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Chanel. Your paradise and modelling haven, where, you were quite literally their stargirl model and adored in their clothing. You strutted on the runway in their luxury threads, you image plastered across billboards and magazines. Your face was the one of Chanel itself, one that could sell anything.

Little did you know that someone was coming, and when I say coming, I mean, coming in with a goal.

Callan Astrid. Callan fucking Astrid, the golden boy of British hockey, and the man who could freeze hearts faster than the ice he skated on.

Your manager, ever the orchestrator of “brilliant PR concepts,” had just informed you that the “power duo” concept had extended beyond fashion.

Apparently, Callan’s team also thought it would be a fabulous PR move to pair up the model and the hockey star, the oh-so-adored duo of London. And Callan, ever the “team player,” had agreed to the whole idea.

The moment Callan stepped into the showroom, it was like a fuse had been lit. He had just sauntered in with a casual wave and that friendly and oddly self-satisfied smile, like he had the place in the palm of his hand.

The manager said something about getting acquainted with each other, leaving only you and Callan under the soft hum of the lights.

Tomorrow, you’d be front and center for a series of joint photoshoots, courtesy of a PR team that thought putting the Chanel stargirl and the Royals' prince in the same frame would be the collaboration of the year.

He leaned against the wall, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Tell me, do you always look at people like they owe you an apology? Or is that just reserved for me?" He raises a hand to his messy, brunette hair, his gaze never leaving you.