by K. K. Allen
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
I. DOWNFALL
1. Run-a-Way
2. Five Star Faye
3. Lobsters Have Feelings
4. When One Door Closes
5. See Through
6. Production
II. NEIGHBORLY LOVE
7. Do Not Disturb
8. Pursuasive
9. Moving Out
10. Welcome Home
11. Training
12. Impossible Duo
13. Perfect Pitch
III. FUTURE AND PAST
14. Building Wings
15. Free Ticket
16. False Start
17. Standing Room Only
18. Picture Perfect
19. Auditions
20. Five O’Clock Somewhere
IV. REMINDER
21. Show Time
22. Limitations
23. Run
24. Backseat Memories
V. WEDDING BELLS
25. Heavy Weights
26. Through the Trees
27. Something Borrowed
28. The Dance
29. Without Even Trying
30. The Fifth Drink
31. Through the Lens
VI. THE COHOST
32. Moving Fast
33. Playing the Part
34. No Show
35. Dallas
36. Southern Roots
37. Turnovers
VII. HELLOS & GOODBYES
38. Open Minded
39. Perfect Recipe
40. Permanent
Epilogue
Connect With K.K.
Acknowledgments
Center of Gravity (Excerpt)
Novels by K.K. Allen
About the Author
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by K.K. Allen
Cover Design: Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations
Photographer: Regina Wamba
Editor: Red Adept Editing
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Contact [email protected] with questions.
To all my babes in Forever Young.
You are my happy place.
Thank you for your patience waiting for Through the Lens.
This one is for you. <3
Prologue
Before you, life came in bursts of muted colors.
Everything changed when you somehow slipped under my skin—and then stole my heart.
Layer by layer, you stripped me bare, leaving foreign skin beneath lost feathers. You blinded me with your light. And with streams exposing my every weakness, I became yours.
Your words lit a match against my soul, and the flames licked through me like an inferno. Thick. Heated. Wild. Infuriating.
Still, I’m afraid.
I learned at a young age what can be seen through the lens is often a skewed version of reality. A bent perspective. Manufactured, therefore losing all sense of authenticity.
That was me.
The woman through the lens.
The lie.
TAKE I
DOWNFALL
“ALWAYS REMEMBER, YOUR FOCUS DETERMINES YOUR REALITY.” — GEORGE LUCAS
Run-a-Way
MAGGIE
Delicate fabric falls against my skin, causing a wave of excitement to roll through my body. I’m a statue for my stylist, Robin, as she pins the thick, crystal-encrusted tulle together in the back, giving the dress just enough pull at my waist. The gold-and-silver-sequined fabric gathers like an accordion on my chest as the long, flowing skirt grazes the scuffed tile at my feet.
We’re backstage at the hottest runway event of the season, mere minutes from showtime. Music pumps through the speakers, perfectly synced to the multicolored lights slashing through the stage’s backdrop. Not a single stone was left unturned with this event, which showcases a brilliant fall line of the most well-kept fashion secrets. And I’m wearing the biggest secret of them all.
I’m currently being stuffed into the “dress of the season,” which will close the show. It’s the one everyone came here to see. And designer Gabriele Amante handpicked me to wear it.
Chaos is a delicate term to describe the scene behind me. Photographers are stealing last-second pictures. Models are forming lines at all the directed entrance points. Hair and makeup staff give their assigned girls one last touch-up. Soon we’ll all be hit with harsh stage lighting that manages to make even us girls with darker complexions look like relatives of Casper.
Robin places her hands on my shoulders and twists me toward the mirror. “Focus, Maggie.” Her thick Russian accent comes off just as harsh as she intends it to. Robin is Gabriele’s right-hand woman, and while we’ve never worked together before tonight, she seems to see right through me.
I glance up, catching a full view of my whole ensemble, and gasp as my pulse takes off at a sprint. The outfit is pure magic. The mirror’s reflection reveals all, and my fellow models know it.
As hard as I try to ignore my peers’ jealous reactions, I can see the side-eyed glances and pinched smiles. I hear the acidic, low-toned mutterings of disdain.
“Why her?”
“You know who her mother is, right? Talk about a free ride to the top.”
“She won’t last, not with those proportions.”
I resist an eye roll and snuffle the anger fighting its way up my chest. Their comments are ones I’ve gotten used to hearing over the years. Nothing is wrong with my proportions. And while my mother certainly has influence in the industry, I’ve been modeling my entire life. There isn’t a single opportunity I haven’t worked my ass off for.
My peers are picking me apart because I was chosen to be tonight’s lead model for one of New York’s fiercest fashion-forward designers on the catwalk to end all catwalks. My eyes float to the mirror again. Damn, I look good in this dress.
“They’re going to talk,” Robin says as she fidgets with a piece of loose fabric at my spine. “Let them. Gabriele chose you. He needs you.” She places her hands on my waist and squeezes. “Take a deep breath, shut out the noise, and show the world how proud you are to wear Amante.”
I release a heavy breath and nod to ease her worries. “I’m ready.”
She rewards me with a tight smile and pats my hips one last time. “Good. You look exquisite.” Her eyes stop on my breasts, and she cringes. “Hold that thought. Don’t move.”
As Robin steps away, I close my eyes and try again to tune out the noise. A nagging voice seeps into my thoughts.
“This is it, Maggie,” my mom-slash-manager said when I first got the offer. “This is the event that will catapult your career. It’s only up from here.”
I could see the stars in her eyes as she spoke. Witnessing my career transition from professional model to super model had always been her dream for me. It was a goal she had placed on my vision board when I was nearly four years old, and it had become my ultimate goal as a result.
I remember the day she’d added a magazine cutout to my cork board and explained its significance. The image was of her at twenty-two years old. She was a super star in the world of fashion, with a face that decorated lifestyle and fashion magazine covers. She got paid to attend ritzy events and became the face for high-end cosmetic lines. She walked all the famous runways and went on
dates with celebrities to appease her publicist.
She had been at the pinnacle of her career, living a life of glitz and glamour, when she met and fell in love with my father, an up-and-coming football star who played for Dallas. They married and had me not long after. That was when she decided to turn in her modeling career for motherhood, something she would never let any of us forget.
“After walking for Amante, you’ll be the most photographed, the most sought-after, and the most talked-about model in New York fashion,” she’d said, with eyes bright like she was lost in the spotlight of her past. But the pressure I detected in her words was clear.
Don’t mess this up.
At twenty-six years old, my career’s current stagnant state signifies failure in her eyes. She has set a ticking time bomb over my head, and it grows louder with each passing year. But for me, modeling is simply a stepping-stone I should have leapt from years ago. Tonight, I plan to do just that.
Tonight, everything changes.
After fifteen years of carrying my robotic self down the runway without so much as a hair color change—which I desperately wanted—and letting every photographer think they owned my time and body, I’m ending it all. I’ll fulfill my duties on this catwalk tonight, a dream I’d always thought I wanted, but then I’m moving on. My chance for something more is finally coming.
I feel an invasion of my breast and look down. Robin’s hands are there, groping me to her satisfaction as she glues on the soft nude cup and smooths it out to form a second skin. “Good,” she affirms, patting one breast and reaching for the final piece of my ensemble. She wraps a thin gold belt around my waist twice and secures it in a knot at the small of my back.
“Now,” she says with a finger on her mouth and her brows turned down. “I just need to finish fastening you. She tugs the fabric together across my lower back where the dress is supposed to link together.
Embarrassment colors my cheeks. “It won’t close?”
She waves a hand to tell me not to worry then holds up a leftover piece of the dress fabric she’d cut to make modifications. “I’ll just stitch this right on to cover the gap. No one will even notice.”
Relief flows through me as she goes to work. Robin isn’t doing anything abnormal. Last-minute fixes are common in the world of runway fashion. Most of my catwalk outfits were stapled, glued, and stitched together at the last minute to ensure a perfect fit. All that matters is how I carry the fabric beneath the lights, how the fabric sways as I make my signature walk down the narrow aisle, and how I will manage to successfully draw every eye in the house to me.
One last time.
Robin presses the final piece of fabric to the top of my bra cup and steps back to assess her handiwork. “Gabriele,” she shouts to her right, jerking her head at me to get his attention.
His eyes grow wide, and a smile blooms on his gorgeous, freshly shaven tanned skin. He begins his strut toward us, pausing mere seconds with each interruption to greet his models with affection. Then he takes my hands, and his eyes sweep over every inch of me.
“Stupenda, mia cara. Molto bella, Maggie. Semplicemente bellissima.” His eyes pour over his work, which is now floating majestically over my body, from the shimmering and perfectly placed sequin, to where the skirt of the dress meets the floor with just a slight amount of overhang. My four-inch stilettos almost did the trick.
Gabriele bends and clutches the fabric at my feet then jerks it up. His narrowed gaze snaps up next, meeting Robin’s eyes. “Higher,” he snaps at her then points to the shoe rack on the other side of the room. “Go. Fast.”
She nods in understanding then dashes off just as he takes a final step toward me, eyeing the space between my breasts. “You’re too short, yeah? Shorter than promised.” His tone is still friendly, but I can sense his irritation. I have to quickly shake such annoyance because I know the constant criticism, the never being good enough, is just part of the job. Too tall, too short, too slim, too curvy, too plain, too tan—I’ve heard it all. And even after all these years, I never leave an encounter unscathed. I’ve just gotten better at taking the hits.
“Five-seven,” I remind him. My portfolio doesn’t lie. “Hardly short.” I wink. “But I’ve never been opposed to strutting taller heels.” I continue teasing him with my eyes to melt some of the edge off.
“Mi dispiace,” he mutters as his eyes drift downward. He’s sorry. “Sei ancora molto bella.” He still thinks I look beautiful.
I fight back my smile. “The dress is beautiful, Gabriele. Magnifico.”
He smiles, his ego fed, just as Robin runs over with a new pair of silver heels—a higher strappy pair with a thin spike.
“No, absolutely not,” demands a voice on approach.
Our heads whip right to find Matilda Stevens, otherwise known as my mother-slash-manager—and the long-term thorn in my side.
“Nothing taller than five inches, Gabriele. It’s in her contract.”
His eyes widen at the nerve of my mother. I hold back my impending cringe and eye roll.
“She’s short,” he spits, and he knows that’s all he needs to say.
My mom glances down and can see the half-inch of fabric flattened on the floor. She bites her lip, eyes me like my height is something I have control over, and nods. “I see. My apologies, Gabriele.”
Annoyance whips through me, but I bite my tongue, as always.
Gabriele nods, jaw still tight from the confrontation, as he snaps his fingers at Robin, gesturing for her to strap the shoes on my feet. While she does, he steps toward me again, his eyes on my mother. “And these,” he says, yanking at the fabric above one of the bra cups. “Big.” He turns back to me. “No offense, mia cara.”
My cheeks flame. “None taken.”
That’s a new one. No one has ever complained about my breasts. They’re full, but not gaudy. A 32B is proportionate to the narrow curves of my frame. I shouldn’t be offended by his opinion.
As my mom begins to sweet-talk Gabriele, I settle into my new heels. Robin secures them and makes me take a walk. They feel fine. I’ve walked in higher, but the five-inch rule is just a precaution my mother put into place to minimize the risks that come with a high-profile catwalk. In the last fifteen years, I’ve seen the worst of the worst—careers ending before they’ve even begun, industry criticism leading to early retirements, or worse. To say a woman needs tough skin in the fashion world is putting it mildly. She needs warrior armor and an impenetrable heart. I’m still working on all the above.
“Final walk. Where are my models?” The backstage director proceeds to call off the names on her sheet, and one by one, the girls line up to take their final walk.
Gabriele leans in to kiss my cheek. “Walk tall, bellissima. You are my star tonight.” With a final rub of my back, he walks off toward the line of models ready to go.
“How do you feel?” my mom asks, worry flooding her face as she takes another glance at my shoes.
I nod, batting past her infectious negativity to remember what’s next for me. Something my mom doesn’t even know. Something she would never approve of. In fact, I am about to do something she would do anything to stop.
“I feel ready.” I say it with a smile because I can’t help it. Despite the jealous chatter at my back, my mother’s unrealistic expectations, and the high pressures of the night, I’m excited.
My mother nods, her angelic exterior no match for her hard insides. I’m not sure how or when it happened, but many years ago, she changed for the worst and took me along for the ride, a ride I never knew to second-guess in the beginning.
At the time, I wanted what she wanted. I wanted to be adored. I wanted the lights, the fanfare, and the fancy clothes. More than anything, I wanted to love it all. But just because I was born into something doesn’t mean it was meant for me.
My mother will never understand that.
“Maggie Stevens,” the director calls. “We need you on deck.”
I let a breath out, a w
hoosh that stems from excitement and brings another smile to my face. I start to walk to my place, but a cold hand grips me and holds me back with a tug. I don’t even look toward my mother again. I’m afraid of whatever she’s going to say but even more afraid of what she’ll see in my response.
“You’re one walk away from having it all, my dear. Don’t screw it up like I did.” Her tone is like ice slicing through my psyche. If she only knew.
By the end of tonight, she will.
“And… go.”
With a gentle push from the producer, I take my first step, teeter slightly, then right myself onto my needle-thin heels. I stopped thinking of my every move on the runway years ago. Now the technique of the walk comes naturally.
The music has just changed for the closing number. It’s a heavy dance beat that works perfectly with the crescendo of the night. Forty minutes is a long show, and these people are ready to see what they came for: Gabriele’s signature design from his fall wedding collection. It’s spring now, but this piece is the one all second-hand designers are going to try to mimic, overproduce, and sell in their shops this fall. And I’m the first one who gets to wear it.