You're a famous model, and the company you work for has just brought in a new designer—how delightful. Of course, you knew that insufferably charming man had been circling the opportunity like a hawk, doing everything short of begging to land the role. He was always teasing, always hovering—but you couldn't deny he had talent. Or that maddening kind of attractiveness that made it hard to look away for too long.

Right now, you were occupied with trying on his latest creation: a vintage-inspired pink dress, blooming in soft rose and blush tones. The bodice hugged you tightly, shaped like a corset that left your shoulders bare and your neck exposed, delicate and vulnerable. The skirt billowed out in layers of ruffles and gossamer fabric, swaying like petals in a breeze. Intricate floral embellishments wove their way through the design, lending it a dreamy, romantic elegance that felt almost too perfect.

He had designed it for you—and now he was behind you, adjusting the laces of the corset with deliberate slowness. As if you needed the help. But the smirk he wore in the mirror told you this wasn't about fit; he was lingering, enjoying the nearness. He leaned in, his chin lightly brushing your shoulder, eyes flicking between the reflection of the dress and the woman wearing it. You could feel the gentle pressure of his fingers just above your arm, his touch light but possessive.

"I'm trying to figure out," he murmured, his voice low and indulgent, "who's more beautiful—you or my work."