Masaki Aizawa

Paris, France.

Masaki applied dabs of concealer onto Lucille's dark eyes, another night of no sleep, he guessed. He worked around the clock with all the Flore & Faune models, he could easily tell when something was going on with their personal life. For example, Hikari had been flighty and fidgety in the styling chair all morning, his eyes glued to his phone. "Is everything... okay?" Masaki asked, and Hikari only muttered as a reply. Or another example when Charlotte had nearly fallen asleep when Masaki handled her hair, he guessed that she didn't get her daily dose of sugar yet.

"Bad night?" Masaki asked casually.

"Just bad habits," Lucille said, biting her nails as she scrolled on her phone. She was reading emails, and Masaki's heart nearly tanked when he caught sight of them. They were from... fans? Haters?

Can't believe they're allowing Lucille Blanchard to walk for Paris Fashion Week.

She's a homewrecker, isn't she?

Tbh, she doesn't deserve her job.

What a slut. She and Hugo aren't going to make it, he should be with Fleurette.

Her poses and walks are so meh, Lucille's a fraud.

I hope she dies and rots in Hell.

"Are those hate comments?"

Lucille clicked off her phone. "Just emails."

"That are hate comments," Masaki repeated, narrowing his eyes. He couldn't believe a word they were saying, they probably never met Lucille in real life. He blinked, trying to figure the next best way to grapple this. "Lucille, this is serious. The last one is a death threat."

She merely sighed, getting up from the styling chair. "I have a shoot to get to and I just want to forget this whole love triangle fad." Lucille looked presentable enough; she wore a ribbed red corset, a fringe and sparky skirt, accompanied with a glittering red purse as the shoot prop. And, of course, red pumps since Masaki knew how much Lucille adored her heels because of her rather short height.

"Wait, Lucille." Masaki managed to catch her before she was out the door. "You should talk to PR or HR about this, maybe get some closure from all the threats. I'm telling you, this is serious. You're at the peak of your career, some people would love to watch it burn."

Lucille crossed her arms. "Well, thanks, Masa, but I don't need help."

And that's the problem.

꧁°❀⋆.ೃ࿔.*:･･:*.ೃ࿔.⋆❀°꧂

Julian Penn

Vanves, France.

Julian shuffled the paperwork as Fleurette wandered around the office. It was sort of funny, seeing her wide-eyed and amazed by a mere office space. "And these are all signed?" he asked, bringing her back to reality. She nodded and Julian placed them away. "Good, that means we can get started right away."

"Why are we in Vanves anyways?" she asked.

"I sent you an email with the event details."

"At 2: 00 in the morning... God, did you work late until two?"

"Don't be foolish—it was up until 1: 00." Romantique often rented third party buildings for practising show runs or extra space. The runway stage was rectangular and perfect for newbies. Felix and Hiro were there as well, seated at a table in front of the stage. "Let's start. Fleurette, go backstage and do whatever you deem fits for this walk. Hiro will give the signal once we're set up."

She did so, vanishing behind the curtains and Julian glanced at Felix. "Catherine made the wrong decision," he told him, shaking his head. Julian found Fleurette to be a breath of fresh air, but it ended there. He doubted her talent was anything more than amateur. "She's on the cusp of ninety-five, and she suddenly makes the choice to hire someone involved in a love triangle. That's child's play and you know it, Felix."

Felix sighed. "Have you ever known Cathy to be incapable, regardless of her age?"

"No."

"Good." He glanced at Hiro who gave the signal. "I understand your doubts, Julian, I really do. Fleurette is a freelance model who never had proper training, but I hope you don't hold that against her."

"I don't. But I just want Romantique to grow."

"And hiring someone new will hold us back?"

"You know she isn't just someone new. She's a stunt."

Felix settled back in his seat as Fleurette arrived. Julian watched her closely—horse walk, her shoulders were rolled back, tilted head, neutral expression, and held herself with confidence. Her heels weren't too tall, but she did walk moderately well in them. Then she came to a halt, tilting her body before walking away. Julian recognized the technique, the swinging method.

Hm, not bad. Perhaps he had been too harsh in his first view of her. But it could be better.

꧁°❀⋆.ೃ࿔.*:･･:*.ೃ࿔.⋆❀°꧂

After an hour passed, they were allowed to pack it up. Felix and Hiro had meetings to attend to—a car sponsor somewhere else in Vanves—so Julian and Fleurette decided to wait for an Uber. He had bought a cheap newspaper for 70 cents, frowning at the headline. Not again, he thought.

Fleurette glanced at it. "Oh. I guess they're talking about that on paper now too." There was a photo of her and Hugo de Valois, though it looked dated so it must have been at least a year old. He had his arm around her waist and Fleurette was the only one smiling, or at least trying to. WEEKLY DIGEST: BITTER EXES EXPOSED! "I didn't think news would reach all the way to France."

"It's worldwide," Julian corrected, making Fleurette basically melt into a puddle on the sidewalk. You were always so bad at socializing outside of work, he grimaced. Get a grip, Julian. "But I'm sure no one cares." He flipped to the next paper, surprised. "Ugh, not these racists again."

"What do you mean?" Fleurette peered over his shoulder.

"The Les Purs are a French terrorist organization that targets modelling companies. They believe that models in France should be fully French blooded, they're politically motivated too. If they understood a speck of genetics, they would know it's nearly impossible to be 100% French, DNA doesn't work that way." Julian folded the newspaper away, feeling livid. "I know people in Romantique who have been harassed by the Les Purs, it's stupid. It doesn't matter if you're even half French, they're a bunch of morons."

"Are they dangerous?" she asked worriedly.

"They protest in violent ways, but they've only bothered us a handful of times. Just slashing tires or writing half-assed threats in emails." Julian didn't tell Fleurette about the time that the Les Purs had spray-painted a slur on their doors towards Asians. Hiro, Serenity, and Nicholas Walker hadn't come to Romantique for a week. "They won't come close to us, not when Catherine is ready to dial the police and have cops come within five minutes."

"They sound like awful people," Fleurette said sadly.

"Well, the world's an awful place."

꧁°❀⋆.ೃ࿔.*:･･:*.ೃ࿔.⋆❀°꧂

Omaima Wright

Vaux-Le-Vicomte, France.

She drummed her hands on the bar's deck, the loud music bounced off the walls and made it harder for Omaima to focus. She wore a black party dress, the perfect outfit to meet her date at the club. Suddenly, a girl dressed in a silver two-piece and black heels slid to the seat next to her. Omaima laughed, amused by Esme La Rue. "You always dress so flashy, Esme."

"The best way to blend in is to stand out," she said, giving an elegant shrug. She took a sip of the margarita that Omaima asked the bartender to make before-hand, knowing how much Esme liked her clubbing drinks. "Plus, you really think I would see my girlfriend without putting on some glam?"

Omaima liked that Esme effortlessly filled the gap in her void. She was the few people in the modelling industry who called her Omaima, not adopting the name Rosetta. They first met six months ago at a connected photoshoot, she had been admiring a magazine cover with Naomi Campbell, an inspiration of Omaima's.

Naomi Campbell had been recognized as one of the first African-American supermodels. Esme had appeared from behind her, merely saying, "I liked her too, she was my first role model." And promptly left afterwards, but it amazed Omaima. Romantique was always more focused on diversity, so Omaima hadn't seen too many models of African descent at Flore & Faune. But Omaima just kept thinking about Esme La Rue, so confident and charming.

"I'm walking for Paris Fashion Week," Omaima said happily. She waited for Esme to share the excitement considering they both wouldn't shut up about the upcoming show, but Esme's hand stilled around her margarita glass. She cleared her throat and offered a thin smile, her eyes crinkling.

"I'm happy for you, Omaima, truly."

Omaima's voice caught. "What's wrong? I'd thought you'd be excited."

"I've been trying to distance myself from work and personal life, especially us. You know how the media is, they're always looking for the next thing to hunt." Esme spoke of this before, it was her reasoning for why she wanted a private relationship away from the public eye. I have... stuff I don't want people knowing, she had told her. And a queer relationship will only focus more attention on us. "It's a good thing that people are preoccupied with the Fleurette Lavigne bullshit right now."

"I've always wanted to walk for Paris Fashion Week, you know that."

"I just don't want to be... seen with you." The words stung Omaima's heart in words she couldn't describe. Esme caught herself, downing the rest of her drink. "You know that's not what I meant."

Omaima laughed softly to herself. "That's the thing, we always meet in bars or clubs. You only ever talk to me when you're high or drunk, I wish you were sober." Her eyes were glassy as the bartender glanced at the tension between them. "It's like you're in denial and you want to hide me. Do you regret the secret of us, Esme?"

Esme took Omaima's calloused hands into hers. "Of course not, but you're still so young, Omaima. I've been in this industry for six years since I was fifteen, these people do not care about you. They will exploit and ruin you, they are greedy guts for meat and we are their lambs to be slaughtered." Esme exhaled a sharp breath. "I just want to protect you and see you thrive as an eighteen-year-old model."

Omaima pulled back her hands. "But what if you're holding me back?"