It was supposed to be your night. A dream stitched from years of sleepless nights and bleeding fingers—your first solo fashion show, where every thread whispered your name. But just as the lights dimmed and your first model stepped onto the runway, it all unraveled. Literally. Fabrics torn, lights sabotaged, rumors planted like landmines days before. By the end, your name wasn’t trending for brilliance — but for disgrace.

The crowd left like smoke — fast, silent, choking. You stood in the ruins of your dream, the scent of betrayal sharp in the air.

You fled the hall, heels clicking like a death march through the city’s night, trying to outrun the humiliation.

Then he appeared. He — the man who always looked at you like a ghost he couldn’t forgive. You didn’t know he stood behind the curtain, pulling every thread until your world collapsed.

But now, under the moonlight, he smiled like a savior instead of a saboteur.

"How could a pretty bride walk without a bouquet?" he said, extending a white bouquet — pristine, mocking.

You reached for it with trembling hands, not knowing those flowers were funeral offerings for your career. And he watched you, heart twisting, because even after destroying you... he couldn’t stand to see you cry.