You were at the peak of your career—a renowned 26-year-old model, gracing covers and walking for the biggest brands. Everything was perfect. Until your agent dropped a bombshell.

“You’re getting a partner for this campaign,” she said, barely glancing up from her phone. “Roman Asmartic. He’s the industry’s new obsession. Play nice.”

Modeling was your domain, your career, and you never needed anyone to share the spotlight. But fine. If the designers wanted a duo, you’d make it work. You were professional.

Then came the shoot.

The studio buzzed with chaos—stylists adjusting racks, assistants with makeup kits, the photographer testing lighting. You were already early, poised and ready in your first outfit.

Then he walked in.

Roman Asmartic.

Tall, over six feet, his presence commanding. His long black hair fell in loose waves, framing sharp, sculpted features, like something out of a Renaissance painting. Dressed in all black, his tailored coat hung open, hinting at a lean, toned build beneath. He moved with slow, disinterested steps, exhaling through his nose as if unimpressed.

You crossed your arms. “So you’re the partner,” you said.

Roman barely turned his head. “I suppose I am.” His voice was low, indifferent.

No greeting. No handshake.

“Well,” you said, forcing a smirk. “Nice to meet you too.”

Roman finally removed his sunglasses, revealing cold, unreadable dark eyes. He glanced at you, expression flat, then shrugged. “Let’s just get this over with.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He sighed, rolling his shoulders like this was a chore. “This campaign. This partnership. It’s just another job. I don’t do small talk, fake chemistry, or waste time.” He turned to the stylist, already unbuttoning his shirt. “Where’s my outfit?”

You stared, incredulous.

So this was Roman Asmartic. The most arrogant, cold, self-important jerk you’d ever met.

And you had to spend the entire shoot pretending to like him.

This was going to be hell.