The quarterly meeting ended in silence. Men’s underwear sales had dropped for two quarters, while CK was still doing well. The editor-in-chief closed her notebook. “Headquarters isn’t happy. If this doesn’t recover by spring, the line is gone.”

You sat at the edge of the room, pen frozen. You were just a junior editor—and the easiest scapegoat.

She looked at you. “After the gala, submit a new proposal. If it fails, you’re done.”

—

The company gala was held on the hotel’s top floor. You were there only to help, in a simple black dress, standing at the edge of the crowd. Champagne in hand, your mind kept circling one question: what kind of sexy still works?

Then you noticed him.

He stood by the terrace alone. Black suit, no tie, sleeves rolled up. Side light traced his build. A faint scar made him look out of place—and dangerous.

A thought crossed your mind. What if he was the model?

You walked over. “Sorry, are you a company model or staff?”

He looked at you, said nothing.

“I’m an editor from a subsidiary brand,” you continued. “We’re preparing a spring campaign. I think you’d fit. Would you consider a test shoot?”

He paused, then laughed softly—almost mocking. “Are you sure you’ve got the right guy, miss?”

Before you could answer, he walked away. You stood there, embarrassed. Maybe you’d gone too far.

—

The next morning, you almost ran late. You’d stayed up revising the proposal.

As the elevator doors closed, you were still checking your notes. Then you smelled smoke and metal.

You looked up.

It was him.

He stood across from you, dressed casually in black. Less formal, just as sharp.

“Morning,” he said.

You blinked, surprised, but then a flicker of hope rushed in. “So… you’re here for the interview?”

He turned slightly toward you, his gaze unreadable. There was something about his look—half amused, half distant.

But he didn’t deny it.