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“She’s the perfect daughter,” my mom told Minister Jones.
Beauty, brains, morals. She has them all. I knew my mother would narrate it again. And she did. She loved praising me in front of everyone. Me – her perfect daughter; her gateway to the world of popularity.
She had been trying hard to get me into the fashion and entertainment industry since I was a child. She put me in every beauty contest year after year and presented me as the most beautiful and perfect woman in the state of Montana. As if it mattered. Now, she added another brag to her usual enumerations.
“She’s flying to Milan tomorrow,” Mom continued. “She’ll be our town’s first international model. She’s going to put our town on the map.”
Like it was meant to be mine. I only placed 10th in a model search contest. I just got lucky that one model got a severe case of mono. Among the remaining contestants, I was the only one who could leave immediately. Thanks to my mom. She had all my documents readied before I entered the contest. She was confident that I would be in the top five finalists and would be sent to fashion week in Milan to work with various promising and popular designers.
“Good things happen to good people,” Minister Jones told my mom.
“It’s her destiny,” my mom proudly said.
My destiny? I wondered if it really was or it was only a path my mother paved for me. She decided who I was and who I should be. I have no personality of my own. I did not even get to have friends in school because she signed me up for different classes. Her dream was to make me into a fashion model and maybe a Hollywood star. A farfetched dream but she was determined to make me achieve it.
Even when I was eliminated at the early stage of the competition, she kept her hopes up. Mom believed that I will find myself in Milan – that it would be my first step to my journey of achieving my dreams and happiness. Maybe her dream and her happiness. I still did not know if I wanted to be a fashion model or anything she wanted me to become. But I was certain that I loved being her daughter.
How about my dreams?
I did not have any. Or I did not get the chance to have one. But, I learned to love the path she made for me. But who knows? Maybe what she said would come true.
She would not be in Milan with me. Everything there would rest on my decisions. I would get to become me and become my own woman. I would get to know who I am and who I should be.
#
“Your name?” the event organizer asked.
I showed her my name tag and said, “Tamara Simons.”
He scanned the long list in his hand and shook his head. The four other models who were with me flashed sarcastic smiles at me. The organizer was familiar with them because they had previously attended New York Fashion Week two weeks ago.
“I’m a substitute for Clarice Orleans,” I said while swallowing my pride.
I should not feel embarrassed; the designer was the one who reached out to me. I did not grovel on my knees just to get into the lineup. Still, I felt humiliated. Someone should have at least changed the list and had my name included.
“Oh, right. Stay on that side for a while. Someone will come for you,” the organizer told me.
I wanted to question him, but the model behind me pushed me out of the way. The organizer quickly ignored me and smooched with a more popular model. I heard one of the models I came with snort.
“The fashion world has no room for substitutes,” Dani Carlson said before beckoning the other girls to follow her.
Why do I still have to wait? I wondered. But it was my first international modeling stint. I should not do anything stupid. Just as my mother suggested, I should follow like a puppy until I'm strong enough to bite those who harm me.
“Are you Tamara?” a short Italian woman asked me, and I replied with a nod. She scanned me from head to foot before saying, “Follow me.”
The stout woman turned her back on me and walked to a small tent in the venue. As I passed the other tents, I saw more famous models getting ready for their walk. One of my eyebrows rose when I passed Korin Doyle's tent. I was supposed to be a model for her, but she changed her mind just a moment ago. The organizer had no choice but to find a job for me. After all, they had already paid for all my expenses.
Small tits. Pencil models. That was Korin’s idea of fashion models, and I did not fit them. I was not fat or plus size, but I was curvy. I had tits – healthy ones. My hips are curvier than most of them, too. I wondered if any of the designers would want me after Korin dumped me.
“Sam, here’s another model for you,” the stout woman said.
A woman appeared behind a curvy model and looked at me. She had a measuring tape around her neck and a pair of scissors pressed between her lips. Her hair was a mess, and her face was full of panic.
She looked up to me, and our eyes met. Beautiful. Blue-green eyes, one of the rarest eye colors in the world. They were like emerald seawater mixing with the water at the mouth of the ocean. She looked lovely, too, though a bit short and curvy. She had a button nose with a curvy bridge and small but thick cupid-bow lips.
“Thank you, Rosy,” Sam said after taking the scissors from her mouth. She turned to me and said, “I’ll finish with Anna here and work with you.”
I walked to a corner and browsed the clothes on the rack. I never heard of a Rinaldi brand before, but the designer did have some talent. Her winter collection was simple but elegant. There were maturity and mystery but loads of innocence.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the woman, who I believe was the seamstress, said.
My throat dried when I saw her beauty up close. She had tidied her hair and looked prettier than the first time I saw her. A strange wind blew all over me when she traced my body with her eyes. I was used to being stared at, but there was something different about the way she looked at me. There was a tiny bit of excitement wriggling into my heart.
A girl crush. I believe that was what it was called. She was so beautiful that I could not stop admiring her beauty even when I was also a girl.
“I’m Sam,” she said with a wide, cute smile. “I don’t have your current measurements, so I need to measure you. Can you follow me?”
I blew a soft sigh and nodded. I had been following people since I stepped into Milan. Sam led me to a small dressing room with a standing mirror. It was still awkward for me to strip in front of a designer, but I needed to show the people at the event that I was a professional. A rookie in international fashion events but definitely a professional. Damn. Those words were my mother's and not even mine.
The excitement growing inside me became stronger when I caught Sam's eyes. Her eyes flickered with a thrill as I exposed my breasts to the mirror. Instead of being suspicious, I suddenly had the urge to show her more of me. I reached down to my lace panties and pulled the belt lower, acting like I was checking something down there. Sam's eyes followed my hands and sparkled more when I exposed some of my skin near my crotch.
Tamara! I imagined my mother yelling at me. She would have gone crazy if she had seen what I just did. She...no. I was the one who got crazy! What the hell was I doing? Why was I trying to seduce a seamstress?
“W-what is it that you have to do again?” I asked with a stutter.
Sam smiled softly and walked towards me. She pulled out the measuring tape from her pocket and moved behind me.
“You have quite a lovely figure,” Sam whispered behind my back.
A strong, warm breath accompanied her words, and it blew on my bare back, sending shivers down my spine. I jolted when the tips of her hands ran across my shoulders as she measured them. What is happening? It was not my first time to be measured or to be held by a designer. It was the first time I felt this strange.
A loud gulp escaped my mouth when she wrapped the measuring tape around my bust. She moved in front of me to measure it better. I froze when the backs of her fingers touched the tips of my nipples. I wondered if it was intentional, but the spark from her skin was enough to make my nipples turn hard.
“Breathe, Tamara,” Sam reminded me.
“I’m sorry,” I said while blowing out a heavy breath.
“You will look pretty in my designs,” Sam said as she measured my waist.
“Y-your designs?” I repeated. “You’re Rinaldi?”
Sam chuckled softly before admitting, “Yes. I am Sam Rinaldi.”
#
“I can’t believe she’s presenting before me!” Korin Doyle yelled at the event organizer.
I stopped measuring Tamara’s hips and listened to her whining. Tamara gave me a questioning look. I shook my head as a reply and gave her a sign to leave the room. The nerve, I thought as Korin continued to demand that she present before me. I wanted to storm out of my tent and confront her, but I got distracted. She distracted me – Tamara Simons.
I am a lesbian, but I was a professional fashion designer. Models were only for my designs and nothing else. They stripped before me or showed everything in front of me, but I never had the urge to touch them. They were nothing but fashion tools. But Tamara was different.
When the organizer told her to step aside, I knew that Korin had changed her mind about her.
Korin was a whimsical bitch. She was desperate to become the next best thing, but she still refused to break the norm. Using models with pencil frames was so 2000s.
“It’s her father, isn’t it?” Korin whined. “That woman always gets what she wants because of him.”
My jaw clenched, and I wanted to throw a punch at her. My father had nothing to do with this. He did not even want me to be a fashion designer. Korin was still using my father’s wealth to justify her incompetence.
“What kind of dresses would she present with those fatties?” Korin added.
Tamara’s mouth dropped after hearing Korin’s words. She looked in the mirror to check her body.
“You’re not fat,” I quickly told her. “You’re beautiful.”
The anger in her eyes washed away, and delight sparked from them. I grabbed my finest dress from the rack and gave it to her. She took the dress and looked at it with wide eyes before giving me a questioning look.
“You’ll be my ending fairy,” I told her. “Let’s make that bitch see that my models are not fatties. They’re women with actual boobs.”
Tamara laughed loudly at my comment; I smiled instead of joining her laughter. Her deep, dark blue eyes crinkled as her lips stretched from ear to ear. Her lips were a little thin, but she had a Meg Ryan smile. She had the typical all-American appearance – long, wavy blonde hair, blue eyes, and slightly freckled cheeks. Not that outstanding compared to the other models, but she fit the criteria of Barbie.
But there was also something about her that intrigued me. No. Something that excited me. Perhaps it was because of what we had in common. Many people looked down on us at the event, and we wanted to prove them wrong; or maybe because I did not just see her as a model. She was more. She was a woman – one that my eyes could not stop admiring and the one that made my heart race.
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