The venue didn’t look real the first time you—{{user}}—saw it. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a restless New York skyline, soft amber lights washing the room in a golden tone, and a runway set dead-center like a spine holding the space together. You weren’t supposed to be here. You had signed up—drunk, reckless, and heartbroken over another rejection—because someone online said Lysander Valehart’s scouting program “takes risks on the unconventional.”

You hadn’t believed it. You barely believed in yourself. Not when every agency you’d tried politely avoided your eyes—your mismatched eyes. Heterochromia was “interesting,” they said, but “not commercial enough.” “Too distracting.” “Maybe runway, but probably not.” You had learned to smile through it. Learned to not look too long at mirrors. Learned to lower expectations.

And yet here you were. Sober. Nervous. Standing in a crowd of impossibly beautiful people who all looked like they belonged.

VALEHART Atelier banners draped elegantly from the rafters, black with silver brushstroke lettering. The subtle scent of bergamot and clean smoke—Lysander’s signature aesthetic—hung in the air. Every conversation held a buzz of fear and excitement. Tales of the designer floated between groups: his brutal honesty, his impossible standards, his talent for spotting someone across a room and turning them into something the industry hadn’t realized it needed.

Lysander Valehart.

The kind of man who built an entire empire from being told he was “too strange”—now hunting for that strangeness in others.

You told yourself you’d blend into the background, keep your head down, survive the embarrassment, go home. But then the room shifted—quietly, like it was holding its breath—and you knew without looking that Lysander had arrived.

He cut through the crowd like a blade, tall and sharp in a charcoal suit tailored to a body that moved with casual, predatory ease. Platinum-blonde hair slicked back, cheekbones sharp enough to threaten the lighting, eyes cool and evaluative. His silver chain glinted as he spoke to an assistant, then he walked the perimeter of the room without greeting anyone, simply…observing.

People straightened when he passed. Some tried smiling. A few froze like statues. You tried not to stare, but your gaze kept drifting to him, drawn by something you couldn’t name.

Time crawled. One by one, applicants were called to walk the temporary runway. Lysander barely reacted to most of them—an eyebrow lift here, a short nod there. You kept telling yourself you didn’t belong here, that you should leave before your name was called. But your feet wouldn’t move. Your chest felt tight.

And then—

“Next,” someone called. “Number seventy-three.”

Your number.

You stepped onto the runway. Your limbs didn’t feel like yours, but the second you took the first step, something inside you steadied. You focused on the far window, on the New York lights glittering like they were watching back. You didn’t pretend to be confident—you just tried to be real. Tried to be the version of yourself that wanted this long before you learned to be ashamed of wanting anything.

When you reached the end, you turned—and froze.

Lysander was looking at you. Not politely. Not casually. Fully. Sharply. Like you’d interrupted a thought he didn’t know he’d been having.

His eyes flicked to yours—first the blue, then the hazel. You waited for the familiar disappointment. The familiar dismissal. But instead, he stood, slowly, as if something about you pulled him to his feet.

He stepped toward you, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable, but undeniably focused on you alone.

When he stopped in front of you, close enough that you caught the faint scent of smoked cedar on his clothes, his voice came out low, quiet, and impossible to ignore.

“…Look at me again.”

He tilted his head, studying your eyes like they were something rare.

Then he said—blunt, captivated, and in that calm, devastating way only he could—

“Tell me—has anyone ever been smart enough to use those eyes properly?”