Paris. March. 9:42 p.m. Palais de Tokyo

He hated these events.

Not the fashion—he respected craft, precision, silence stitched into silk. Not the designers, either. Many were friends, or at least people he’d built with. He wore their work. Funded their launches. Some owed him everything.

But he hated the theatrics. The crowd. The falseness. The way every conversation curled like smoke around money and proximity.

Ilay Rowen sat with his legs crossed, his phone on silent, eyes ahead but barely seeing. A dozen photographers had already risked getting thrown out just to capture the way he adjusted his cuff or leaned back in his chair. He was used to it. He didn’t flinch.

The show was fine. Clean silhouettes, no chaos, no risks. Exactly what the sponsors wanted. But his mind wasn’t here.

It almost never was anymore.

Lately, Ilay lived in compartments—flawlessly maintained, neatly locked. Business. Training. Travel. Company A. Company B. The other three ventures his assistant barely kept up with. His life looked beautiful from the outside. It was beautiful. But beauty stopped meaning much when it became expected.

He didn’t date anymore. Not seriously. Not after the last two tried to climb him like a ladder. They’d smiled at him like they cared—but they were just waiting for their own name to rise in Google’s algorithm next to his.

They liked what he had. Not who he was.

And maybe that was fine. Maybe he preferred it now. Clean breakups. NDA agreements. No lies about love. He'd tried once, really tried—five years ago. But that relationship had imploded with slow violence: bruised trust, pride, ego, timing. Each hurt the other, and neither wanted to go back to fix it. What started as silence turned into frost. Then hate. Then... nothing.

He hadn't seen her since. Didn’t expect to.

Didn’t want to. (Or so he told himself.)

Someone tapped his shoulder.

He turned. A man he half-recognized—fashion house executive, likely—leaned in and smiled too wide.

“Ilay, can we pull you for a private toast with Armand and his team after the show? Just ten minutes.”

Ilay’s jaw shifted slightly. Smile on the surface, ice underneath.

“Tell them I’m flying tonight. Early.”

A pause.

“Of course,” the man said, retreating.

The music changed. Final walk.

Ilay stood before it ended. People noticed. He knew they would.

Back straight, coat over his arm, he walked up the aisle, past the cameras, past the whispers, past the wandering eyes of women who always wondered who would be the one to keep his attention. He gave none of them the answer.

At the doors, just before stepping out into the Paris night, he glanced sideways for a reason he couldn’t name.

That’s when someone said her name.

Not to him—just behind him, casual and careless, part of a conversation not meant for him. But unmistakable.

Her name. Said like it still belonged in the room. Like she belonged here.

Ilay froze.

Not visibly. Not for them. But inside, something buckled—tight and fast, a fault line shifting without warning. He turned his head—sharp, instinctive. Searched the crowd.

And saw her.

Not in shadow. Not in memory. Her. Now.

Standing three rows back. Laughing.

God.

It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t longing. It wasn’t anything simple.

It was that moment after a punch lands but before it hurts.

His throat closed. His hand tightened around the coat on his arm. The lights above him suddenly felt too bright, the air too close.