Brandon's POV
The lights dimmed. The room hushed. From backstage, I stood half-hidden, bracing myself as Chloe prepared to step into the glow of the runway.
The music struck first.
A low, rolling bass pulsed through the speakers, crawling up from the floorboards and rattling in my chest like a second, stubborn heartbeat. It wasn't background noise—it demanded attention, heavy and unrelenting. Retro, dark, the kind of rhythm that didn't just fill the room but claimed it.
Then the lights followed—searing, merciless beams slicing across the runway like white-hot blades. The glossy surface transformed under them, gleaming like glass, too sharp, too honest. It was the kind of stage that exposed everything—every misstep, every crack in confidence.
And Chloe was about to walk straight into that.
There was no announcer. No voice to soften the blow. Just complete silence waiting to be broken.
And then she appeared.
Chloe.
