Zoe's POV
My legs felt like rubber when I finally stepped off the runway. My knees almost gave out. The pulse of the music still thudded through my bones, the lights still clung warm against my skin, and my heart hadn't slowed. For a moment, everything blurred into a soft, bright smear.
I'd done it. I had actually done it.
The heels screamed, my ankle threatened mutiny—but still, somehow, I walked. I didn't just walk. I owned it. Owned it enough that the audience seemed to hold their breath, then exhale as one in a wave of applause.
Backstage hit like a violent, compressed storm. Stylists shouted over the roar of hairdryers. Fabric rustled like restless leaves. Girls fussed with straps and zippers. A hundred pairs of shoes turned the floor into a forest of clicks.
I tried to breathe. Tried to steady myself. But his face wouldn't leave me. Brandon.
I couldn't have done this without him.
