It’s not ideal, but if I spend any longer fussing over my outfit at the hotel, I’ll miss the party altogether.

Well, as they say in France, c’est la vie.

The Nell Kramer after-party is at Lapérouse, an old-world eatery a few blocks away in the 6th arrondissement. The party room is filled with well-dressed people who look like they walked straight out of a magazine, sipping cocktails and laughing as a synth-pop playlist blasts.

It’s amazing and overwhelming in the best way, and I’m glad that, at least for now, my rigged bra is doing its job. I get several compliments on my jacket/minidress. It’s edgy and fresh, but the classic cut makes me feel confident I’m not going overboard.

Nell is surrounded by people clamoring to congratulate her on the show, so I keep my eyes out for the Cho twins, who said they would probably be here. I swear Juhyun can get an invitation from anyone, even the pope.

“Excuse me, Rachel Kim?” a voice says.

A woman in a sparkly white blazer approaches me, smiling broadly. “I thought I recognized you. I’m an editor for Elle and a big fan of Girls Forever.” She holds out a hand. “I’d love to talk to you about a potential interview.”

Oh my god, Elle. “So nice to meet you,” I say, shaking her hand. “I’d definitely be interested in that.”

She beams and starts discussing scheduling and her ideas for the piece. I’m listening intently until I start to feel something shift inside my clothes. I freeze in horror as I realize that the sticky bra on my left boob is slowly sliding down my chest.

No. No no no no. Images of my bra plopping out of my jacket and onto the floor, right in front of this Elle editor, race through my mind. I keep my smile plastered on my face, folding my arms tightly around my chest to stop the bra from sliding.

The editor glances down at my chest as she keeps talking, looking confused as to why I’m suddenly showing off my cleavage. Mortified, I quickly lower my arms, awkwardly keeping one hand against my stomach. I don’t know what I’m trying to do here—catch the bra inside my clothes before it falls?—but I end up doing a weird half shimmy, half body roll to try to stop the sticky bra from sliding. I’m trying desperately to act natural, but at this point, I’m not listening to a word the editor is saying. I probably look like I’ve been possessed by the spirit of the inflatable tube man waving his arms in the sky. The bra is nearly at my belly button now. I have to get out of here.

“This all sounds great!” I say, cutting her off midsentence. “I’ll call you!”