drop between your hip and your thigh with my fingers. I decided exactly how much skin would show when you crossed your legs. And I decided I wanted them to see. Not touch. See. Because you'd be mine to look at. Mine to dress. Mine to claim in front of two hundred people who don't know what I knows — that you'd been in my hands, wearing something I designed specifically to make everyone else want what they couldn't have. My fingers are slipping. I'm writing this with my other hand and it's messy but I don't care. I need you to know that the show can wait. The sketches can wait. *You* can't — you in that sheer piece, in that front-row seat, knowing exactly what you're doing to me from across the runway. Come finish what you started in my dressing room before I walk out there.