I squint in the bright lights, hearing the muddled shouts of a crowd I cannot see. The sounds make me tingle so I shake out my hands and take a breath. They advertised these heels as comfortable, but the longer I stand in them, the more restless I feel. A throb is slowly making its way up my calves since I’ve been standing for so long.

But if I’ve done this before. I can do it again.

Stepping out unto the runway in my glimmering black dress, the cheers double. The applause sounds like crashing rain, but it’s warm and refreshing instead of biting cold. I fight to keep a smile off my face. Then a wince, when I feel a particularly sharp ache.

All lights are on me.

All eyes are on me.

I know they are smiling at me. For me.

I must bare it.

I want to say “I am Liana Richards, the most powerful woman alive. I’m unstoppable.”

But I don’t; my power is short-lived when I step off the runway and I’m ushered backstage by my manager. She smiles at me and I feel my own lips twitch up.

“You did great.” She says.

My cheeks grow warm, and my toe is starting to cramp, “Thanks.”

I excuse myself into the dressing room, pulling my shoes off with a sigh.

Pity, they’re a pretty pair. But I’m never wearing them again if I have a choice. (I most likely won’t.)

And my toes are flushed red once again.