My Curvy African Model

Chapter Two:The 6AM Fitting From Hell

The alarm rang at 4:30 a.m. I stared at my tiny ceiling in Queens, where the paint was peeling and the heater made a sound like a dying goat, and I contemplated pretending I was dead.

My feet were still throbbing from yesterday's six-inch stilettos. My ego was still bruised from being called a newborn giraffe on an ice rink by the most handsome and most arrogant man in Manhattan. But I had a contract. An actual contract with Knight Fashion House.

I dragged my twenty-three-year-old body out of bed. I looked at my reflection. My curly afro was in a bonnet, my eyes were puffy, and I had a faint line on my cheek from where I slept on my portfolio. Supermodel material, truly.

By 5:15 a.m., I was on the subway, squeezed between a man who was eating a full breakfast sandwich and a woman who was doing her makeup with the focus of a surgeon. I was wearing the only decent thing I had left — a simple black dress that actually fit my size fourteen frame, and flat shoes. Flat, sensible, non-giraffe shoes, as instructed by Mr. Adrian Knight.

Knight Tower at 5:50 a.m. looks even more intimidating than it did yesterday. The glass building reflects the early morning sky, and the security guard looked at me as though I was there to steal something.

"Name?" he asked.

"Zara Okoro. Fitting. Six a.m. For Knight Fashion," I said, trying to sound confident.

He checked his list and nodded. "Forty-second floor. They are waiting."

Waiting. The word sent a chill down my spine.

When the elevator opened on the forty-second floor, it was not just the casting director waiting. It was a small army. Three stylists, two makeup artists, a photographer, and the casting director herself, all with coffee cups and expressions that said they would rather be anywhere else.

And in the center of it all, leaning against a clothing rack with his arms crossed, was Adrian Knight.

At six in the morning.

Wearing a charcoal grey suit that looked like it had been stitched onto his body by angels. His hair was still damp, as though he had just come from the gym. His stormy grey eyes found mine instantly.

"You are late," he said.

I checked my phone. It was 5:59 a.m.

"I am one minute early, sir," I said before I could stop myself.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. "You are supposed to be here ten minutes before your call time. In my company, early is on time. On time is late. Late is unemployed."

The stylists all looked down at their coffee, pretending they did not hear the execution.

"Understood, sir. I will remember that tomorrow, sir," I said, clutching my bag tighter.

He pushed off the rack and walked towards me. Up close, he was even more devastating. He smelled like expensive cologne and cold morning air. I had to tilt my head back to look at him.

"Flat shoes," he noted, glancing down. "Good. You can learn."

"I am a fast learner, sir. Especially when threatened with unemployment before breakfast."

For a second, I thought I saw that almost-smile again. That twitch at the corner of his mouth that made my heart do something stupid.

"Let's see if you can be a fast learner on the runway," he said. "This is not a charity, Miss Okoro. I gave you a contract because you have presence. Presence does not sell clothes if you cannot wear them properly. The New York trial campaign shoots in three days. If you fail, you don't just lose this contract. You will never work in this city again. Do you understand?"

His voice was low, calm, and absolutely lethal. This was not a joke. This was my entire dream hanging on three days.

"I understand, sir," I whispered.

"Good. Elena will measure you."

Elena, a tiny woman with bright pink hair and a measuring tape around her neck, stepped forward and smiled kindly at me — the first kind smile I had received in this building.

"Don't mind him, honey. He talks to everyone like they are about to be fired. It's his love language," she whispered as she pulled me behind a curtain.

The fitting was humiliating and wonderful at the same time. The clothes were beautiful — dresses that I had only seen on i********:, fabrics that felt like water in my hands. But none of the sample sizes fit.

"Size fourteen is not in our sample set," Elena said apologetically. "We usually make size zero and then photoshop the curves on."

I stared at her. "You photoshop curves?"

"Welcome to fashion, baby," she laughed, but her eyes were sad. "But don't worry. We will make it work. Your hips are going to make this dress look better than it ever looked on a hanger."

For the first time since I arrived in New York, someone said my hips were an advantage.

When I stepped out from behind the curtain in a stunning emerald green wrap dress that clung to my waist and flared over my hips, the room went silent.

I looked in the mirror and barely recognized myself. My afro was now defined and full, my makeup was subtle but glowing, and the dress — God, the dress made me look like a queen. Like I belonged on a billboard.

I turned slightly, and the fabric moved with me.

Adrian Knight had not moved from his spot. His arms were still crossed, but his eyes were no longer bored. They were dark, intense, scanning me from head to toe with an intensity that made my cheeks burn.

"Turn," he ordered.

I turned.

"Again."

I turned again.

He walked around me slowly, like a sculptor examining his work. I could feel the heat radiating from his suit.

"The green works," he said finally, his voice a little rougher than before. "The camera will love the contrast with your skin. Elena, make three more dresses in her size. Same style, different colors. We shoot the lookbook tomorrow, not in three days."

Tomorrow? My heart stopped.

"Sir, tomorrow is—"

"Tomorrow is when I decided," he cut me off, his eyes locking with mine. "You said you are a fast learner, Miss Okoro. Prove it. If you are not ready by tomorrow 6 a.m., don't bother coming."

He turned and walked towards the elevator, dismissing us all again.

"Mr. Knight!" I called out without thinking.

He stopped, hand on the elevator door, and looked over his shoulder.

"Thank you," I said, my voice small but sincere. "For giving me a chance. For seeing... me."

For a long moment, he just stared at me, his grey eyes unreadable. Then he said, quietly enough that only I could hear,

"Don't thank me yet, Zara. You have not survived me yet."

The elevator doors closed, and he was gone, leaving behind his cologne and my wildly beating heart.

Elena squeezed my arm. "Girl, he never stays for fittings. Never. He stayed for you. And he ordered dresses in your size. Do you know how much money that costs? Honey, you are either going to be very famous, or he is going to be very obsessed with you. Either way, you just made history in this tower."

I looked back at the mirror, at the girl in the emerald dress who looked nothing like the scared girl from yesterday's hallway.

I was still twenty-three. I was still size fourteen. I was still broke and living in Queens with peeling paint.

But for the first time since I left Lagos, I felt like I might actually make it in New York.

And I also felt like Adrian Knight, the billionaire who called me a giraffe, was going to be the most dangerous and most exciting problem I had ever encountered.