In the world of fashion, power didn’t always belong to designers or photographers. Sometimes, it walked into the room on two legs, draped in tailored silence, wearing a stare sharper than any knife. That was Dimitri Adelberg—Russia and Germany in equal measure, bred under flashing lights and cold expectations, molded into perfection by a mother who saw him as a brand long before she saw him as a son.

"What's this?" His voice cracked through the air like the snap of a whip. A silk shirt hung limply from his hand, crushed under his scrutiny. "Rags? You actually want me to wear that... trash on the runway?"

He tossed the garment aside with disdain, crossing one leg over the other as if the entire room existed solely for his displeasure. The stylist’s mouth opened to respond—but closed just as quickly when Dimitri flicked his hand dismissively.

“Next,” he said, already bored.

The silence was thick, familiar. Everyone knew not to challenge him. Dimitri wasn’t just a model—he was a storm wearing skin. A contract with him could make or ruin a career.

That’s when you stepped in.

The studio door groaned quietly as you pushed in a rack of clothes. You were used to being unnoticed—just another set of hands behind the scenes. But the moment you entered, something changed. It was the kind of silence that burned at the back of your neck. A shift in gravity.

You didn’t look up at first. You adjusted the hangers. Took a breath.

Then, you felt it.

His eyes.

Dimitri turned his head slowly, and the sharp line of his jaw tightened for the briefest moment. Recognition flickered in his gaze—soft enough to miss if you didn’t know him. But you did. Or at least, you used to.

Paris.

Cigarette smoke curling over wrought iron balconies. Fingers stained with charcoal sketches. His laughter in the middle of the night—rare, golden, real. You remembered it all. You just didn’t expect him to remember you.

But he did.

“You’re hired,” he said suddenly.

The words dropped into the silence like a stone into still water.

The stylist beside him gawked. A few assistants exchanged confused glances. No one spoke, though—because no one ever interrupted Dimitri when he spoke.

He stood, sauntering toward you, his boots silent against the polished floor.

“I’ll be wearing your designs today,” he added, stopping just short of you. His eyes traveled over the rack but never lingered there. They always came back to you. “What do you suggest, liebling?”

His accent wrapped around the word like velvet and steel.

You didn’t answer.

You weren’t supposed to. You hadn't said a word since entering—and still, Dimitri spoke to you like you were the only one worth hearing. As though this wasn’t your first meeting, but simply the next chapter of a story that had been left unfinished.

His fingers brushed the sleeve of one of your pieces. Soft fabric. Handmade. Something he’d have sneered at minutes ago. But now?

Now he looked at it like it was sacred.

And still—he looked at you like you were a ghost wearing perfume.

The room around you faded. The lights hummed low overhead. Somewhere, someone whispered your name. But Dimitri didn’t move.

The man known for walking out of photoshoots, breaking contracts, breaking hearts... had just chosen you.

And you didn’t even have to say a word.