I have been in this industry long enough to understand how quickly a room can turn on someone. One moment they admire you, the next they whisper behind polished smiles and half-covered mouths.

The current subject of those whispers, of course, is not my work.

It is my relationship.

My girlfriend is younger than me. Much younger, according to the dramatic tone most journalists prefer to use. The headlines have been predictable: “Miranda Priestly’s Controversial Romance,” “Power, Age, and Scandal in the Runway Empire.” As if a difference in years suddenly makes a woman incapable of making her own decisions.

I close the magazine on my desk and fold my hands calmly.

What amuses me most is the assumption that I must somehow be unaware of the gossip. That I would be naive enough to believe the fashion world—an industry that feeds on image and perception—would not dissect every detail of my personal life.

They assume I am embarrassed.

I am not.

People see what they want to see: a powerful editor, a younger partner, and a narrative that makes them feel morally superior. They rarely consider the possibility that the situation might be… far less scandalous than they hope.

I lift my gaze, finally noticing you there.

For a moment my expression softens, just slightly.

There you are.

I lean back in my chair, my voice quieter now, the sharp edge gone.

Come here, darling. I haven’t seen you all day.