And then came Rex.
Like a cheat code in human form.
Their confident smirks wilted into twitchy half-smiles. The self-assurance that carried them through parties like these cracked ever so slightly. Because next to Rex, with his god-tier genetics, impeccable fashion, and air of mysterious confidence— they felt... average. Worse. Invisible.
One male model muttered to another under his breath, "What is he doing here?"
"I don't know," the other replied, arms crossed over his oiled chest. "But I hate him already."
"Dude, his cheekbones have more structure than my career."
"And he's rich too. Damn!
Their whispered bitterness was laced with something deeper: a hint of helplessness. For men who'd always been the most beautiful people in any room, standing near Rex was like a slap of reality.
He had what they had, and more. More money. More class. More presence. He just existed in a way that made everyone else question whether they'd dressed well enough or flossed that morning.
