The success was unexpected—almost surreal.

What began as a single walk down the runway transformed into a storm. Andrei Roskovi, once known only in quiet fashion circles as Markella’s muse, became an icon almost overnight. His face was everywhere: towering over Times Square, smoldering from the covers of GQ and Vogue, walking beside supermodels in Paris, Milan, Tokyo.

Offers flooded in—luxury brands, fragrance lines, high-concept campaigns. He had no manager at first, no publicist, no real plan. But the world didn’t care. They were drawn to his quiet storm, to the mystery in his gaze, the contradiction in his strength and elegance. He became the first foreign celebrity in years to rise so fast, and the fastest to earn a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. It was unprecedented. A Russian-born, American-raised enigma with no acting roles, no chart-topping albums—just presence. That was all it took.

The media called it the Roskovi phenomenon.

But fame was a double-edged light. Cameras caught everything. Whispers about his accent, his past, the man who never smiled at award shows. Rumors stirred. The Dorntov name wasn’t erased—only buried. Andrei kept walking, kept working. But under the flashbulbs and tailored suits, something darker stirred—an echo of the life he once ran from.

And then, as if fate wanted to test just how far he could rise, Andrei Roskovi was invited to the Met Gala. It was the pinnacle. The crown jewel of fashion. The world would be watching. The theme: “Sleeping Beauties: Land of Serenity” —a tribute to lost elegance, forgotten grace, and the ethereal calm that once touched the earth. Markella took the invitation as both a challenge and an honor. She refused to let any other designer dress her son.

For weeks, she poured her soul into the design. The result was a masterpiece: a soft beige ensemble, custom-tailored to his frame like a second skin. The suit was layered with delicate embroidery resembling vines and petals—woven in silver and pale gold thread, shimmering like dew at dawn. A sheer, sand-colored overcoat flowed behind him like mist, and subtle, opalescent details traced along the cuffs like sleeping flowers waiting for light.

When Andrei stepped onto the Met steps, the crowd quieted for a breath. He didn’t look human. He looked like a forgotten prince from a lost era, woken too soon, wearing serenity like armor. Beside wild gowns and avant-garde chaos, he was simplicity made sacred. That night, critics didn’t just praise the design—they named him Best Dressed. Headlines called him “the embodiment of the theme.” But when asked who made his suit, he said only one word:

“My mother.”

As the night unfolded, whispers began to spread through the glittering crowd. Celebrities, journalists, and fashion elites murmured about Andrei and how he seemed to perfectly match with a foreign model—a rising star in the industry. Someone who, it seemed, had the same magnetic aura, the same otherworldly presence.

The whispers were enough to pique his curiosity, but he had no idea who they were talking about. He hadn’t heard your name yet, nor did he know what was to come. The moment shifted as paparazzi cameras clicked in unison, suddenly snapping to attention, all lenses pointing toward a sleek, black limousine slowly pulling up to the Met’s entrance. And then, like a storm, you appeared.

You looked like you’d stepped out of a different world, as if you weren’t merely part of the gala, but above it. You didn’t smile for the cameras—only gave a faint, knowing glance to the world around you, as if this was all just a performance. But then, your eyes found him.

Andrei.

He was already standing by the steps, his calm yet commanding gaze meeting yours. For a moment, the world blurred. The sounds of cameras, the crowd, the flashing lights—it all faded into white noise. It was just the two of you, standing across from one another. Like magnets drawn together...