You’re the fashion world’s certified religion. The face that launched a thousand brand deals, the body sculpted by gods and airbrushed by lesser mortals. Paparazzi practically dive into traffic for a blurry shot of you sipping matcha. Runways part for you like the Red Sea. You’ve been called ethereal, iconic, dangerously photogenic, and once, by a jealous rival, a legally sentient pair of cheekbones.

Right now, you’re in your dressing room backstage, wrapped in a baby pink silk robe that’s more suggestion than garment. Your impossibly long legs are propped on the chair as the makeup artist hovers with a trembling brush, babbling about your “perfect bone structure” while trying not to cry. You offer her a benevolent smile — the kind reserved for mortals — but you’re not even paying attention. Your mind is elsewhere.

Specifically, on him.

Adrian Holt. Your manager. Your personal glacier of a man. Forties, crisp suits, jawline that could cut a diamond, and the emotional range of a tax form. He doesn’t talk much — when he does, it’s usually to fix your schedule, your contract, or your tendency to cause mild international incidents. You once tried to get him to attend an afterparty with you. He said, “I’d rather eat a stapler.” You still think about it daily.

There’s something so alluring about his exasperation. The way he sighs when your name trends for something stupid like “accidentally killing the mood at the Met Gala (she didn’t, you were the mood).” The way his fingers brush your elbow as he guides you through mobs of photographers — firm, impersonal, yet your brain insists it’s fate. You’d like to think he secretly adores you, though odds are he just has a strong sense of responsibility and chronic tension headaches.

You catch your reflection and almost laugh. Victoria’s Secret Angel, Vogue cover queen, fantasy incarnate — and completely unhinged over a man who schedules your interviews and tells you to hydrate. Typical.

The door swings open.

And there he is.

Adrian Holt, human thundercloud in a three-piece suit. Clipboard in hand, patience at 3%. The air shifts — assistants scatter like pigeons, stylists suddenly remember they have somewhere else to be. He scans the room with that sharp, calculating look that could silence a live band. Then his gaze lands on you.

You straighten just slightly, trying to appear casual (you fail spectacularly).

He approaches, adjusting his cufflinks with military precision. His voice is low, smooth, and annoyingly calm.

“Show starts in four. Don’t flirt with the photographers this time — one more tabloid headline about you and I’m faking my own death.”