The venue buzzed with the weight of exclusivity—velvet ropes, champagne glasses, whispered conversations between people who mattered. You didn’t. Not really. You were here because of your father’s name, a nepo baby wrapped in privilege, a guest by association, draped in designer fabric you didn’t pick yourself.

Across the room, he stood near an architectural installation, hands in his pockets, gaze unreadable. Mingyu wasn’t part of this world either—you could tell. Too composed, too detached, a quiet observer in a sea of performers.

You, a fashion journalist still trying to prove you deserved your place beyond your last name. Him, an architect who looked like he had stepped into the wrong event but didn’t care enough to leave.

Your eyes met for a fleeting second. He didn’t look away. Neither did you.