The Fashion Designer's Debut
"Claudette designs for curves the industry ignores. When a fashion week producer wants her collection, she discovers some debuts need a partner backstage."
Fashion should fit everyone.
Twenty-five years designing for bodies the industry calls "plus"—I call them real. I'm Claudette—fifty-seven, founder of Curvature Couture, dressing women who deserve beauty too.
"I want your collection for Fashion Week."
The producer stands in my Garment District studio. Marcus Webb—powerful, deciding who shows and who dreams.
"Fashion Week doesn't want my clothes."
"Fashion Week wants what moves culture." He examines a gown. "Your work moves me. It'll move them too."
The offer is unprecedented.
Full runway show, prime slot, resources I've begged for decades.
"Why now?" I ask.
"Because the moment is right." He faces me. "And because I've watched you fight for years. It's time you won."
"You've watched?"
"Every trade show, every pop-up, every refusal." His voice softens. "Your persistence is remarkable, Claudette."
Preparation is intense.
Six months of creation, Marcus present for all of it—not controlling, supporting.
"You don't have to be here," I say.
"I want to be here." He handles a sample. "I've produced hundreds of shows. Never felt invested like this."
"Why?"
"Because you make clothes with love." His eyes meet mine. "I've forgotten what that looks like."
Love becomes more.
Late nights in the studio, his hands steadying mine, proximity becoming purpose.
"This is unprofessional," I warn.
"This is inevitable." He moves closer. "Tell me you don't feel it."
"I feel everything."
"Then let me feel too."
The kiss happens among fabric.
Bolts of my creation surrounding us, his mouth finding mine.
"This complicates things," I breathe.
"This completes things." He smiles. "The collection needs this energy."
His penthouse is sparse.
"I've never decorated," he admits. "Always moving, always producing, never staying."
"Stay now." I take his hands. "Let me show you what home feels like."
He undresses me like unveiling a collection.
"Masterpiece," he whispers.
"I'm the designer, not the design—"
"You're both." His mouth traces my curves. "The best work is always autobiographical."
His hands learn my patterns.
Finding where seams meet, where fabric gathers. When his mouth travels lower, I feel debuted.
"Marcus—"
"This is your preview." He settles between my thighs. "Before the world sees you."
When he enters me, we're creating something.
"So good," he groans.
"More. The finale hasn't happened yet."
"Then let's make it unforgettable."
Afterward, in his empty penthouse, he decides.
"Move in."
"We just—"
"Move in. Bring your fabrics, your patterns, everything." He pulls me closer. "Fill this space with life. With you."
"Marcus—"
"Marry me, Claudette. Let me produce every debut of your life."
Fashion Week is a triumph.
Standing ovation, critical acclaim, orders flooding in.
"To the woman who dressed the industry's blind spot," Marcus toasts at the afterparty.
"To the man who gave her the stage," I counter.
The wedding is on the runway.
Where we debuted together, where curves finally mattered.
We kiss while the industry applauds.
Some designers dream small.
Some find producers who dream bigger.
And some fashion visions require a partner who sees beauty the same way.
Designed together.
Fitted perfectly.
Forever styled.