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In the years after ner in the history of Nommos, had disappeared or been kidnapped or been killed, we didn’t knohich, we only knew her absence had diminished us, we’d produced several less than stellar seasons since

My brother and I hadn’t understood the reasons until we fell Our failure cans, her sense of style We’d destroyed our house as plainly as fools disates do not innovate; of course our attempts came to lesser effect than her triumphs She’d been ahead of her time and time had moved on

With this collection oken up, me on the business end Anwar had stepped out in his own creative direction and it was ingenious Petals of fabric arden, paired with luxurious coats of tapestry and fur, contrasted with a bit of edge--leather inpale hues and a hint of hardware in zippers and buckles Glorious We both knew it

At the end of the show I’d blown past the producer, blinded by my anticipation My brother wouldn’t have noticed the foreboding looks surrounding us either He’s not observant, too often distracted by the pretty things and the prospect of our resurrection glittered aze right Nervous energy bordered on palpitations and constricted within my throat The faces on the front row should have told me where we stood, how far we’d re-risenbut there were no faces as indication

The front row stood empty It still is

Those who make the fashion have deserted us, walked out Worse, they’d left their swag bags beneath their chairs, not even to be enticed by iPads, imported chocolate, or Swarovski crystal bracelets We’d been snubbed

And here we stand, stripped bare My brother collapses, jerkingdeeper into my flesh I don’t look at hiers and eat away at azes on us Our eneardens are empty other than the three Chanticos None of theht-inches but they are stunning, dark haired, nearly oxblood eyed, with skin so war few choose to stand closer to theeous as we are, with our dark skin and Donatello hewed features, but beauty does not rest pleasingly on theo Chantico inclines his head, his expression an echo of his victory Their fans from the end of our runway We merely stand on it They own this fantasy we’d built to save our house as surely as they own this era in fashion

"What happened, Lu?" my brother whispers, his attention trapped by the Chanticos He tries to pull me down beside him but I won’t bend

"I don’t know"

"Luciana, I don’t understand what this estures to the e counterparts, our opponents in a two-hundred-year-old feud

"They’ve beaten us, Anwar We’re done"

An alert buzzes my phone I lift it out of the pocket hidden within enerated by the keyword Nommos

The Internet proclaims: THE HOUSE OF NOMMOS FRETS AND DIES ON THE RUNWAY

There is value in deception, in the way our rivalry doesn’t appear to have changed, even now as Santiago and I stand on opposite sides of vintage clothing racks and stare one another down There are differences, though I no longer believe I a I think about but the curve of o despises e bloody noses and clandestine pushes out of tree houses as the result His contempt is immutable as leather, it may be dyed or take on a patina but the core remains that of the aniotten angry with me His eyes don’t ridicule the way they once did and there is the slightest twitch to his jaw