The night was alive with the hum of fashion’s elite.
Behind the scenes of *Collection Noire*, the grand ballroom of L’Esprit Manor had transformed into a realm of intrigue—half runway, half hidden desire. Models and designers flitted about, adjusting hemline secrets and whispered final touches, all ready to strut beneath chandeliers dripping in errant light. Yet, amid the swirl of haute couture, there was one figure who commanded every voyeur’s undivided attention.
Lucina DuMaurier stood by a velvet-draped mirror, her reflection painted in ethereal elegance. The garment that graced her curves was nothing short of audacious. A shimmering green sheath that clung to her like molten metal, its dramatic cutouts revealing just enough skin to ignite heated imaginations. A luxurious blue silk sash wrapped around her waist, flowing behind her like a promise unspoken. But the crown—her headdress—was otherworldly, built from silver tendrils that tangled upward and twisted like thoughts of forbidden pleasure. It was a mixture of art and seduction, offering those who dared glance her way a sense of fantasy bordering dangerously on the erotic.
And there was no one in this gathering of high fashion who dared look away.
Lucina knew she owned the room, whether on the runway or off it. Her confidence was magnetic, giving her power over the designers, photographers, and onlookers alike. And then, of course, there was him.
In the shadows near the velvet curtain, Yves, the dark-eyed photographer with a penchant for risk, adjusted his lens, though Lucina felt his gaze long before he clicked the shutter. The man had followed her rise since she first slinked down the catwalk of Munich in little more than chainmail and sky-high boots, and now the intensity between them was undeniable. Each shoot had turned into a pulse-racing game of cat and mouse, where he sought to capture not just her image, but the raw, untamed fire smoldering beneath it.
“Are you going to stand there all night?” Lucina purred, her voice dripping with amusement. “Or are you going to give me something worth posing for?”
Yves stepped out from the shadows, his midnight-black shirt open at the collar, stubble marking his jawline in the kind of messy allure that made fashion insiders lose their breath. He tilted his camera, eyes lingering on Lucina’s hardened profile. Their tension was palpable, a charged undercurrent in the bustling room.
“I thought you preferred not to be told what to do,” he replied, his voice a sultry rasp.
Lucina’s red-painted lips curved into a sharp smile. “Careful, Yves. I only disobey when I’m being watched.”
Without warning, he lifted the camera and snapped a photo. The flash briefly bathed her in stark light, as if he could momentarily trap her in a frame, but Lucina merely laughed—a throaty, rolling sound that reverberated in his core.
She moved toward him, predatory, the blue sash trailing behind her like a weaver of sin. “If you want something real, Yves, something untamed, you’ll have to take more than a picture.”
The space between them now nearly dissolved, the heat pushing against the limits of professionalism. For a moment, all background noise—fashion clatter, designers frantically scurrying—faded into oblivion. There was no runway, no glittering chandeliers, only two souls caught in their dangerous game.
“Take off that camera…” she whispered, “and maybe I’ll give you the kind of performance they’ll never forget.”
Yves swallowed. The camera drooped at his side as they both suddenly understood that when two forces collide like this, the aftermath is something far more scandalous than they had ever bargained for.
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