Kayleigh bolted upright in bed, her heart hammering like a fashion intern at a sample sale. A shrill alarm bleated beside her, angry and unforgiving.

She lunged for her phone. 8:20 a.m.

8:20 a.m.?!

“Oh my actual gosh!” she yelped, flailing for the edge of the bed. But something was pinning her down. A large, very warm, very naked something.

“Marcus!” she hissed, struggling like a fish in a net. “Marcus, wake up!”

He groaned and rolled, slinging an arm around her. “Mmm… five more minutes…”

Not on my dead, unemployed body.

She kicked free and leapt out of bed, only to realise she was stark naked.

She snatched the top sheet and wrapped it around herself like a toga, but the movement yanked the rest of the bedding off the mattress revealing all of Marcus.

All. Of. Marcus.

Kayleigh screamed. An embarrassing, high-pitched yelp that sounded like a squirrel stepping on a Lego. Her skull throbbed in protest.

The wine. How much wine did they even drink? And what vintage came with bonus nudity and memory loss?

She blinked through the haze. Her studio flat was a disaster. Clothes, empty wine bottles, and one heel - just one? - were scattered like a crime scene. CSI: Beaujolais Edition.

“This can’t be happening,” she muttered, pressing her palms to her temples.

Marcus stirred, his voice deep and maddeningly sexy. “What’s wrong?”

Oh, just everything. Her life was a Jenga tower and someone had yanked out the bottom block.

“Kay Kay?” he said again, eyes now open and smouldering. “Are you okay?”

Don’t call me that when you're naked and handsome. It’s cruel, she almost cried.

She snapped out of it and threw his shirt and boxers at him like they were on fire. “No. Yes. No! I have to be at Oxford Circus in twenty minutes!”

Marcus blinked. “You’ll make it. Just take the Bakerloo line.”

“I know how the Tube works, Marcus!” she shouted, frantically grabbing her clothes. “I still have to look professional enough to fool actual fashion people into thinking I belong there!”

He smirked. “You do belong there.”

Oh, no. Absolutely not. He was not allowed to be kind right now. That was emotional sabotage.

“Do you… want to talk about this? We really should,” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

Oh yes, let's have a heart-to-heart while I'm sprinting toward a future that may already be cancelled.

“Not now,” she said, already halfway to the bathroom. “Just... let yourself out.”

Five minutes and the fastest shower of her life later, Kayleigh emerged, mascara on one eye, wet hair sticking to her neck.

Marcus was gone.

And so, possibly, was her sanity.

***

Kilton’s House of Fashion, 9:05 a.m.

Kayleigh burst through the glass doors, her nerves fried, her dignity in critical condition and her lipstick half eaten from the nervous chewing of her lower lip. She gave her name to the receptionist, who looked at her like she was a sentient puddle of gum on the marble floor.

“Ms Weston will be with you shortly,” the woman said coolly, her smile thin enough to slice prosciutto.

Kayleigh tried to breathe. This was the moment. This was everything.

The lobby was pure elegance. Marble, navy, gold and absolutely zero places to hide if you happened to be radiating panic.

The sharp click of heels echoed through the room. Kayleigh turned.

A woman in her late thirties glided toward her like a swan dipped in Chanel. Her navy dress was precision-tailored, her French braid wrapped tighter than Kayleigh’s nerves, and her lipstick was red enough to cause traffic violations.

Her eyes swept over Kayleigh - LV bag, all-black outfit, sage nails, slight eyeliner tremor, clear signs of caffeine withdrawal.

“Ms Weston,” Kayleigh said, extending a hopeful hand.

“You’re late,” Ms Weston replied without breaking stride.

“Sorry. There was... um... a Tube delay.” And a naked Marcus delay.

“We start at nine sharp,” Ms. Weston clipped. “Come. I’ll show you to your department.”

They stepped into the gold elevator. Ms Weston pressed the button with all the joy of someone filing a tax audit.

“You’ll be with Greta Borg on bridal. Four weeks. After that, you rotate depending on our needs and your performance. Which determines your reference letter, signed by Mr Kilton himself.”

Kayleigh swallowed. “Got it.”

“Good.”

The fifth floor was fashion chaos incarnate in the best way. Racks of dresses, bursts of laughter and the low hum of creativity filled the air.

Kayleigh’s heart skipped. She was inside an actual fashion engine.

They reached a large studio. Light poured in, illuminating an ethereal space filled with half-finished gowns and bolts of silk.

“Who’s the doe?” a smoky voice called behind them.

Kayleigh turned to see a tall, skinny woman with a pixie cut and killer cheekbones striding toward them.

“Greta, this is Ms Kayleigh Moore,” Ms Weston announced. “She is late. She is sorry. She will not do it again.”

Greta raised a single eyebrow. “All duly noted.”

Ms Weston’s earpiece buzzed.

“They’re here,” she said, her mask of control cracking.

“Here we go,” Greta muttered under her breath.

“Get the champagne,” Ms Weston ordered to nobody in particular. “Where’s the dress? Where’s Jean Luc?”

“Capri.”

“Well, of course he is!”

As Ms Weston clacked off toward the elevator, Greta clapped her hands.

“Okay, people! Show starts in three minutes. Chandelier lighting - two-thirds only. Mario, champagne. The good stuff, not the bottle from last Friday’s disaster. And please polish the damn flutes this time!”

The room whirled into motion. Lights on. Gown wheeled in.

Kayleigh’s jaw dropped.

The wedding dress was a fairytale with a vengeance. A glittering masterpiece of gold dust, crystal beading and enough drama to make a Real Housewife weep.

Greta barked, “Cover it! Fiancé alert!”

Just then, a tray swept past, nearly decapitating Kayleigh. Her bag slipped, spilling its guts onto the parquet.

“Watch it! That champagne’s worth more than my liver!” the tray-boy snapped.

Kayleigh dropped to the floor. “Clumsy is not fashionable, Kayleigh,” she sang, scooping up her lipstick and sketch paper.

Then came a chime. The elevator.

She looked up.

Out stepped Ms Weston flanked by Abigail Kilton herself, in black jeans, pre-launch ankle boots and a face Kayleigh had cut out of Vogue covers and stuck to her admission board at age fourteen. She was only two years older than her. But she was Kayleigh's idol. Behind her, Maxwell Kilton towered in a sleek grey suit, barking orders into a phone like a general.

Kayleigh froze. Her binder slipped again. Her thoughts short-circuited.

Her idols were in front of her.

And she was on her knees.