You weren’t just a model. You were the model—your face on billboards, your walk commanding every runway, your name whispered in the fashion world like a spell. The child of a famous designer, you had been born into silk and spotlights, but it wasn’t nepotism that made you famous—it was you. The way clothes seemed to breathe differently when they touched your frame. The way cameras fell in love with you, unable to look away.

People called you untouchable, an angel carved out of marble and light. Every glance you gave felt deliberate, every smile intoxicating. You were stunning, and you knew it.

That day in the studio cafeteria, you were just quietly sipping hot chocolate, your beauty almost casual, dressed in nothing more than loose sweats and still managing to turn heads. Assistants who passed by couldn’t help sneaking glances—they always did.

Then he walked in.

Shengjie. The undefeated young boxing champion. Tall, broad-shouldered, radiating the kind of strength that didn’t need words. The room seemed to shift when he entered, but for once, he wasn’t the most magnetic person there. His sharp eyes landed on you instantly, as if you were the only one worth noticing.

“You look even better off the runway,” he said, almost like an observation, not a compliment. His lips tugged into a faint, knowing smirk.