In between Sunsets and Rain.

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Scene – Madrid, Spain | Palacio de Cibeles – Evening

The lights dimmed, and the runway glowed in a moody gold. Cameras clicked like static thunder. My heels echoed against the marble, a steady, precise rhythm I'd perfected over years of runways from Paris to Milan.

"Rheagan Sophia Margaux Valliere, in La Marquésa de Cristal, from Valentina Rocé's Primavera Absoluta collection," the host's voice floated through the venue.

Valentina Rocé. Spain's most elite and controversial couturier—known for marrying old-world Spanish aristocracy with futuristic silhouettes. Every model in the back wanted this piece. Pero obviously, it was mine. It had to be.

The dress clung to me like liquid moonlight—ivory silk sculpted with sharp corsetry and delicate lace trailing like whispers down my legs. Crystals embroidered like constellations. One slit, dangerously high. One shoulder, dramatically exaggerated.

As I reached the end of the runway, I paused—head slightly tilted, one foot forward, the lights catching my cheekbones and collarbones just so.

Someone from the front row gasped. Maybe the editor of Vogue España. Or maybe just another socialite's husband.

I smirked. Qué idiota.

I walked back, spine straight, shoulders back, unbothered. I could already hear Mamita later: "That's my granddaughter. Valliere the embodiment of grace and poise."

And honestly? She wasn't wrong.

Backstage, Valentina kissed both my cheeks. "Perfecto, Rheagan. You made it an art."

I flipped my hair back, flawless and untouched. "That's what I do, cariño."
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Backstage exploded the moment I stepped behind the curtain. Flashbulbs burst like fireworks, and every photographer in the pit surged forward like I was the final act of a show they'd been begging to witness.

"Rheagan, look here!"
"Over the shoulder—yes, yes, perfect!"
"Una más! Rheagan, sonrisa, please!"

I gave them one glance—half-lidded,  Just that signature tilt of my lips that screamed, you're lucky I let you look at me.

Valentina stood behind me, beaming, whispering to some British editor, "She is the dress."

Around me, models still in gowns turned to stare. One tried not to choke on her envy as she adjusted her hair. Another, a blonde from Milan, muttered under her breath in Italian.

I caught it.

"A goddess? Yeah. I know," I said as I passed her, voice flat but with that upper-class cut only conyo girls mastered. My stilettos clicked against the marble as the floor parted like I was royalty. Because I was.

I reached the backstage lounge—draped in velvet, champagne already on ice. A few models smiled with tight lips. One of them, French, leaned toward another and whispered something.

So I leaned in, too. "If you're going to whisper about me, at least be pretty."

Their faces fell. I walked away, robe draped over the La Marquésa de Cristal, still glowing under the lights. My phone buzzed—Anastasia had posted a story tagging me:

"Spain's finest. My girl is untouchable. @rheagan.valliere"

And just like that, the whole city knew: I owned the night.

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-Flashback-

The chandeliers sparkled like frost. The air smelled of old money—imported roses, waxed hardwood, and aged cognac. Mamita sat upright in her velvet antique chair like a queen in a courtroom, a Baccarat glass in her hand, fingers adorned in inherited gold.