The Space She Leaves Behind

Chapter 2: Before the Gala

I kicked off my heels and let Mia read off the next part of my day.

“Fitting at two, then we’re heading straight to the hotel,” she said, scrolling through her tablet. “Quick briefing with the brand director for tomorrow’s gala. Shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes.”

I closed my eyes for a second. “What time is it?”

“One-thirty. We’re on schedule.”

The car ride was short, maybe ten minutes, but I already felt the weight of the day pressing into my spine. I shifted in my seat and looked out the window. The city was busy, but my mind felt quiet—too quiet, like the calm before something unfamiliar.

The fitting studio was in a converted warehouse downtown—white walls, wide windows, racks of clothes waiting like nervous dancers backstage. A woman with a headset greeted us at the door.

“Right this way, Miss Salvatierra.”

The room was already buzzing when we stepped in. Stylists moved like bees around a queen. Someone offered me sparkling water, which I took without really tasting. The head stylist, Jean, walked up to me with a wide grin.

“Lysera, darling, we have five looks. Couture. Elegant. Clean lines. You’ll be breathtaking.”

I smiled. “Let’s hope they fit.”

“They will. We adjusted the tailoring based on your last measurements. But if anything’s off, we have time.”

The first dress was a cream-colored silk gown with an open back and hand-stitched crystals along the waist. It felt like stepping into a dream. Jean adjusted the hem as I stood on the platform, letting the fabric fall around me like water.

“No movements just yet,” she said. “Let me see how it sits on your shoulders.”

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Even in bad lighting, the gown looked like it was made for me. But I couldn’t help but think of how I’d feel after three hours in it tomorrow—smiling, standing, being seen.

“I like this one,” I said softly.

Jean lit up. “It’s the first option. If we land on this, we’ll do a final steam tomorrow morning.”

The next few dresses were equally stunning: a structured black velvet piece with a deep V-neck, a soft gold tulle gown with delicate embroidery, and a striking red column dress that nearly stole my breath.

I moved in and out of the options like I was changing skin.

Mia stood to the side, capturing notes and sending quick approvals. Between fittings, she mouthed updates: time check, driver confirmed, room ready.

It was always like this—fast, seamless, beautifully choreographed. A silent dance between teams that never quite belonged to me, but always revolved around me.

When we reached the last look, Jean clapped her hands. “Now this one… this is the moment dress.”

I stepped out in a white satin gown with a high neckline and low back. Understated, but impossible to ignore.

“Simple, but powerful,” Jean said. “It doesn’t scream—it holds the room.”

I turned slowly in front of the mirror. The fabric hugged every line of me, but nothing felt forced. I could already imagine the cameras, the questions, the eyes.

“This one,” I said.

“Perfect. I’ll have it pressed and delivered to your suite by eight.”

By the time we wrapped up, it was almost four. I changed back into my clothes—comfortable, casual, forgettable—and thanked the team. Another smile, another photo, another set of goodbyes.

In the car again, Mia opened her tablet.

“Quick update: the briefing’s been moved up. We’ll go straight to the hotel and do it in the lounge. Brand director will meet us there.”

I nodded, rubbing the back of my neck. “I need coffee first.”

“Already ordered.”

She was always two steps ahead of me. I leaned back and stared at the ceiling of the car.

“How long is the briefing?”

“Fifteen, twenty minutes tops. Just to walk through the schedule, run-of-show, press plan.”

“Good. I don’t want a full debrief today.”

“Understood.”

The hotel was quiet when we arrived—discreet staff, tinted windows, familiar faces behind reception. I walked straight to the lounge, where a table had already been set up with a folder, a laptop, and the coffee Mia promised.

The brand director was already there. Mid-forties, clean suit, practiced smile.

“Lysera,” he stood to greet me. “Thank you for making time.”

“Of course.”

He opened the folder as I sat. “Tomorrow’s gala is a big one—industry heavyweights, major press. You’re seated at Table 2, right beside two of our key partners. They’ll expect a little conversation, nothing heavy.”

“Got it.”

“We’ve prepared talking points if you’re asked about the campaign. Keep it light—talk about clean beauty, authenticity, your connection to the brand.”

“Nothing scripted, but polished,” I said.

“Exactly.”

He scrolled on his tablet. “Red carpet starts at six. You’ll arrive just before. There’ll be a stylist and assistant waiting. We’ve booked a private area for touch-ups if needed. You’ll be doing a short photo call, then straight into the venue.”

I nodded, absorbing it all. It wasn’t new. Just another variation of the same routine.

“Any questions?”

I paused. “Do I have to give a speech?”

He smiled. “Not unless you win something.”

“Then we’re safe.”

He laughed politely, then checked his watch. “That’s all for now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Thanks.”

He stood, shook my hand, and left as efficiently as he arrived. I sat there for a moment, sipping my coffee, letting the quiet return.

Mia walked in and gave me a look. “All good?”

“All good.”

“Want to go to your room?”

“Not yet.”

“Need anything?”

I thought for a second. “Silence.”

She smiled. “I’ll make sure no one disturbs you.”

She left me there, in the soft light of the lounge. I watched the steam curl from my cup and wondered, not for the first time, how something so beautiful could feel so exhausting.

But I also knew—this was the job. The performance. The image.

And I had made peace with it.

At least, for now.

After about 30 minutes, the sound of footsteps brought me back to my senses.

Mia returned with a crease between her brows, holding her phone like it had personally offended her.

“You’re trending again.”

I sighed. “What is it this time?”

She sat down slowly, scrolling until she found the post. “Apparently you threw a fit at a photoshoot in Paris last week. Walked off set. Screamed at the lighting crew.”

I blinked. “Paris?”

“That’s what they’re saying.”

“I wasn’t in Paris last week. I was in Tokyo.”

“I know. But someone claimed a ‘reliable insider’ confirmed it.”

I took her phone and stared at the headline.

“Lysera’s Diva Behavior Strikes Again?”

Beneath it, a blurry photo of me mid-step, looking away from the camera. My face is unreadable. Cold, if you didn’t know me. Powerful, if you did.

I scrolled through the comments—half mocking, half defending me. None really knew the truth. None cared.

Mia leaned closer. “Do you want me to release a statement?”

I shook my head. “No. Let it die like the others.”

“But it’s gaining traction. Even the Paris team texted to check if you were okay.”

I looked up at her. “I haven’t even worked with that team in six months.”

She exhaled. “I know. But all it takes is one whisper in the right hallway.”

I nodded, slowly handing her back the phone. My fingers suddenly felt cold.

This was the part no one warned me about. Not the photoshoots or the long flights. But the way your silence could be rewritten into someone else’s scandal.

I stood up, smoothing down my coat. “The dress will be here by eight, right?”

“Yeah. And the car to the airport’s set for ten.”

I nodded, walked to the window, and stared out at the city. Somewhere, someone was already sharing the rumor like it was the truth.

And I couldn’t stop it.

But I could keep walking.

Let them talk.

They always would.