My Curvy African Model

Chapter Nine:Back To New York

The private jet that had brought them to Paris in silence now flew back to New York in chaos.

It was not the plane that was chaotic — the plane was as perfect and cold and quiet as its owner, all cream leather and polished wood and champagne that no one was drinking. It was the world outside the plane that was chaotic.

Elena had sent seventeen messages in the last hour. Her mother had sent thirty-four. The Knight Fashion group chat had exploded with two hundred unread messages. Her i********:, which had twelve thousand followers when she left Queens, now showed ninety-eight thousand and climbing every time she refreshed.

The photo causing the chaos was everywhere — a blurry screenshot taken by someone in the third row at the Grand Palais. It was not even a professional photo. It was shaky, slightly out of focus, but unmistakable: Adrian Knight, CEO of Knight Fashion, standing up in the front row in his black tuxedo, his hands clapping, his eyes locked on the curvy girl in red satin closing the show with a wink that was now being reposted with captions like "SHE ATE AND LEFT NO CRUMBS" and "THE WINK THAT ENDED SIZE ZERO."

Underneath that photo, the second photo that was going viral: a paparazzi shot from outside Le Meurice at 7 a.m., taken through a long lens. She was in her oversized sunglasses and his black coat over her robe, laughing, his hand on the small of her back as he guided her to the car. Her golden giraffe necklace glittered at her throat.

The headline: "KNIGHT'S NEW MUSE? Billionaire CEO Spotted With Curvy Closer After Paris Triumph."

She stared at her phone, her hands cold, her stomach tight.

Across from her, he sat working on his laptop, his face calm, his white shirt sleeves rolled up, his jaw set in that familiar boardroom way. He had not looked at his phone once since takeoff. He had looked at her constantly.

"You should not read the comments," he said without looking up from his laptop, as though he could feel her anxiety from across the cabin.

"They are saying I slept my way to the closing spot," she whispered, her voice small. "They are saying I am a diversity hire. They are saying my hips are too big for haute couture and you only stood up because you are—" she choked on the words, "—because you are sleeping with me."

His laptop snapped shut.

The sound was sharp in the quiet jet.

He looked up, his grey eyes dark and furious, but not at her. At the world that dared to say it.

"Come here," he said quietly.

She hesitated, clutching her phone, then unbuckled her seatbelt and moved across the cabin to sit beside him. He immediately pulled her into his arms, his large hand cupping the back of her head, holding her against his chest where his heart was beating steady and strong.

"Listen to me," he murmured into her bonnet, his voice low and fierce. "You did not sleep your way to anything. You walked your way there. In flat shoes that I told you were unsuitable. Do you remember? You walked into my building, terrified, and you told me you would be early. You have been early every single day since. You have worked harder than any model I have ever hired. You think I would risk my grandmother's legacy, my company's reputation, Paris Fashion Week, for a girl I was sleeping with? I would not. I stood up because you were magnificent. I stood up because Anna Wintour took off her sunglasses. I stood up because for the first time in five years, my brand had a soul again, and it was wearing red satin and winking at me."

Tears burned her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Not now.

"But the blogs—"

"The blogs will write whatever gets them clicks for twenty-four hours and then they will write that you are the future of fashion for the next twelve months because they have no choice. Numbers do not lie. Our website crashed three times. The red gown has a waitlist of four thousand women. Four thousand, Zara. Women who have never seen themselves on a Paris runway before saw you and wanted to be you."

He pulled back slightly, his hands framing her face, his thumbs wiping away the tears that escaped anyway.

"I am going to tell you what is going to happen when we land," he said, his voice steady, CEO calm now, the man who handled boards and billion-dollar deals. "We will land at Teterboro. There will be paparazzi. I have already told security to ignore them. You will walk out of that jet in my coat, wearing that necklace, holding my hand. Not hiding. Not ashamed. You will walk like you walked in Paris. Like you own the tarmac. Do you understand?"

"But your board—"

"My board works for me. Not the other way around. My grandmother built this company in 1968 with one sewing machine and a dream that fashion should make women feel powerful. My mother forgot that dream. I forgot that dream. You remembered it for us. If the board has a problem with my girl closing Paris, they can resign."

My girl.

Again. That dangerous, possessive, beautiful phrase that made her heart flip every time.

"You keep calling me that," she whispered, her cheeks flushing.

"That is because you are," he said simply, kissing her forehead, her temple, her cheek, slow and unhurried despite the chaos waiting on the ground. "You have been mine since you winked at me in my hallway and I pretended not to be affected. I was affected. Deeply. Completely. And I am done pretending otherwise."

The jet began its descent, New York's skyline appearing through the small oval windows — grey, familiar, home.

She looked out, her hand in his, her golden giraffe necklace warm against her skin, and for the first time since the viral photo, she did not feel afraid.

Let them talk. Let them write headlines. Let them say hips are too big.

She had closed Paris Fashion Week. She had made Anna Wintour take off her sunglasses. She had made a billionaire who never stood for anyone stand for her.

And now, she was flying back to New York holding his hand, about to walk off a private jet in his coat with ninety-eight thousand followers and a waitlist of four thousand women who wanted her red gown.

The plane touched down with a soft bump.

Teterboro was swarming.

Through the window, she could see flashing cameras, black SUVs, security guards pushing back reporters shouting her name.

"ZARA! ZARA! OVER HERE! ARE YOU AND MR. KNIGHT DATING?"

Her hands tightened around his.

He stood, pulling her up with him, straightening his shirt, then gently pulling his black wool coat around her shoulders. It smelled like him, expensive and safe.

"Remember what I told you in the fitting room on your first day?" he murmured, his hand on the small of her back as the jet door opened and cold New York air rushed in with the sound of shouting.

"What?"

"Flat shoes are not runway shoes. But you made them runway shoes. Now make this tarmac your runway."

She took a deep breath, lifted her chin the way Julien had taught her, slipped her hand into his, and stepped out into the flashing lights.

The cameras went insane.

She did not hide. She did not shrink. She walked down those jet stairs like she had walked in Paris — slow, deliberate, hips rolling, chin high, golden necklace glittering, his coat around her shoulders like armor.

And beside her, Adrian Knight, who never held any model's hand in public, held hers tightly and walked with her into the storm he knew she could weather.

Because she was not unsuitable.

She was unforgettable.

And New York was about to remember her name.