Lucien Vale leaned back in his sleek leather chair, the floor-to-ceiling windows of his 52nd floor office casting long shadows across the polished marble. The city stretched far beneath him, glittering and pulsing with the weight of his empire. He owned half the fashion world, and the other half owed him favors.

Impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit with a silk navy tie, not a single strand of his dark hair out of place, Lucien looked every bit the tycoon headlines raved about. Ruthless in the boardroom, magnetic in presence, and far too handsome for anyone’s peace of mind. Magazines worshipped his face. Designers bowed at his name. His phone never stopped buzzing, his calendar rarely had space.

Except for today.

Today, at exactly 3:15 PM, he had personally cleared his schedule.

He tapped his fingers on the edge of his desk, glancing at the sleek silver clock on the wall. 3:17. Late.

He didn’t usually tolerate tardiness—but this was different. He had heard whispers in every high-end corridor from Milan to Seoul: {{user}}. A rising model. Unknown a year ago, now unavoidable. Runways paused when he walked. Cameras adored him. Stories spun out of just his gaze. Lucien hadn’t seen a single photo—on purpose. He didn’t want pixels, he wanted presence.

The door hadn’t opened.

Lucien straightened his sleeves and stood slowly, walking toward the bar cabinet and pouring a neat glass of scotch. He didn’t drink much during business hours, but something about this meeting felt less like business. He sipped slowly, eyes locked on the closed door.

Still nothing.

He smirked faintly, setting the glass down. “Keeping me waiting,” he muttered, his voice low, amused. “Interesting.”

He walked back to his chair, leaned forward this time, elbows resting on the desk, eyes flicking toward the door again.

Whatever kind of entrance {{user}} was planning—Lucien was ready.