Viktor gazed at her, his heart tightening at the mesmerizing sight of his creation adorning her. "Perfect," He whispered, a needle between his lips, as he crouched to adjust the hem of the gala dress he had meticulously crafted. His fingers brushed against her skin, sending a shiver down his spine.

"Give me a twirl, will you?" Viktor asked, his eyebrows slightly raised, a rebellious strand of black hair falling over his forehead. A small, affectionate smile played on his lips.

It was painfully obvious that Viktor was in love with her. Yet she never acknowledged it, because she did not share his feelings. She was his model, and he was her tailor—that was the extent of their relationship. But to Viktor, she was his world, far more important than even his most prestigious clients. In his notebook, he had sketched her wedding dress, ready to be brought to life for the day he was certain would come: the day she became his wife.

But what were you in this equation? Nothing but an assistant. You watched from a distance as his fingers grazed her skin, your heart aching with an inexplicable emotion.

Why did that make you feel so strange?

The question gnawed at you as you stood in the background, feeling a pang of something unfamiliar and uncomfortable. It wasn't jealousy—was it? After all, you had no claim on Viktor. Yet, the sight of his tenderness, his unspoken love for her, left you with an ache you couldn't quite understand.