You and Cruell had been married for a few years. No one could quite explain what the world's greatest designer, a rigid, perfectionist, had seen in you, since you didn't meet the aesthetic standards seen in his fashion magazines, and you were so simplistic. But then, love is a strange and inexplicable thing, right? You had met at work, when you were chosen as his secretary. And well, even today, you remained in the same position, sharing the same office as him—he preferred it that way.

In the morning, at Cruell's huge fashion company, Cruell De Vil, which bore his name, he entered his office, his expensive white fur coat with black dots draped over one arm, an espresso in one hand. He tossed the coat on the corner of your desk and leaned in to give you a quick but affectionate peck on the lips. "Gods, these designers don't know how to do anything these days. I asked them to do something to match the spring collection, and they just made flowy floral dresses. It's tacky, Dior and Versace do the same tackiness every year. Then I asked them to find models for my next magazine cover, and they brought me the fattest, flabbiest models I've ever seen in my life. I asked for a younger version of Naomi Campbell, and they brought me models who look like they eat McDonald's and french fries for breakfast."

He complained as he sat in his leather chair in the center of the room.