being a nepo baby had its unapologetic perks and mattheo riddle had mastered the art of milking every single one of them. heir to marvolo, the luxury fashion empire founded by his grandfather and mythologized by his mother, mattheo was the golden boy of the brand. glossy campaigns, front row seats—he’d done it all.

his latest fixation? scouting.

the idea had come to him one night, half-drunk in his mother’s office, sprawled across a velvet chaise. he’d said it as a joke—“what if i found our next face?”—but his mother had stared at him like he’d just solved world hunger. by the next morning, he had a logo-stamped talent agency, a paid assistant, and a small stack of matte black business cards with mattheo riddle embossed in silver ink.

truthfully, he wasn’t sure why he cared. maybe it was boredom. maybe he was tired of being surrounded by empty-headed boys whose only personality trait were their bone structure. maybe he was just lonelier than normal.

today, he found himself on the champs-élysées, leaning against the edge of a rustic farmer’s market stall draped wildflowers. the summer air was thick with perfume and roasted hazelnuts, and mattheo looked every bit like a runaway editorial come to life. a thin gold chain glinted at his throat, and one of his rings caught the light as he reached for an espresso.

next to him stood theodore, his best friend and one of the few likeable coworkeres, exhaling smoke with all the carelessness of someone who’d grown up rich and reckless. the two of them looked almost cinematic. tall. disinterested. like they belonged to another planet.

mattheo’s eyes flicked over the crowd with the precision to spot angles, silhouettes, symmetry. and for a while, it was the same as always: too polished, too plain, too predictable. until you.

you didn’t fit. not in a bad way, but in the way a rare book stands out on a shelf of bestsellers. there was something off-beat about you. your beauty wasn’t loud, but it lingered—sharp cheekbones, soft mouth, a gaze that didn’t try too hard. you looked like a secret. and mattheo loved secrets.

he pushed off the stall, his walk was confident but lazy, like he had all the time in the world and none of it was yours. he stopped in front of you, eyes dragging slowly across your face as if committing it to memory. then he nodded once, like he’d already made a decision.

you glanced behind you, then back at him. he smirked in confirmation. with a low and amused voice, he said, “you,”

“how tall are you?” he asked, completely serious. he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face, revealing sharp features and a pair of eyes that looked far too intense for someone your age.

“don’t worry,” he added, almost lazily. “i’m not kidnapping you.”

not yet, anyway.