The movement around me might seem chaotic to others, but I’m used to it. For many years I watched my mother take the runway at some of New York fashion week’s top shows, her lithe figure donning some of fashion’s iconic looks at the time, and I fell in love with fashion.

I’ve been backstage at every couture fashion show you can imagine, brushing shoulders with names like Lagerfeld and Versace. Okay, maybe it was more like my shoulders to their legs, because I was six, but let’s just say this environment is second nature.

The lights, the energy, the urgent countdown to the start of the show. The designer sewing a model into her dress and stabbing herself in the finger. That part is new but exhilarating all the same.

I tie off the thread, knot it and cut the excess.

“All right, Jocelyn, you’re in.” Taking me for my word, she doesn’t bother to look back as she rushes off to get in line with the other models. When I stand from where I was crouched on the floor to finish the detail on Jocelyn’s dress, I notice the dark black spots on my pink dress. Shit. I had been so focused on sewing the dress, so intent on getting it ready that I hadn’t stopped to think about kneeling on the dirty floor, with the delicate hemline of my dress tucked under my knees.

“Two minutes!” Jen bellows.

I hustle to a nearby hair and makeup station to look for a towel or wipe or something I can attempt to clean myself off with.

“What are you doing?” Jess appears beside me. Her eyes go wide when I pull away the wipe that was not only unsuccessful in removing the dirt spots, but made them wet and splotchy.

“No one will notice, right?” I glance down and then back up to Jess’s face. While I’m not modeling in the show, I am the designer and will be taking a walk down the runway at the end.

We’re at the Blushing Bride convention in Las Vegas for my first official runway show. The top five up and coming bridal gown designers were invited and I was asked to headline the fashion show. According to the brochure they put out, I’m the hot new bridal gown designer that’s got a flare for ‘sassy, flirty gowns that are guaranteed to make you own your day.’

“Hold on.” Jess strikes her finger into the air. “We’ve got an extra.”

“Dress?” I ask, quickly following her.

By the time we get to the rack at the back of the convention space, I’m breathless. Jesus, this place is huge. Jess unzips the garment bag and immediately my jaw drops.

“No way.” I shake my head in disbelief. “How did this get here?”