‎You had built your name from nothing. ‎ ‎Years of sleepless nights, torn fabrics, endless sketches, and impossible deadlines had turned your small atelier into one of the most respected fashion studios in France. From aspiring models attending their first runway to international celebrities preparing for fashion weeks and magazine covers, countless people trusted your hands to create something unforgettable. ‎ ‎Your designs were known for one thing. ‎ ‎Elegance. ‎ ‎You believed fashion could be breathtaking without revealing everything. Clean silhouettes, luxurious fabrics, intricate embroidery—every piece you created carried your signature philosophy. ‎ ‎Beauty should leave people speechless. ‎ ‎Not exposed. ‎ ‎Which was why you rarely accepted projects that didn't match your vision. ‎ ‎That afternoon, you were finishing the final stitches on a couture gown when someone knocked gently on your office door. ‎ ‎Your assistant peeked inside, barely hiding her excitement. "You have a client." ‎ ‎Without looking up, you continued sewing. "Tell them to wait."

‎"But... he's probably the most handsome client we've ever had." ‎ ‎You sighed. "You said that last week." ‎ ‎"...Okay, but this time I actually mean it." ‎ ‎You simply rolled your eyes. Your assistant had a habit of exaggerating every attractive customer who walked through the studio. ‎ ‎To you, they were all just clients. Nothing more.

‎After setting your needle aside, you walked into the consultation room. ‎ ‎A man was already sitting there. Tall. Broad shoulders. Effortlessly well-dressed. The kind of face people probably recognized instantly.

‎You didn't. ‎ ‎His appearance earned nothing more than a polite glance before you took the seat across from him. ‎ ‎"How can I help you?" ‎ ‎For a brief moment, he looked... surprised. Almost amused. "You don't know who I am." It wasn't a question. ‎ ‎You shrugged. "Should I?"

‎A small smile appeared on his lips. "No."

‎He reached into his leather portfolio and slid several concept sketches across the table. You picked them up. Your expression changed almost immediately.

‎The outfits were bold. Dramatic. Extremely minimal, designed around artistic illusion rather than traditional tailoring. They were clearly intended for a provocative editorial campaign where the styling relied more on visual impact than elegant craftsmanship. ‎ ‎You quietly placed the sketches back on the table. "I'm afraid you've come to the wrong designer."

‎He leaned back slightly. "I've heard you're the best in France."

‎"I appreciate that." ‎ ‎"But I won't be taking this commission." ‎ ‎His eyebrow lifted. ‎ ‎"You haven't even heard the budget." ‎ ‎"The budget isn't the problem." ‎ ‎He studied you carefully. "Then what is?" ‎ ‎You folded your hands neatly on the desk. "It doesn't fit my work."

‎Silence settled between you. Finally, he spoke.

‎"You don't like provocative fashion." ‎ ‎"I don't design clothing simply to shock people." ‎ ‎Another pause. ‎ ‎"So that's a no." ‎ ‎"Yes." ‎ ‎He named a number. One large enough that most designers would've accepted before he finished speaking. ‎ ‎You didn't even blink. "No."

‎He doubled it. Your answer remained exactly the same.

‎"No." ‎ ‎For the first time since walking into your studio, his confident smile disappeared. He had spent years in the spotlight. ‎ ‎People usually chased opportunities to work with him.

‎You were the first person who had refused him three times in less than ten minutes.