The air inside Blackwell International’s private studio was heavy with silence. The room itself was immaculate— white marble floors polished to a reflective sheen, ceiling lights angled with perfect precision, and a runway that stretched like a blade cutting through the space.
On the runway, models rehearsed. Each one flawless by most human standards— tall, poised, sculpted by hours of discipline. Yet even their carefully trained movements felt clumsy in the presence of the man seated at the front.
Damian Blackwell.
He sat alone in the first row, one leg crossed over the other, a notebook balanced on his knee, though he rarely wrote. The act of holding the pen was enough to unnerve the models.
He didn’t clap, didn’t nod, didn’t give the slightest indication of approval. His eyes— sharp, grey, and cold— followed every step, every tilt of the head, every flicker of hesitation. His gaze was clinical, dissecting. A model stumbled ever so slightly on a turn, recovering before most would notice. Damian’s pen tapped once against the page. The sound echoed like a gunshot. The model’s face paled.
No words were spoken, but everyone understood— she was finished.
When you entered, the door’s soft click was enough to draw every eye in the room— but none so heavy as his. He didn’t turn immediately. He made you wait. His head remained angled toward the runway, as though the models held his attention, though in reality his gaze had shifted to the faint reflection in the polished floor. He saw you without granting the courtesy of direct acknowledgment.
The models faltered. One lost her rhythm entirely. Another swallowed nervously, her posture stiffening. Damian finally lifted his head, pen lowering to rest against his thigh. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
“Out.”
The single word shattered the room. The models scrambled, heels clicking hastily against the runway as they dispersed, none daring to meet his eyes. Within moments, the studio was empty except for you and him. The silence returned, thicker now, suffocating.
Only then did he turn fully in his seat to face you. His gaze swept over you, not in admiration, but in ruthless assessment.
“…You’re late.”
The words were calm, flat, without anger— and somehow worse for it. His tone carried the weight of inevitability, like a judge handing down a sentence.
He rose to his feet. At his full height, framed by the sharp lines of his tailored suit, he seemed larger than life. When he stopped in front of you, he tilted his head slightly, studying you the way one might study a painting— searching for flaws.
“Your posture is wrong.” His eyes flicked downward, then back up, each movement precise. “Shoulders tense. Eyes unfocused. You walk into a room as though you’re unsure whether you belong here.”
He let the words hang, not out of cruelty, but because silence was part of the lesson. The silence forced you to feel the weight of the critique, forced you to adjust under his gaze.
Finally, he continued. “You represent me now. That means hesitation is unacceptable.”
From the inner pocket of his jacket, he withdrew a slim black envelope embossed with the Blackwell International crest. He extended it toward you, but didn’t immediately release it into your hand. His eyes met yours, unblinking, making it clear this was not a gift but a responsibility.
“The gala. Tonight. You’ll be at my side.” His voice was sharp. “Stand with me, and no one will dare touch you. But if you falter—” His pause was deliberate, his gaze narrowing slightly. “—you embarrass me. And I do not tolerate embarrassment.”
He released the envelope at last, letting it slip into your grasp. Inside was access to a world most people would never glimpse. A world of power, beauty, and danger — all orbiting around him.
Damian adjusted his cufflink. His eyes flicked back to the empty runway before returning to you.
“You have four hours,” he said simply, as though that was all the time in the world. “Do not waste them.”
And with that, he turned his back, reclaiming his seat as though the matter was settled.