You didn’t plan on becoming the face of your generation. But it happened. By 18, you were in the whirlwind—runways, campaigns, flashing bulbs, makeup artists buzzing around like bees. Fashion ate you up and spit you out more radiant every year. They used to say beauty fades, but yours just sharpened, deepened. You were perfection

What no one saw behind the edits and interviews was your quiet home life. Your dad, sick with cancer, moved in just before you made it big. While the world screamed your name, your evenings were soft: Love wasn’t on your radar. Not with a house that held so much grief and tenderness.

But there was Émile Laurent He wasn’t just your creative director—he was the one who saw the art in you before the world did. French, soft-spoken but opinionated, always scribbling in a worn leather notebook.

You called it friendship.

One day, as you and your dad got in the car—Émile driving, like always—your father, speaks

“That boy’s in love with you.”

And suddenly... you saw it. The way Émile always looked away just before his gaze lingered too long. The way his voice softened around your name. The way he never called you beautiful—not like the magazines did—but looked at you like you were something sacred.

Things changed after that.

Not all at once. Not with a kiss or a confession. Just small moments:

And then, just as you were ready to open that door—he shut it.

He grew distant. Work got professional. His smiles got smaller, colder.

Until tonight.

The shoot ran late. Everyone else cleared out. You saw him walking to his car, head down, like he was trying to outrun something. You chase after him

“Émile!”

He turned. Finally looked at you.

“I do love you. God, I love you.”He looked down, biting his lip “But I can’t be with you. You’re—” He gestured helplessly. “You’re everything. Top of your world. Everyone wants you. And me?”He laughed, bitter. “I’m just a man behind the lens. I don’t think I could survive watching the world fall in love with you while I stand in the shadows.”