The music pounded like war drums behind the velvet curtain. Every bass drop hit the floorboards like a countdown to seduction. This wasn't just another fashion show in Chicago; it was the Versette Experience, the kind of show that turned models into myths, and front-row influencers into worshippers.
And Tessy? She wasn't just walking. She was arriving.
Six feet tall in her heels, with skin the color of smooth obsidian and eyes black with a flash of haunting white in one iris. Tessy looked like the kind of woman your mother warned you about and your father fantasized about. A slim silhouette with just enough curve to curve a man's loyalty, she moved like smoke through silk. She didn't strut the runway. She possessed it.
Backstage, girls half her age stared as she adjusted her thigh-slit dress with the casual grace of a veteran. Nineteen-year-olds fresh off planes from Poland and Brazil stood clutching green juices and praying for approval. Tessy had long outgrown the praying phase.
She lit a slim cigarette in the corner, ignoring the side-eyes from makeup artists and stylists. They knew better than to tell Tessy what she could or couldn't do.
"Tessy, you're closing," barked the show director, clipboard in hand. "Versette wants that walk. The one that says, 'I fucked your husband and still made him beg.'"
She exhaled smoke slowly, eyes gleaming. "I don't walk. I warn."
She lit a slim cigarette in the corner, ignoring the side-eyes from makeup artists and stylists. They knew better than to tell Tessy what she could or couldn't do.
"Tessy, you're closing," barked the show director, clipboard in hand. "Versette wants that walk. The one that says, 'I fucked your husband and still made him beg.'"
She exhaled smoke slowly, eyes gleaming. "I don't walk. I warn."
And with that, she slipped into her heels like they were forged for her sins.
When she stepped into the spotlight, time slowed. The crowd murmured. Phones rose like prayer hands. Every click of her heel was an amen. Tessy moved like music, hips swaying with a rhythm that promised destruction. Cameras didn't just capture her — they obeyed her.
Men in tailored suits leaned forward. Women in rhinestone bras whispered with envy. But Tessy didn't see them. She didn't see anything but the lights, and the hunger they fed in her.
After the walk, she peeled off the dress backstage and slipped into a silk robe like it was a second skin. She was still glowing with sweat and ego when he walked in.
David.
Tall. That careless Chicago-rich boy charm. Skin the color of gold chains and late-night bad decisions. His cologne hit first. Then the smirk.
He was Kiesha's man.
And yet, the way his eyes moved over Tessy's body made it clear: loyalty was fragile. Desire was louder.
"You killed that shit out there," he said.
"You came to see the show or the girl wearing it?"
He smiled. That smile that made women lower standards and panties.
"Both."
The air between them was thick with old sins and new fantasies. No touching. Not yet. Just heat.
Kiesha's laugh echoed from the corner of the room. Tessy turned slightly, caught sight of her best friend hugging a designer. Kiesha, beautiful in a soft, dependable way. Not sexy like Tessy. But solid. Loyal.
The kind of girl who held your hair back when you were throwing up tequila at 3 a.m. The kind of girl who knew your demons and still called you sister.
"Don't fuck him," Tessy had once told herself.
Not because she couldn't.
But because Kiesha deserved better.
But better never mattered once the night hit.
Back at her apartment that night, Tessy wiped off her makeup and peeled off her lashes like tired lies. Her body ached. Her mind buzzed. Her phone buzzed louder.
David: "You up?"
She stared at it. Blinked. Her thumb hovered. Then tapped.
Tessy: "Door's open."
Her hands shook — not from fear, but from knowing damn well she wasn't going to resist what was already burning. She didn't think about Kiesha. She didn't think about consequences. She thought about warmth. Skin. Control. Cum. Craving.
When the knock came, she didn't even answer. Just lay back, robe loose, lips parted. A scent of lavender body oil and raw need hovered in the room. Her robe dropped off her shoulder. Her fingers pressed lightly at her thighs, as if coaxing herself to be ready.
He walked in. And like he owned the moment, he didn't speak. Just stood there, watching her.
She said nothing, just opened her legs slightly wider — an invitation drenched in silence.
He stepped forward. Slow. Like a man tasting the moment. He reached for her chin, raised her face, and kissed her like he'd been dreaming of this mouth.
And then it was heat. And it was hunger.
They didn't just fuck — they collided. On the couch. Against the fridge. Her thigh bruised against the door handle. He lifted her like she was weightless and made her feel everything.
"I want you to feel shame in your pussy tomorrow," he whispered in her ear, thrusting deep.
She gasped, wrapped her legs around his waist, whispered, "Then don't stop. Fuck me till I can't say her name."
The guilt was there. Of course it was. But guilt didn't hold her down like David did. Guilt didn't know how to curl its fingers around her throat just enough to make her gasp and want more.
When it was over, Tessy lay in the aftermath — breathless, bruised, dripping with sin.
David stood, buttoning his jeans. Still no words.
He just gave her a long look — the kind that says we're both going to hell for this.
And she smiled.
Because she'd already bought a ticket.
---
The next morning, she woke up sore. The ache between her thighs was deeper than muscle. It was memory. It was heat and shame and something darker.
She showered long. Let the water rinse off the scent of sin, but not the taste. That stayed. Clung to her lips.
The mirror didn't lie. Her eyes weren't just tired — they were heavy. With secrets. With satisfaction. With something close to regret, but not quite.
She got dressed. Tight jeans. Cropped tee. Sunglasses big enough to hide behind.
And out she went. Back into the city where models were gods and nobody asked too many questions.
When she arrived at the café to meet Kiesha, her stomach twisted. She spotted her — bright smile, soft curls, hoodie too big for her frame like always.
Kiesha stood and pulled her into a hug.
"Girl, you smell like sex and cocoa butter," she teased, laughing.
Tessy forced a laugh.
"What can I say? I moisturize."
They sat.
They talked.
And Tessy lied.
But the whole time she chewed her straw, her mind played back David's mouth on her — the way he had her begging.
Begging like she didn't owe Kiesha her loyalty.
Begging like betrayal tasted sweet.
And the worst part?
She was already planning when it would happen again.
She didn't mean to be this girl.
Didn't mean to be the fire that burns the home down.
But Tessy had never known how to be soft. She was born sharp. Born with hips and eyes that made men stupid. Born to walk runways and ruin lives.
She didn't just enter rooms. She disrupted them.
And this? This was just the beginning.
The runway wasn't home.
But it was the place where she learned how to fake everything — even her own heart.
And so when the curtain dropped that night, Tessy didn't take a bow.
She lit another cigarette, blew out the smoke, and whispered to herself...
"Let it burn."