My Curvy African Model

Chapter Six:Paris - The Final Walk

Paris smelled like perfume, cold air, and expensive people.

I had never been on an airplane before. My first flight in my life was on Adrian Knight's private jet. A private jet. Me, Zara Okoro, who used to take the Q44 bus in Queens, was now sitting on white leather seats, drinking orange juice from a real glass, while Elena took photos of me crying.

"Girl, stop crying, you will ruin your lashes," Elena hissed, but she was crying too.

Knight Tower Paris was even more intimidating than New York. Glass, marble, people speaking French so fast it sounded like music. And every single person knew my name.

"C'est Zara! La fille du Plaza!"

"The curvy American!"

I was fitted for the finale dress at midnight. It was not midnight blue. It was red. A deep, blood-red, satin gown with a corset that cinched my waist to oblivion and a skirt that flowed like liquid fire, with a slit that made the Plaza dress look modest. Size fourteen. Made for me.

"You will close the show," Julien said, pinning the dress, his hands shaking from excitement. "Do you understand? The close. The last girl. The one everyone remembers. When you walk, the lights go down, the music stops, and you are the final image."

I looked at my reflection. I was shaking.

"What if I fall, Julien? What if I fall in front of Anna Wintour? What if I fall and my size fourteen body causes an earthquake in Paris?"

"You will not fall," a voice said from the doorway.

Adrian.

He was in a black suit, no tie, top buttons undone, looking exhausted and devastatingly handsome. He had been in board meetings for twelve hours straight, fighting his own board who said a size fourteen closer was financial suicide.

"Mr. Knight," I whispered. "You are still awake."

"I don't sleep during fashion week. Neither will you," he said, walking into the fitting room, his eyes locking on the red dress, on me. His gaze went dark, possessive, hungry. "Turn around."

I turned slowly. The dress moved like water.

He exhaled sharply, as though someone had punched him.

"Julien, leave us," he said, without looking away from me.

Julien vanished instantly.

The door closed.

It was just us, the mirrors, and the red dress.

"You look..." he started, then stopped, his jaw clenching. He took a step closer, then another, until he was inches away. I could see the tiredness under his stormy grey eyes, the tension in his shoulders.

"Suitable again, sir?" I tried to joke, but my voice trembled.

"No," he murmured, his hand hovering near my waist, not touching, as though afraid the dress would burn him. "You look like you were made to ruin me, Zara. Do you know that?"

My breath caught.

"Sir, you are my boss," I whispered, even though my heart was screaming something else.

"I know," he said, his voice rough, low. "And you are twenty-three and about to become the most famous curvy model in the world. And I should not be standing this close to you in a fitting room at midnight in Paris."

"Then why are you?" I asked boldly, looking up at him, my red lips parted, my afro crown high.

Because I could not resist the question. Because for two weeks, this man had insulted me, protected me, flown dresses for me, and looked at me like I was the only woman in a city full of size zero models.

He stared at me for a long, torturous second, his grey eyes locked on mine, his hand finally, gently, settling on my waist, through the red satin.

"Because when you walk tomorrow, every man in that audience will want you. And I want to be the last man who sees you before they all do," he whispered.

My knees nearly gave out.

"Elena said men don't fly dresses by private jet for staplers," I whispered back.

"Elena talks too much," he murmured, but his thumb stroked my waist once, lightly, possessively. "Are you scared for tomorrow?"

"Yes, sir. Very scared."

"Good. Be scared. Then walk anyway. That is what makes you unforgettable. You are not fearless, Zara. You are brave. There is a difference."

He stepped back, as though forcing himself, and the cold rushed back.

"Get some sleep. 6 a.m. call time. Early is on time. And Zara?"

"Yes, sir?"

"When you close that show tomorrow, wink at me. Like you did in the corridor. Like you did on the backdrop. Only for me."

He left.

I stood in the red dress, shaking, glowing, terrified, alive.

The next day, Paris Fashion Week Finale.

The backstage was chaos — models, makeup, hairspray so thick you could not breathe. I was number 32. The last. The close.

I could hear the music pounding from the runway. One by one, girls walked. Thin, tall, beautiful. The audience clapped politely.

Then Julien grabbed my hands. "You are next. Remember — chin high, shoulders back, hips like you own the city. You are Knight Fashion. You are Zara."

The music changed. Deep, slow, powerful drums.

The stage manager whispered, "Go."

I stepped onto the runway in red.

The lights were blinding. The audience was a sea of black — a thousand faces. Front row — Anna Wintour, sunglasses on. Edward Enninful. Zendaya. And in the middle, stormy grey eyes, staring directly at me.

Adrian Knight.

He sat perfectly still, hands clasped, his entire focus on me.

I took a breath. I remembered Queens. I remembered silver glitter. I remembered being told plus-size auditions were downstairs.

And I walked.

One foot in front of the other. Sway. Sway. Sway. The red satin flowing like fire around my size fourteen hips, my afro bouncing like a crown, my red lips bold.

Gasps. Then silence. Then whispers.

"Who is that?"

"She is... stunning."

"She is closing?"

I reached the end of the runway. The music stopped. A single spotlight hit me.

I looked directly at Adrian Knight in the front row, at the man who called me a newborn giraffe, who flew a dress by private jet, who told me I take up space beautifully.

And I winked. Only for him.

His lips parted. His eyes darkened to charcoal. And then, slowly, deliberately, in front of the entire fashion world, Adrian Knight stood up and clapped.

He stood up.

And then the entire front row stood up. And then the entire audience stood up, applauding, screaming, cheering for the curvy girl from Queens in the red dress.

I, Zara Okoro, twenty-three, had just closed Paris Fashion Week.