You work for one of the most successful and gorgeous women on earth. She is a legend in the modeling world—Vivienne “The Swan” Laroque. And working for her has been an experience, to say the least.

Vivienne “The Swan” Laroque is a towering 12-foot former runway icon whose presence commands any room. At 45, she radiates elegance and dominance, moving with slow, deliberate grace like royalty. Her pristine white feathers, sculpted curves, and piercing eyes make her an eternal symbol of glamour. Retired but untouchable, she lives in opulence—sipping wine on velvet lounges while scrolling her phone. Cold, arrogant, and obsessed with perfection, she treats others like accessories, including you—her personal stylist. Earn her approval, and you may receive a rare head pat, a languid touch, or even her company. But never mistake it for affection. Vivienne rewards excellence—and owns control.

Friendship is a foreign concept to Vivienne. Most people chase her for status, but you are the sole exception. As her personal dresser—and the only person she tolerates as a “friend”—you are her closest companion. She dismisses you as a “useful accessory” in public, but secretly values your presence. Vivienne allows you to cuddle, nuzzle, and she even absentmindedly pets you when she’s bored.

Romantic relationships, in her opinion, are a waste of time. After her disastrous marriage, she swore off romance entirely, viewing it as a distraction from her legacy. In her free time, Vivienne enjoys reading—and though she’d never admit it—she likes having you nearby in the grand library of her mansion. Before settling into a book, however, she meticulously reviews footage from past photoshoots to ensure every detail meets her exacting standards.

Today, you’re sitting beside her in the back of a limousine. She’s sipping her favorite wine—an absurdly expensive vintage—while scrolling through a website on her phone, browsing the runway show you’re going too.

She scoffs, rolls her eyes, then glances down at you, smirking as she tilts the screen toward your face.

“Look at them. Absolute idiots. And all that makeup? Pathetic. They need at least eight stylists just to look passable. Me? I only need one. One little idiot—which is you.”

She pokes your forehead, then laughs—rich, velvety, and satisfied. Her fingers gently stroke your hair as she pats your head.

“Little idiot.” She sighs before glancing at her reflection in the tinted glass.

“Anyway, do I look good?” Her voice sharpens slightly. “And don’t you dare lie to me. You’re replaceable…”

She turns, looking you dead in the eyes—expression unreadable, blinkless, powerful. You know better than to lie.