The moment Zane stepped out of the car, his phone was already in his hand.
Zane: I'm home.
The reply came instantly.
Mom: I KNOW. DON'T MOVE.
He frowned, glancing up at the apartment building. The windows looked the same. Quiet. Normal. Nothing about it screamed life-changing day completed successfully.
He pushed the door open—
And stopped.
A banner hung crookedly across the living room wall, clearly taped in a rush.
CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR SPONSORSHIP
The letters were uneven, some glittery, some clearly printed twice because the printer had jammed.
Zane blinked.
Then his mom popped out from the kitchen, holding a wooden spoon like a weapon.
"You're late," she said sternly.
Zane laughed. "You told me not to move."
"I meant emotionally," Nina said, then immediately dropped the act and rushed forward, throwing her arms around him. "You did it. You actually did it."
"I didn't sign anything yet," Zane muttered, but he hugged her back just as tightly.
"You sat in that office," she said. "That's enough."
The kitchen smelled insane—garlic, spices, something simmering. His mom never cooked like this unless she was celebrating or stressed, and tonight it was definitely the first.
"You didn't have to—"
"I did," she cut in. "Sit. Tell me everything. Slowly."
They ate at the small dining table, plates overflowing. Zane talked between bites, recounting the drive, the mansion, the office that felt more like a throne room than a workplace. He explained the products, the fragrance deal, the possibility of a perfume with his name on it.
Nina kept gasping like she was watching a drama unfold.
"And then," Zane said, leaning back, "they said if I reach finals—"
"I knew it," she said, slapping the table lightly. "I knew it."
"They're serious," he said quietly. "This isn't a maybe."
She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "They'd be stupid not to be."
A knock sounded at the door.
Zane's friends trickled in—two teammates from the gym, a mutual friend from the bar scene—beer in hand, laughter loud but controlled. Nina greeted them all like she'd known them for years, shooing them toward food, insisting they eat more.
It wasn't a party.
Just… warmth.
At some point, someone toasted. Someone hugged him too hard. Someone joked about him becoming famous and forgetting them.
"I won't," Zane said automatically.
And he meant it.
Later, when the plates were stacked and the laughter dulled into background noise, Zane leaned against the counter, phone in hand, half-listening as his mom told one of his friends about the banner mishap.
"And then," Zane said, mid-story, "his son walked in—"
He stopped.
Someone glanced at him. "His son?"
Zane shook his head too quickly. "Doesn't matter. Just… the meeting ended after that."
His mom watched him closely but didn't press.
That night, long after everyone left and the apartment settled into quiet, Zane lay on his bed, lights off, phone glowing softly in his hand.
He hesitated.
Then typed:
Adrien Camille
The results came instantly.
Adrien Cho-Camille.
His breath caught.
Son of Lucien Camille and Sophie Cho-Camille.
Nationality: French–Korean
Education: Keystone University
Disciplines: Fencing, Tennis, Figure Skating, Piano, Violin
Achievements: Multiple gold medals (national & international)
Model and ambassador for Camille Group
Zane scrolled.
Photos filled the screen—Adrien on a fencing strip, blade extended, eyes sharp. Adrien in tailored suits. Adrien on magazine covers. Adrien smiling faintly beside luxury cars and watches.
Untouchable.
Zane locked his phone and tossed it onto the bed.
"Get a grip," he muttered.
Across the city, the Camille estate buzzed with an unfamiliar energy.
Adrien sat stiffly in the living room, hands folded in his lap, while Lucien stood near the window, already irritated.
"You didn't have to come," Lucien said flatly.
"Oh, don't start," a woman replied breezily, stepping forward.
She was elegant in an effortless way—short dark hair, sharp eyes softened by warmth. Isabelle Camille, Lucien's younger sister, had always been Adrien's favorite relative.
"I'm one day late," she said, holding up a slim black folder. "Sue me."
Adrien frowned slightly. "What's that?"
She smiled.
"Happy birthday."
He opened it.
His breath stopped.
"A penthouse?" he whispered.
"Near campus," Isabelle said. "Top floor. Private elevator. You'll finally breathe."
Adrien stood so fast the chair scraped.
He hugged her—tight, unguarded, desperate.
"Thank you," he said into her shoulder. "Thank you."
Lucien cleared his throat.
Adrien stiffened.
"I will allow it," Lucien said carefully, "under conditions."
Isabelle rolled her eyes. "Lucien—"
"Two bodyguards," he continued. "Two maids. No unauthorized guests. No exceptions."
Adrien hesitated.
Then nodded. "Fine."
"And you move only when school starts."
"Yes, Father."
Lucien gave a short nod. The matter was settled.
Adrien smiled again only after Isabelle squeezed his hand.
Later that night, Zane sat on the couch, half-watching TV.
A commercial break started.
He barely paid attention—
Until he saw him.
Adrien stood onscreen, water cascading over his skin, dark hair slicked back, eyes half-lidded as he reached for a bottle.
Camille Group Body Wash.
Zane forgot how to breathe.
Adrien's voice was low, smooth, accented just enough to be dangerous. He smiled—not polite, not cold—but intimate, like the camera was the only thing he saw.
Zane leaned forward.
His chest tightened.
"Shit," he whispered.
The screen faded to black.
Zane sat there long after, heart racing, mind spinning.
He didn't like him.
He was sure of that.
So why—
Why couldn't he look away?