Black. Goth. Eyeliner. Woman. Fashion? Rings. So many rings. Old. Homeless? Black. Eccentric. Black. Black.
Those were the words that crashed into Ethan's brain like a storm surge—jumbled, raw, electric. It was as though someone had dumped a Pinterest board of chaos and high fashion into his frontal lobe. His heart actually skipped a beat. He blinked hard.
He had met rappers with golden teeth and monks who gave him crystals. He'd held polite conversations with people dressed in rhinestone capes and shaken hands with billionaires in Crocs. Fame came with weird. But this?
As he stared at the woman approaching him—slow, deliberate, like she knew exactly how much she didn't need to rush—Ethan felt something he hadn't felt since his first ever stage fright: pure, primal unease.
His mind didn't shout danger. It whispered:
"You've just met the Final Boss of the industry."
She was unlike anything he had ever seen in real life. A walking contradiction. A fashion cryptid. Her black eyeliner smudged deliberately like a painter's unfinished sketch. Her rings—no, her arsenal of rings—wrapped around every finger like little brass relics from another realm. Her clothes layered like she had fallen through a thrift shop in Paris, Milan, and Hell, and picked a souvenir from each.
Jessica noticed. She always noticed. Her eyes flicked to Ethan's frozen expression, and with the tiniest movement—just a tap to his elbow—she mouthed without sound:
"Be calm."
Then, she cleared her throat with the dignity of a curator introducing a priceless artifact.
"Ethan," she said, voice tight with effort, "allow me to introduce you to the one and only—Michèle Lamy."
The name hit like a sharp, left-hook of recognition. Ethan had heard of her—whispers, articles, runway myths. A living legend. Kind of. Sort of. Nobody really knew what she was anymore, which was part of the mythos.
He snapped back to life, yanking the confusion off his face like a bad wig.
A smile. Right. That's what you do in moments like this.
"Mrs. Lamy," Ethan said, extending his hand as formally as he could, his voice smooth but restrained. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Ethan Jones."
He held his smile as she walked toward him—and it took effort. Her eyes were… unsettling. Not empty. Worse. Dead eyes, but alive in some otherworldly way. Her skin was aged like crumpled parchment, but elegant in its decay. And then, as she neared—
She grinned.
Wide. Too wide. Like a riddle disguised as a woman. It wasn't just a smile—it was a gesture, a statement, a test.
Ethan didn't flinch.
Hours of media training. Red carpet practice. Sitcom-worthy dinners with label execs who smelled like cologne and power. He was ready. Mostly.
She raised her hand with a deliberate slowness that made the air between them feel heavier. Rings clicked softly as she took his hand, and he was immediately struck by the texture—her skin was rough, calloused, but warm. Like weathered leather. Alive, in a strangely ancient way.
Her fingers closed around his palm with a pressure that felt ceremonial. Her other hand came over it, sealing it like she was locking in a deal with the devil.
Then, in a voice that sounded like a forgotten incantation dragged across gravel, she whispered:
"Call me Michèle."
And she didn't let go.
Ethan laughed lightly, trying to play it cool as he tugged his hand gently—but she held firm.
Her fingers still curled around his. Her thumb began moving slightly. Her eyes never blinked.
"Ooh my…" she said, voice drawing out like candle smoke.
"What a strong boy. Your body is full of life force."
Ethan gave a soft chuckle — the diplomatic kind — trying to play along, though her fingers were now visibly trailing across his biceps, almost… groping.
Just then, the air shifted — and a new presence glided into the room.
"Yes, I was thinking the same," came a familiar voice, rich with Caribbean cadence and effortless authority.
Rihanna.
She walked in back to the convo not leaving as she has seen someone, she knows with that casual superstar aura — the kind that came with having lived for decades at the top. And despite the fact that her belly was very visibly seven months pregnant, wrapped in a couture black mesh gown, she still moved like she owned the building. She did.
Rihanna gave a knowing smile, looking at Ethan as she continued, "He'd make a damn good model, don't you think?"
Michèle's head snapped toward her, but her hands stayed firmly on Ethan.
"Oooh, Riri, you're here too?" she rasped, her eyes alight like she had just discovered they were all in the middle of a séance. She turned back to Ethan, hands still hovering over his torso like he was sacred geometry. "Yes… yes… you feel it too, don't you?"
Rihanna laughed, placing a hand beneath her growing belly. "Of course. Been talking to him. The boy has presence."
Michèle blinked slowly, like she was deep in a trance, then nodded.
"I haven't seen a body this conducive to vision," she whispered, "since your A$AP. How is he?"
Rihanna arched an eyebrow and smirked. "He's good. You know… alive." She tilted her head. "Should you even be here, Michèle? I mean, considering your situation."
Ethan blinked, eyes flicking between them — the surrealism intensifying.
Michèle waved a bony hand dramatically. "Pfft. My situation is everywhere and nowhere. We are always here, Riri."
Rihanna laughed again, but then refocused. "Let's not change the topic. Ethan. Look at him. How good would he be?"
Michèle's fingers returned to Ethan's chest, hovering, brushing. She was muttering again. Vague spiritual phrases. Something about "a hidden storm" and "fire in the jawline." Then she inhaled deeply — eyes fluttering closed.
A beat.
And then, suddenly, her eyes opened. She looked at Rihanna like a prophet declaring a number from a mountaintop.
"He is… a 9.4."
The air went still.
Rihanna's mouth parted. "A 9.4? Are you serious?"
Even Ethan's brow creased — confused.
Rihanna turned toward him, eyes scanning him again like she was reassessing him entirely.
"You don't understand," she said, her voice low. "Michèle is… the high priestess of fashion. She doesn't judge people by beauty. She sees identity. Spark. Fashion spirit."
She murmured, half to herself, "I've only ever heard of one other person rated above 9…"
Ethan opened his mouth to ask, but Michèle cut in — her voice back to chanting.
"He can sing, too. No wonder Lucian is so guarded. His chi… his chi is immersive. I could swim in it."
Then — Someone else came.
And in came Lucian Grainge himself, CEO of Universal Music Group, flanked by his circle of executives. His laughter boomed through the space, and with it came an immediate shift in the room — like royalty had entered. Conversations paused. Heads turned. Everyone in the orbit reoriented — except Michèle, who was still enthralled, one hand resting on Ethan's shoulder, the other gently tapping his collarbone.
Lucian raised a hand in greeting. "Michèle," he grinned. "I see you've already met our new gem."
Ethan smiled politely and extended a hand. "Lucian, you're here."
Lucian grasped his hand with charisma and warmth. "Of course I am. I don't miss out on my stars."
Rihanna stepped in beside them. "Lucian."
"Rihanna!" he lit up. "Always a pleasure. Always a moment."
Ethan blinked, internally noting how familiar they all seemed with each other. It really was a tight circle.
From the side, Jessica stepped forward, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. She extended her hand to Lucian. "Welcome, boss."
Lucian laughed. "What boss? Just call me Lucian." He turned to the others. "I heard how well you've been holding this together, Jessica. This whole setup was your idea, wasn't it? What a show."
Then his gaze returned to Ethan. "Ethan, I want to introduce you to Jack—he's someone I think would—"
But before he could finish, a voice sliced through the air like a dagger wrapped in silk.
"Lucian. Give me this boy."
It was Michèle.
Ethan and Jessica both turned, visibly startled.
Lucian froze, brow furrowing. "Excuse me?"
But Michèle pressed on, voice growing more dramatic by the second. "Rick and I are hosting a joint Holding show later this year. Something monumental. Sacred. And this one—this boy—he must be the muse." Her voice now felt like a prophetic chant. "There is no other."
Lucian raised his hands in mock surrender, trying to lighten the mood. "Michele, hold on now—"
But Michèle cut him off. "I'm not asking. I am declaring. He belongs on that stage. You'll see. You'll all see."
Lucian straightened slightly. His smile faded into something sharper, more executive. "We'll talk. Let's not make declarations without contracts."
"And contracts," she said, "come when spirits align."
They were in the middle of an intense negotiation dance, the air thick with power, eccentricity, and high fashion stakes—when a calm but firm voice sliced between them.
"Excuse me."
Everyone turned. It was Ethan.
No longer the wide-eyed newcomer. Now his stance was straight, his eyes clear. He stepped forward slowly.
"I don't know if there's been a misunderstanding," Ethan said, his tone crisp. "But I have control over what I do—and don't do."
The room was silent. Rihanna blinked. Jessica's head turned sharply toward him, visibly stunned.
"If you need anything regarding fashion shows or appearances, I have an agent—Bill. You'll have to go through him. Lucian and I are in a business deal. Strictly music. Nothing more."
The silence held for a moment.
Then—Lucian burst into laughter. Loud, genuine.
"You heard him, Michèle. This is out of my hands," he said, grinning. "Better make sure you and Rick come up with a good business plan. From what I've heard, this guy's agent is greedy."
Laughter rippled through the entourage behind him, champagne glasses clinking softly.
Lucian turned, about to say something else—
—but a figure came rushing up from the side.
It was Mark. Slightly out of breath, slightly awed. He skidded to a stop in front of them, his eyes widening when they landed on Rihanna.
"Wow. It's Rihanna," he muttered before shaking his head quickly and focusing on Ethan. "Sorry. I have to borrow Ethan now."
As Ethan moved away, disappearing into the glowing hallway, Jessica's gaze lingered.
Something shifted in her. Subtle, alert.
"I'll go check what's happening," she said, her voice casual — but her eyes weren't.
She glanced at Lucian.
The warmth he'd worn like a cloak all evening had vanished. In its place: a vacant stillness. The edges of his mouth were flat. His eyes, empty and hard — like cold steel watching a closing door.
He didn't even look at her.
"Okay," he muttered.
Just that. One word, but it cut through the air like a knife.
And as Jessica walked off, Lucian remained frozen, his posture perfect — yet something unsettled quietly inside him.
Am I really too lax?