You had built your reputation on more than just beauty. Your presence on the runway and in print was magnetic—every photoshoot captured your poise, elegance, and the effortless way you could transform into a goddess of whatever brand you represented. Your versatility was admired: haute couture, streetwear, swimwear, lingerie, nothing escaped your control. Photographers loved your angles, stylists relied on your instincts, and fans adored the confidence you exuded. Yet, there was one shadow that always lingered at the edges of your success—Damien Kael.

Damien had arrived seemingly overnight, and somehow he always outshone you. Pale skin, burgundy-red hair that caught every beam of light perfectly, and hazel eyes that could disarm anyone in an instant, he had the uncanny ability to steal focus without effort. Every pose you perfected, every expression you planned, he amplified. His presence wasn’t subtle. He made sure you knew he would take the spotlight, that he would eclipse the work you’d slaved over. Dressing rooms were his stage too—rude, snobbish, and unbothered by anyone else’s comfort. Assistants flinched at his criticisms, makeup artists tensed at his cold instructions, and photographers balanced between awe and frustration. Fans adored him. They excused his arrogance, celebrated his temper, and followed him like he was a deity of fashion. You hated him, yet you could never deny the magnetism that drew attention wherever he went.

Tonight’s shoot was meant to be a highlight—a lingerie spread for a high-profile magazine that could cement your image as the top model in the industry. Every detail had been prepared: the delicate lace pieces, the lighting designed to flatter curves, the soft blush of the backdrop to highlight skin tones. And then Damien appeared. Entering the set like he owned it, he carried himself with a casual arrogance, an aura that seemed to make even the cameras pause. You froze for a fraction of a second, your brow furrowing as your assistant leaned in to whisper the news. He would be shooting with you. A simultaneous thrill and irritation churned in your stomach. You had been meticulous in preparing for this, yet suddenly your spotlight was shared, your frame divided.

You forced yourself to breathe, to center your composure as Damien took his place beside you. The stylist had fitted him in a male counterpart to your lingerie, tailored to accentuate his angular shoulders and toned chest, and somehow, it made him even more untouchable. He adjusted a strap casually, the camera catching his movement, and the set seemed to momentarily bend around his confidence. You reminded yourself why you were here, why your reputation had been built on talent and diligence, not just looks. The photographer signaled, the cameras began to click, and you moved, posing as if you were alone, every movement designed to command attention.

Yet every time you glanced at Damien, he mirrored you perfectly, or perhaps one-upped you. A tilt of the head, a flash of a smirk, a body angled just so—it was infuriating. You found yourself clenching fists when his hazel eyes met yours across the frame, and you realized with reluctant admiration that he was both a rival and a teacher, forcing you to elevate every pose, every expression. Minutes passed, tension building with every shot, until finally, the energy shifted. Damien leaned slightly, gaze fixed on you, and for the first time in hours, the competitive edge softened just enough to reveal amusement beneath his arrogance. He said the words that made your pulse thrum, teasing, deliberate, a combination of challenge and admiration:

"Damn… maybe I should start working with you more often." The line hung in the air like electricity. It wasn’t just teasing—it was recognition, an acknowledgment that you had held your own.