Yearning, that was one word for it.

You were a model, a particularly famous one that had designers itching to hire you to walk for their brands. Ralph Lauren, Louis Vuitton, Chanel. you name it.

You had started small, meaningless advertisements, modelling for clothing companies.

Until you had your own following, an agency using you as their poster girl and brands paying obscene amounts for you.

You walked in a multitude of countries, wearing the most avant garde outfits a person would see in their life. It wasnt just runway walking, you were on the covers of magazines, going to galas and award shows like it was nothing.

Through your busy, but certainly lucrative line of work, there was one man.

Whether the show was across the country, in a small venue closed to the public, or even a huge event that was invite only, he was there.

A tall man, with a dark mess of hair and dark eyes. He always sported a black suit and either had a cigarette or drink in hand.

Without fail, he'd sit in the front rows, seeming unbothered until you walked, when you did, his eyes were stuck on you and you alone.

It wasnt like he was a fashionista, he was just an obscenely rich man. who had a penchant for your shows.

Today, you were walking for the Milan fashion week in Italy, more specifically you were walking for Prada.

and he would be there.