August leaned against the polished marble counter, eyes flicking over the pristine dining room. The soft glow of pendant lights reflected off crystal glasses and gleaming silverware. The restaurant was empty now, quiet after the lunch rush, but the weight of the day still clung to him.
He let out a long, frustrated sigh. Almost every minute of today had been scheduled, reservations, menu checks, staff issues, deliveries. He hadn't even had a moment to think about himself, let alone check on Celine.
And now, with the thought of her, her big runway, models, cameras, the lighting, the pressure, he felt a tight ache in his chest. He would have loved to make her coffee this morning. Just a quiet cup before the storm of her day began. But he hadn't. He couldn't.
He leaned back against the counter, letting the silence stretch.
"Dude," Julian's voice cut through, light but teasing. "You're spacing out, and I think I know why."
August turned, raising an eyebrow. "Oh really?"
Julian smirked knowingly. "Celine is all over the Internet. Everyone's talking about her runway, social media, fashion blogs, even live updates. She's clearly enjoying her moment, and here you are…" He gestured at the spotless floor, the empty tables, "…sighing like someone just ruined your soufflé."
August's jaw tightened, and he shot Julian a sharp glare. "Don't."
Julian laughed anyway, leaning casually against a high chair. "Come on, admit it. You're worried. And it's killing you."
"I said don't," August muttered, though the corners of his mouth twitched despite himself.
Julian leaned closer, smirk softening. "Seriously, man. She's killing it out there, living her moment. And you? You're stuck her tasting sauces, checking ovens, keeping a high-class restaurant running."
August exhaled heavily, shoulders sagging slightly. "Yeah… I know."
Julian shook his head, chuckling. "No. You don't know. She needs you. Go. Now. You're sulking while she's doing her thing, and you're part of it too, whether you like it or not."
August froze for a heartbeat, Julian's words sinking in. He exhaled again, this time with determination. "Yeah… you're right," he murmured softly. "I need to be there."
Julian clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Finally. Go. Don't make me drag you there myself."
August's lips pressed into a thin line as he turned toward the exit, already imagining her backstage, completely in her element.
***
The venue was buzzing before the first model even stepped onto the runway. Velvet ropes marked VIP entrances, and black-tie attendees stepped carefully along the polished floors, champagne glasses clinking lightly in hand. Photographers lined the perimeter, cameras clicking, flashes reflecting off mirrored walls. Every step and every movement was choreographed in its own way, from the lighting crew adjusting beams to the assistants whispering last-minute instructions.
Celine stood backstage, emerald Prada catching the soft overhead light. She held her clipboard tightly, scanning the models as they walked through final positioning exercises. Hair was pinned, makeup touched up, and assistants hovered with steamers, brushes, and bottles of water.
"Everyone ready?" she asked softly, her voice calm but authoritative.
"Yes, Ms. Celine," murmured Stacy, checking the timing cues on her tablet.
From the stage entrance, the low hum of the audience floated through the backstage curtains. VIPs were taking their seats: fashion editors with notepads ready, buyers whispering last-minute deals, top social media influencers adjusting cameras, and a few select Chanel executives in their signature black. The murmurs grew louder as they exchanged glances and whispered about the collaboration and the viral teasers. Cameras clicked. Phones recorded. Anticipation crackled in the air.
The first notes of music hummed through the speakers, soft, atmospheric, tension-building. The lights dimmed slightly over the audience, but backstage remained bright enough for last-minute adjustments.
Models began lining up, each taking positions for the first walk. Celine moved along the racks, adjusting collars, smoothing hems, and giving quiet, precise instructions.
"Hold your shoulders back. Eyes forward. Let the fabric move naturally," she instructed, her voice steady, professional, almost hypnotic in its calmness.
The music shifted slightly, the cue. The first model stepped onto the runway, heels clicking against the polished floor, coat swaying with effortless elegance. The audience fell silent, all eyes glued to her movement, the fall of the fabric, the texture shimmering under the lights.
Celine watched intently, scanning for even the slightest imperfection. A hem brushing too low, a fold not falling right, every detail mattered. She pinched her clipboard between her fingers, her focus absolute.
Backstage, Stacy whispered into her earpiece, "Next five looks ready. Hair and makeup holding perfectly."
Celine gave a small nod, eyes flicking to the monitors showing the audience seating. She saw the top buyers and editors in the front rows, the cameras capturing every angle, and the flashes reflecting off the polished runway floor. She had one chance to make a flawless first impression.
The next model glided out, a jewel-toned coat catching the light. A soft murmur of appreciation rippled through the audience. Celine's lips twitched in the tiniest smile, a brief acknowledgment of the reaction, nothing more. She sipped a hurried gulp of coffee Stacy had passed her minutes ago. Her fingers trembled slightly, not from the caffeine, but from nerves and the weight of expectation.
Music shifted again, signaling the final set of models. The first few of this group had already passed, and now the last five were stepping in line. Celine clutched her coffee tightly, her eyes scanning every last detail.
"Hold positions," she murmured. "Timing. Precision. Flow."
The final model reached the end of the runway, paused gracefully, then turned to make the elegant walk back. The audience erupted into applause, a mix of excitement, admiration, and the flash of hundreds of cameras lighting the room.
Celine exhaled, letting herself take a small, controlled smile. She had held her breath through the finale, but now, as the crowd's energy washed over her, a brief thrill of pride swept through her. Every fabric, every hem, every color choice had landed exactly as she had envisioned.
"Bravo!" murmured one editor from the front row, while a social media influencer discreetly filmed the scene, whispering to her camera, "This collection is unreal."
Stacy nudged her gently. "Boss… they're waiting for your bow."
Celine straightened her shoulders, adjusted her emerald Prada, and stepped onto the runway. Cameras flashed in rapid succession, capturing her poised smile and confident posture. She walked slowly to the center, letting the applause wash over her, before dipping into a graceful bow. The audience erupted again, some standing, others clapping loudly.
Backstage, the models exchanged quick glances, some smiling, some whispering congratulations. Assistants scurried to adjust small details, but the tension of the show had shifted into exhilaration.
Celine straightened, a small flush on her cheeks from the energy and the spotlight. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to bask in her success, all the planning, late nights, fittings, and revisions had culminated in this flawless moment.
Stacy leaned in, whispering softly with a proud smile. "They love it boss . Every single look. You killed it."
Celine nodded, sipping a small amount of coffee as she allowed herself one deep, grounding breath. The show was over, the audience ecstatic, the collection revealed beautifully. For now, everything was perfect.
She walked back backstage, scanning her team. Models smiled, assistants adjusted racks, and the lighting technicians began dimming the runway lights.
"We did it!"
Celine allowed herself a small, private smile.
Later she stepped out to the media area, a line of reporters and photographers waiting eagerly. Microphones were thrust forward, cameras flashing, the air buzzing with questions and curiosity.
"Ms. Celine, how did you pull off such a flawless collection?" one reporter asked, leaning in.
Celine's eyes sparkled, and a wide smile spread across her face. "It was all about collaboration," she said warmly. "From my team of amazing designers to our models, hair and makeup, everyone brought their A-game. Inspiration came from the architecture of Paris in winter, the deep jewel tones of the season, and a little bit of my own journey in fashion. Every piece has a story."
Another reporter jumped in, "And the Chanel collaboration, how did that come about, and what can we expect in the future?"
She laughed lightly, enthusiastic but poised. "Working with Chanel has been an incredible experience. The team has been so supportive and open to creativity. I think the public will see more of this kind of collaboration, bold, daring, and beautiful pieces that merge my design philosophy with their timeless elegance. I can't wait to share the next steps."
A blogger from a top fashion site asked, "Which piece was your favorite to design?"
Celine tilted her head slightly, considering. "Oh, the emerald coat in the finale," she said, her eyes lighting up. "It's masculine in structure but still elegant, fluid in movement, it tells a story of strength and grace at the same time. I think it captures the essence of the collection perfectly."
The questions continued, inspirations, challenges, color choices, fabric selections, future plans, and Celine answered them all with calm enthusiasm. Her voice was steady, her gestures graceful, her energy contagious. Every camera captured her poise, every microphone caught her confident explanations.
Backstage, Stacy watched from a small distance, proud. Celine was radiant, fully in her element, a natural CEO-designer, commanding attention effortlessly. The collection was out, the audience loved it, and for the moment, everything felt perfect.
For now, at least, the world was hers.
Then it happened.
A subtle buzz first, almost drowned out by the hum of applause and the chatter of reporters. Celine didn't notice it at first, too caught up in explaining her inspiration for the final coat, her voice bright, her hands animated.
But backstage, Stacy froze. Her tablet screen lit up with something that made her stomach tighten.
"Celine…" she muttered under her breath, though the designer was still smiling at a question.
On the screens of journalists' phones, tablets, and laptops, a post had just gone live. A collage of images, each one a snapshot from a past life: Celine with different ex-husbands, laughing, smiling, caught in moments meant to be private. Captions whispered at the edges: "Seven marriages and counting?" "Is she really stable enough to run a Chanel collaboration?" "Designer drama! Failed Love Life"
The buzz started spreading instantly. Phones vibrated in the hands of photographers, editors, influencers. Screens lit up. Notifications exploded. A low, almost imperceptible hum of chaos, text alerts, tweets, messages, reposts, grew louder with every second.
Celine's eyes flicked to the nearest phone. Her coffee trembled in her hand. The applause, the bright lights, the warm energy of success, it all suddenly vanished. Her chest tightened, breaths shallow, heartbeat racing. She felt the weight of hundreds of eyes, all expecting words she didn't have.
A reporter pressed forward, sensing her hesitation. "Ms. Celine… can you comment on this post?"
Another leaned closer. "Do you think this affects your collaboration with Chanel?"
Celine froze completely. Her hands wrapped tightly around herself, as if trying to hold herself together. Cameras flashed directly in her face, a strobe of intrusive light that only amplified the storm inside her. Panic rose like fire, her mind racing uncontrollably, anxiety tightening its grip.
Backstage, Stacy moved closer, whispering urgently, "Celine… breathe… it's okay… you don't need to answer."
But Celine couldn't. Her lips parted slightly, no sound came out. Every second felt like an eternity. Her vision blurred at the edges from the bright flashes, the murmurs of the reporters, the relentless scrutiny. Her mind was breaking under the weight of it all.
Her chest heaved slightly, breaths short and shallow. She wanted her medication but couldn't reach for it here, under the lights and eyes of so many strangers. She was frozen, shaking, panic rising, completely vulnerable, wrapped in herself like a fragile shield.
The press had circled her like predators, microphones thrust forward, cameras flashing relentlessly. Celine stood frozen, hands wrapped tightly around herself, chest heaving as if she were trying to hold her own heartbeat in check. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, seeking relief from the bright lights, from the buzzing phones, from the weight of hundreds of expectant stares.
And then he saw her.
August stepped quietly through the commotion, weaving past staff and photographers. His eyes instantly found hers, though they were closed, lashes trembling. The cameras, the flashes, the endless questions, all of it seemed to shrink away under the intensity of his gaze.
She looked small, fragile, swarmed by the press, her confidence stripped bare. Every inch of composure she usually carried as a designer and CEO was gone, replaced by panic and rising anxiety.
He froze for a heartbeat, taking it in the way her shoulders huddled inwards, the trembling of her hands, the tight line of her jaw. She was on the brink of breaking down, and nothing else in the room mattered.
"Celine…" he murmured under his breath, careful not to draw the attention of the cameras, his voice low but grounding.
She didn't respond. Her eyes remained closed, her mind trapped in the rising tide of chaos around her. Without hesitation, he lifted her into his arms, her body light but trembling against him.
"Shh… I've got you," he murmured, voice low and grounding. "You're safe."
She didn't respond, too shaken, too anxious to form words. The world, the press, the cameras, the audience, all faded behind him.
Photographers whispered, but August didn't break stride. He carried her past the backstage frenzy, past the models and assistants, past the flashing cameras that tried to capture this vulnerable moment.
"August…" she whispered, voice barely audible, "I… I can't—"
"I know," he said softly, pressing a hand lightly against her back to steady her. "You don't have to. Not now."
They stepped out of the venue into the quiet of the night. A sleek black car waited, engine humming softly. August eased her into the passenger seat, careful not to jostle her. She rested her head against the leather seat, exhausted, eyes still closed, trying to slow her frantic heartbeat.
He slid in beside her, hand gently on hers, just to remind her he was there. "We'll go home," he said. "Somewhere quiet. You can breathe there."
Celine let out a shaky exhale, shoulders sagging slightly as the first tiny relief began to wash over her. The city lights blurred past the window as the car pulled away from the venue. She was still trembling, still anxious, but the weight pressing down on her felt… lighter. At least, for now.
August's eyes remained on her, vigilant. "You made it through tonight," he said quietly. "That's what matters. Everything else… we handle later."
Celine finally opened her eyes just a fraction, meeting his gaze for a brief second. There was gratitude there, mingled with exhaustion and lingering panic. She didn't speak, she couldn't yet, but in that moment, she knew she was safe with him.
And as the city lights slid past, she let herself lean a little more into him, allowing herself the tiniest flicker of calm amidst the storm that had erupted in her world just hours ago.