Zane woke before his alarm.
That alone told him it was going to be one of those days.
The room was still dim, early morning light barely filtering through the thin curtains. His phone lay face-down on the nightstand, accusingly silent now, though it had been anything but the night before. Emails. Notifications. A reminder that his life was no longer something he could move through lazily.
He reached for the phone and turned it over.
There it was.
Camille Group – Priority Update
He'd read it at least three times already, but his thumb opened it again anyway.
> Due to scheduling adjustments, today's commercial shoot for Élan Nocturne perfume has been moved up to 8:00 AM sharp.
Location: The Montclair Conservatory.
Attendance is mandatory. Punctuality is non-negotiable.
Zane groaned softly and scrubbed a hand over his face.
The Montclair Conservatory.
Of course.
An old glass-and-steel botanical estate on the edge of the city, all towering palms, white marble walkways, and filtered sunlight. Romantic. Elegant. Expensive-looking in a way that screamed luxury fragrance campaign. Camille Group loved places like that—spaces that made people feel small and desirable at the same time.
He swung his legs out of bed and padded toward the bathroom.
Cold water on his face helped clear the last fog of sleep. He brushed his teeth quickly, mechanically, eyes still heavy as his mind drifted—unwanted—back to the night before.
The restaurant. Adrien's glare. The way his chest had tightened when their eyes locked.
And worse—
That picture.
Zane leaned his palms against the sink and exhaled slowly.
He was still grateful—almost painfully so—that the person who had taken that photo of him that night hadn't posted it.
Him, drunk. Laughing too close. Evan's hand at his waist. Their mouths nearly touching.
An "almost" that could've ruined everything.
An off-model scandal Camille Group would've buried him for.
He didn't know who had taken it. Didn't know why it hadn't surfaced.
But every morning he woke up half-expecting to see his name trending for all the wrong reasons.
"Not today," he muttered to his reflection.
He stepped out of the bathroom and headed to the kitchen.
His mom was already up, standing by the stove, hair tied back loosely, humming to herself as she flipped something in a pan.
"Morning," Zane said, voice still rough.
She turned, smiling instantly. "You're up early."
"Shoot," he replied, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. "Perfume commercial. Eight a.m."
She clicked her tongue. "They're working you too hard."
"I'm fine."
She looked at him for a long moment—the kind of look mothers had, the one that saw through rehearsed answers. Then she smiled again, softer this time.
"Eat something."
"I'll grab something on the way."
She ignored him, slid a container toward him anyway. "Take this. You forget when you're busy."
Zane hesitated, then smiled faintly and took it. "Thanks, Mom."
"Be careful," she added. "And text me."
He nodded, grabbed his jacket, and headed out before she could fuss any more.
The Montclair Conservatory was already buzzing when Zane arrived.
Production vans lined the gravel driveway. Assistants darted back and forth with clipboards. Stylists clustered around racks of clothing, murmuring urgently. The air smelled faintly of greenery and citrus—someone had already sprayed the perfume.
Inside, sunlight streamed through the glass ceiling, breaking into soft prisms as it hit the mist drifting from hidden humidifiers. White marble floors reflected everything, making the space feel unreal, like a dream designed by someone with too much money.
"Zane!" A familiar voice cut through the noise.
Lucien Camille's representative—sleek suit, sharp eyes—approached him. "Glad you made it."
"Barely," Zane replied, offering a polite smile.
"You'll love this concept," the man continued. "Very sensual. Very controlled. We want quiet intensity. Less boxer, more temptation."
Zane nodded, though his shoulders tensed.
They led him to wardrobe.
The outfit was simple but deliberate—cream silk shirt, open at the collar, tailored black trousers, no shoes. Barefoot on cool marble. Minimalist. Intimate.
Makeup dusted lightly over his skin, just enough to catch the light. His hair was left natural, slightly dampened to give the illusion of effortlessness.
"Think… forbidden," the director said as they adjusted the lighting. "Like someone you shouldn't want, but do anyway."
Zane swallowed.
The shoot lasted hours.
Walking slowly through the conservatory paths. Fingers brushing leaves. Pausing beneath arching vines as the camera lingered on the slope of his neck, the tension in his jaw, the quiet hunger in his eyes.
Again.
And again.
"Reset."
"Once more."
"Hold that look."
By the time they wrapped, his muscles ached—not from training, but from restraint.
When it was finally over, Zane retreated to a quiet corner, towel draped around his shoulders, heart still racing from the intensity of it all.
He pulled out his phone.
And without thinking too hard—
He texted Adrien.
Zane: just finished a shoot. how's your day?
Adrien woke up to silence.
Real silence.
Not the polite, watchful quiet of his parents' house. Not the distant murmur of staff or expectations humming beneath the walls.
This silence belonged to him.
He lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling of his new bedroom. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city skyline, sunlight spilling across dark wood floors and unpacked boxes.
The penthouse was absurd.
Spacious. Clean. Empty in a way that felt full of possibility instead of loneliness.
He sat up, ran a hand through his hair, and laughed quietly.
"I'm free," he told the room.
He spent the morning unpacking randomly—books stacked without order, clothes shoved into the walk-in closet, framed sheet music leaned against the wall instead of hung properly. There were still boxes everywhere, but he didn't care.
He flopped back onto the bed, arms spread, breathing out a long sigh.
Tomorrow, his final year would begin.
No parents hovering. No expectations breathing down his neck every second.
Just him.
His phone buzzed.
Adrien turned his head and grabbed it.
Zane: just finished a shoot. how's your day?
Adrien's lips curved upward before he could stop them.
He typed back.
Adrien: just moved in. penthouse feels unreal.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Zane: penthouse? wow.
Adrien: yeah. finally away from my parents.
Zane: that sounds… nice.
Adrien rolled onto his side, staring out at the city.
Adrien: what kind of shoot was it?
There was a pause.
Then—
Zane: perfume commercial.
Adrien imagined it too easily.
Zane, lit softly. Skin warm under glass-filtered sunlight. That quiet intensity the director probably loved.
Adrien swallowed.
Adrien: Ican picture it.
A longer pause this time.
Zane: what do you picture?
Adrien hesitated, heart picking up speed.
Adrien: you. trying not to look like you know exactly what you're doing.
On the other side of the city, Zane leaned back against the conservatory wall, phone warm in his hand.
He smiled.
Just slightly.
Zane: maybe i do.
Adrien exhaled, staring at the screen, aware of the distance between them—and how thin it suddenly felt.
Tomorrow, school would start.
But today—
Today felt like the beginning of something else entirely.