Chapter Text
A leaden sky pressed down on Milan, its damp chill clinging to the crowds gathered outside the towering doors of fashion’s high temples. But within the walls of Maison Aeterna, the air thrummed with a different frequency.
There was a feverish electricity in the room, a collective shiver of anticipation for the opening show of Fashion Week, the moment the world would finally witness the debut of Canadian sensation Shane Hollander.
In the backstage, everyone was in motion; no one seemed capable of standing still for more than a heartbeat. Hairdressers styled the supermodels' long hair as they sat on uncomfortable canvas chairs, their long legs draped toward the floor until their toes grazed the ground. A low hum of voices filled the air, punctuated by the sharp hiss of hairspray and bursts of lighthearted laughter. Further back, male models performed final checks on garments tailored to their statuary frames.
The show was barely an hour away.
Not a single word escaped the designer’s lips, but his gaze spoke volumes. His hands smoothed fabrics over skin; his fingers plucked the cigarette from his mouth, allowing him to exhale a plume of smoke, turning his head just enough to keep it from drifting toward the model he was dressing.
Shane had lost count of how many cigarettes he’d burned through that day.
“Stunning,” he whispered, the word escaping his lips as he paced back. He brought the fingers of his free hand to his mouth, mindlessly pinching his lower lip. His eyes swept down the model’s body before settling on his face – stern, yet already transformed by the show’s makeup.
The boy’s skin had been made pale by a thick veil of white powder, yet it glowed with highlighter dusted over his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, and the cupid’s bow of his lips. His light eyes popped against the crystal gems scattered at the corners of his lids and across his cheeks, mimicking a dusting of precious freckles.
The very same freckles that graced the designer’s own nose and cheeks – though his were real. A natural spray of amber spots across his porcelain skin.
“Can you show me a little smile?” Asked the boy, who immediately curled the ends of his lips.
“Much better,” Shane murmured, returning the cigarette to his lips for one last drag.
“Mr. Hollander.”
The designer, whose heritage was a blend of Canadian and Asian roots, turned toward the familiar voice.
It was Hayden, his personal assistant, a clipboard tucked under his arm with the evening’s exhaustive checklist. He was dressed in pearl-gray, the uniform worn by every staff member weaving through the backstage venue.
“Everything is ready for the show,” Hayden reported.
“Thank you, Hayden,” Shane replied distractedly, his attention still anchored to the model. The boy offered him one last smile before turning away. Shane watched him go, mesmerized by the garment in motion: a tailored suit in off-white, the jacket and trousers traced with silver threads that shimmered with every step. Sheer, rhinestone-encrusted gloves peeked from the cuffs, echoing the gems on his face. And from the neckline, a waterfall of crystals cascaded down his chest, pooling at the sternum in a rush of light.
“The guests will arrive in just thirty minutes.”
For a fleeting second, Shane’s mask of composure flickered.
This was it. The moment he had spent a lifetime chasing was finally within reach: his runway debut as the lead designer for the most prestigious fashion house in Italy. And in the world. Shane was certain of himself, of his craft, and of his art; yet, the prospect of laying himself bare in front of photographers, critics, and the titans of fashion journalism sent a sharp shiver down his spine.
A model stepped into his line of sight– a statuesque, willow-thin figure. Her skin, dark as chocolate, was covered in a gown that fit her like a second skin. It trailed into long, shimmering rows of Swarovski crystals that fell from her head, where a sheer, sweeping veil lied atop her shaved scalp.
“Wow,” Hayden breathed, gazing at the true crown jewel of the Caeleste collection.
It was a dream of a dress, a masterpiece worthy of the highest altars of couture. White fabric and diamonds blazed against the model’s dark skin, the contrast striking and divine. A faint smile finally tugged at the corners of the designer's mouth.
He was truly satisfied with this creation. It was the piece that would both open and close the show, when the veil would have been cast back, revealing her bare back, encrusted in a galaxy of rhinestones.
“If you ever doubt your talent, now or in the future, come back and look at the work of art you created for your first show, Shane.”
Shane shifted his gaze to his blonde friend, who was watching him with an expression brimming with pride.
“Because you’ve already conquered the fucking fashion world.”
Hayden’s words proved prophetic. In the days that followed, every major fashion magazine in the world and every social media feed hailed the Canadian designer’s debut as something unprecedented in the history of fashion.
The show had been majestic, a procession of twenty looks, each more breathtaking than the last. It was a symphony of pure whites and shimmering diamonds that illuminated the venue – one of the maison’s grand halls, adorned with ancient columns and ornate capitals. Every model who graced the runway looked like a deity descended from Mount Olympus.
Finally, Shane emerged from the backstage, accompanied by the model in the opening gown. He, too, wore an exclusive piece from the collection: an oversized suit in off-white fabric with glowing seams, worn without a shirt, allowing his sculpted chest to contrast sharply against the snowy textile.
He smiled as he took a humble bow, thanking the audience that greeted him with a thunderous standing ovation. His heart hammered in his ears, his chest felt ready to burst, and in that moment, pride finally surged through, swallowing the sea of anxiety and doubt he had been navigating until now.
The impact of his debut was so immense that, by the following day, he managed to steal the spotlight even at the show of his close friend, designer Rose Landry.
As he arrived at the venue, paparazzi and fans erupted at the sight of him. He was forced to discard his cigarette, pressing his lips around the filter one last time and exhaling a final plume of smoke as he adjusted himself to pose for the cameras.
He was wearing an outfit Rose had personally sent to his downtown penthouse. While the aesthetic of her fashion house was worlds apart from his own, she’d had the foresight to choose pieces that aligned to his tastes: wide-leg black leather trousers with a high tuxedo-style waist, paired with a sheer tank top and an oversized leather jacket.
Shane didn’t care for flaunting his physique; he preferred to leave subtle hints of what lay beneath the fabric, never anything too overt.
It was the same reason he wore dark-tinted sunglasses: to hide the hours of sleep lost at his own after-party the night before. And – or so he told himself – to keep a low profile.
It was rare for designers to attend their colleagues' shows, but Rose and Shane were the exception. They had been inseparable since their days at the fashion academy in Paris. Rumors of a past romance lingered, so no one dared question their presence at each other's shows, even though Rose had been a fashion designer two years longer than Shane.
Shane only laughed at the gossip.
He loved men.
And had never been in a relationship with a woman in his life.
In truth, he hadn't been in a relationship at all.
To him, love was something purely platonic. He was so accustomed to loving bodies that he had never truly stopped to love the souls within them.
With a brief wave of his hand, he cut the photographers short and, followed by his assistant, moved toward the entrance.
Once inside the venue, an industrial-style basement just on the outskirts of Milan’s city center, Shane was immediately swarmed by celebrities impatient to congratulate him on the previous night’s triumph. Aspiring models volunteered themselves for his upcoming campaigns, while actors sung the praises of his choice of ethereal fabrics.
Seeing people older than him sincerely praising his work filled his chest with pride, and a genuine smile played across his face time and again. Photographers stopped him to immortalize those moments with the stars, and a journalist aimed a ring light at him to record a quick interview.
“What is your source of inspiration, Mr. Hollander?”
He seemed to hesitate for a fraction of a second, but quickly regained his signature composure.
“If you were expecting me to name a person or something external to myself, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. I find my inspiration within: in my thoughts, in the dreams I have at night. In what lingers inside me after seeing the world, or even just my own living room. Others call it talent; I call it the luck of having an imagination vivid enough to turn emotions into sketches, and sketches into works of art.”
“So, there is no muse?”
A soft laugh escaped him, and he momentarily shielded his mouth with his hand before turning his gaze back to the recording phone.
“No muse,” he agreed.
Then the light was cut, and the journalist reached out to shake Shane’s hand. He returned the gesture.
“You’re going to go far, I’m certain of it.”
“Thank you so much.”
The house lights began to dim, and Shane took his seat along the edge of the long runway, sandwiched between two famous singers whom he greeted politely.
Rapid flashes began to slice through the darkness, and a deep bass started to reverberate in the ears of the audience; the show was beginning, and the first model stepped onto the runway with sharp, quick steps. Rose had given Shane a preview of her new collection’s style over drinks at his apartment a couple of weeks ago, but seeing the pieces in person was entirely different.
The girl opening the show had voluminous, reddish curls and a feline gaze, accentuated by a thick wing of eyeliner. She wore a skimpy black leather dress, its wide straps slipped off her shoulders to reveal her décolleté. A fringe of burgundy lace peeked out from the bottom of the skirt.
Black and burgundy were the collection’s palette. Leather and lace. Strength and delicacy. Two polar opposites that the designer found impeccable when combined.
The lead singer of a famous band, seated beside him, leaned in to comment on the looks. “Don’t you find them incredible?”
“I think I’ll do whatever it takes to wear her pieces on our new tour...” the singer continued.
But Shane seemed to get lost in those words. Or rather, he seemed to lose all sense of where he was.
The music seemed to drop away abruptly as the runway was claimed by the most beautiful man he had ever seen in his life.
Pale skin, razor-sharp features, blonde curls framing his face... and a gaze that, had it been turned on him, Shane was certain could have pierced right through his skin.
His breath hitched for a moment as his eyes traveled down the body: if the face was incredible, the body was equally so, especially wrapped in that black leather jumpsuit that left nothing to the imagination. Toned legs and an ass that was... not bad at all. Like the one of a statue.
His gaze was magnetized by the vision. And that split second when the model accidentally locked eyes with him while turning on the runway made his heart skip a beat.
He nodded in response to the man beside him, though he hadn’t caught a single word.
Shane didn’t know it yet, but that face–that fleeting vision on the runway–was not just a momentary distraction.
It was the prologue to a relentless obsession.
For months to come, that nameless image would sear itself into his memory, a ghost he would chase through sleepless nights and crowded parties, desperate to find the identity behind those eyes.
That model was about to invade his mind irrevocably, long before Shane would ever uncover his name.