Fashion made me fall in love

By JR ( world of Fashion and love)

A tale of how fashion changed one woman’s life and helped her find the one.

Chapter 1

(Every step in these Prada Saffiano heels is a war between fashion and survival)

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. My phone’s alarm screamed into the darkness. Still half-drowned in sleep, I slapped at my nightstand blindly, eyes sealed shut, already bargaining with the universe for just five more minutes. Then—BAM—Julia’s voice torpedoed through my delirium as she slammed the front door: ‘DAHLIA! You’ve snoozed four times—your job will FIRE you!’ The threat hung in the air. I groaned. The war between my bed and adulthood had begun… again.

Wait… what?! Julia’s words hit me just before she slammed the main door shut. I snatched my phone—she’s right. Shit. I’m completely screwed, and if I don’t move now, I’ll be late.

I bolted up, scrambling to get ready. My black minimalist sleeveless blouse, white trousers, black tote bag and black coat were easy grabs, but my trainers? Nowhere. Of course I couldn’t wear heels—I’d probably have to sprint. A frustrated growl escaped me. “I knew we shouldn’t have gone out last night! Where the hell are my shoes?!”

How the hell did Julia wake up so early after last night’s chaos?! Teeth clenched, I had no choice—I shoved my feet into the heels and stormed out of the flat.

The moment I left the flat, I was practically speed-walking—which, of course, did nothing to ease the frustration of being stuck at one end of Iona Street on Easter Road, needing to haul myself all the way to Leith Walk just to catch a bus.

The streets were already buzzing with Edinburgh’s morning chaos—people rushing to bus stops, small shops flicking on their lights. The AA Shop and the corner café were just opening up, their owners shuffling out to start the day. Then, a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“Mr. Muhammad!” The owner of the AA Shop grinned at me from his doorway. “Looks like you and Julia had a fun night again—I can see you running!”

I managed a breathless, “Morning! How are you? Okay, bye—I’ll talk to you later!” before power-walking past him. He was a good guy—knew us well by now, considering how often we bought booze from him. He just chuckled, waving a hand. “Be careful! Have a good day!”

I flashed him a smile but didn’t slow down. By the time I reached the bus stop, the digital sign mocked me: 25 minutes until the next bus. A woman nearby sighed, “You just missed it.”

Wow. Just wow.

This morning was already a disaster. I couldn’t afford to be late—I had the shop keys. I was the one who had to open up. And now? A throbbing headache from last night’s drinking, the endless stretch from Leith Walk to the Royal Mile looming ahead, and no time (or spare cash) for a taxi.

“Okay, Dahlia. You can do this.” I picked up the pace, phone in hand, already drafting excuses in my head. What could I even tell my boss? “Sorry, I’m late because—” Because what? Because life decided today was the day to test me?

This isn’t the moment to complain… I’m walking—or more accurately, sprinting—in these heels. Whoever said it’s just a 20-25 minute walk from the end of Leith Walk to the Royal Mile clearly lied. I could run at full speed and still feel like it’s taking forever. Alright, Dahlia, focus—now’s not the time.

I was almost at Montgomery Street, rushing past Greggs bakery, when suddenly—crash! I collided with a man, sending his coffee splashing all over my white trousers and heels.

Without thinking, I blurted out, “Fuck, why now?!”—my voice sharp with frustration as I scrambled to keep moving. But then, a familiar scent hit me, something warm and expensive. I froze, finally looking up at the guy I’d just shoulder-checked.

And oh.

He was dressed in that classic old-money style—light blue polo, tailored tan chinos, shiny leather shoes—all sharp lines and effortless polish. Tall, blonde, piercing blue eyes, with the kind of masculine beauty that belonged in a cologne ad. For a second, I just stared. He looked like Francisco Lachowski had stepped right out of a magazine, standing there apologizing repeatedly before pausing, his gaze locking onto mine like he was about to say something important.

My brain short-circuited. “Girl, you don’t have time for this,” I muttered under my breath, snapping back to reality.

“Look, you just ruined my day,” I said, waving him off, “but I don’t have time to deal with this—I’m already late for work!” I remembered him trying to stop me, maybe to apologize properly or even offer help, but I couldn’t risk another delay. With my luck, something worse would happen if I stayed. So I ran. Because some disasters—no matter how unfairly handsome—weren’t worth missing my job over.