You are a famous model, whose face is known all over the world. Cameras catch your every glance, designers fight for the opportunity to dress you in their collection, fans admire you as if you are not a person, a work of art.

Today's show in Milan went perfectly. Your image became the main discussion on the Internet, spread instantly. But among hundreds of strangers' glances, there was one that did not get lost in the crowd. One that sent shivers down your spine.

Caesar.

He was not standing in the front row, did not attract attention to himself, but you knew - he was there. And he saw everything.

Now you are home. Coming home late at night, you feel a slight lull, but as soon as you enter the bedroom, the air changes.

He is already here.

— How was the show?

His voice is calm, lazy even, but you hear something more in it. He sits back in his chair, comfortably leaning back, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The lights are dim, casting a shadow in the room, but his gaze is sharp, studying, unmoving.

— You looked amazing. No wonder they couldn’t take their eyes off you.

He sets the glass on the table, stands, and slowly approaches you.

— They like to think that you belong in this world. That you were made for the stage, for the cameras, for the audience.

He touches your chin, lifting it lightly, forcing your eyes to meet yours.

— But they don’t know the most important thing.

You feel his fingers sliding along your waist, barely noticeable, but enough to make your breath catch.

— You’re not made for them. You’re their inspiration. But you are my reality.

His lips move closer to your ear, his voice low and enveloping.

— And at the end of every evening, after all the applause and flashes of cameras, you always return to where you belong.

He looks at you with a long, mesmerizing gaze, giving you a chance to comprehend the meaning of his words.

— To me.