Chapter 133 – Off Stage
Outside in the VIP section, the room was buzzing.
Elyndra sat prim and composed, draped in icy silver silk with her legs crossed and arms folded—her expression as effortlessly regal as ever.
Mira leaned back in her seat, already on her phone, jade jewelry glinting against her skin and not even pretending to hide her boredom.
And then there was Rava.
Wearing a dark blue cocktail dress that shimred like the ocean at midnight. Her fingers drumd lightly against her thigh, gaze focused on the runway with mild disinterest.
Until Lux walked out.
"Oh my," she whispered.
Mira looked up. Blinked once.
Then again.
Elyndra’s lip parted, brow twitching faintly.
Lux sat between Mira and Rava.
Because of course he did.
And the mont he did, the air around them shifted again.
Like soone had poured heat into the room.
Rava stared.
Hard.
"...You look ridiculous," she said finally.
Lux raised a brow. "Ridiculously good?"
She didn’t answer, but her tentacles did.
One peeked out from under her chair. A little blue coil curling with visible frustration.
Elyndra glanced sideways. "That suit is not legal in twelve fashion sectors," she said flatly.
"I’m considering making it standard diplomatic wear," Mira muttered.
Fiera pretended not to hear them. Pretended very hard.
The lights dimd. Music swelled. The show was about to start.
Fiera’s voice ca through a private comm bead, ant only for VIPs.
"Ladies," she said coolly. "Welco to the Sumr ’Empire’ Collection."
The crowd quieted.
Models began walking.
But the attention kept flicking back to the VIP row.
To him.
Because Lux wasn’t just present—he was radiant. Every ti he shifted in his seat, crossed a leg, rolled his sleeve, smiled at soone—soone in the crowd gasped. Flushed. Whispered.
Fiera watched it from the side stage.
Every breath she drew felt like molten glass. Every model that passed by Lux slowed—just slightly. Every cara snapped one too many pictures in his direction.
It was working.
He was leverage.
He was the effect.
But the problem?
She wanted him for herself.
Not just on stage.
Off stage too.
In her studio. In her car. In her house. In her—
She shook her head sharply. Focused back on the show.
The music kicked up with a pulse-heavy bassline that vibrated through the floor and straight into her ribcage. A shimr of stage lights poured down like liquid gold, catching the curve of every sequin, the line of every hem. The runway glowed like a river of marble fire—sleek, endless, polished for perfection.
And then they ca.
One by one, her models stord the catwalk like they were born to conquer it. Hair slicked back or flowing like silk banners, lips sharp in crimson and wine-dark hues. They walked with practiced grace, shoulders squared, hips confident, heels striking like punctuation.
The first wave was fierce—razor-tailored suits with cinched waists, broad collars, and bold cuts. Commanding. Business goddesses. No frills, just power. The kind of outfits that made rooms fall silent and made bad decisions look tempting.
Then ca the second act—flowing gowns. Layers of translucent black, smoke gray, deep burgundy. Dresses that clung like shadows and moved like whispers. The silk shimred, the lace teased, and the slits? Sinful. They twirled and turned at the end of the runway, letting the fabric bloom and fall like blooming petals or wicked wings.
Thirty minutes passed.
Thirty whole minutes of cara flashes, curated chaos, hair swishing, and lip gloss reapplications mid-walk. The pit in front of the runway sounded like a hive of chanical bees—cara clicks, autofocus chirps, and muted whispers.
But not all the lenses stayed on the runway.
So—too many, honestly—pointed directly toward the VIP seats.
Specifically, toward one seat.
Lux’s.
And Lux?
Oh, he noticed.
He was relaxed, one arm draped along the back of Rava’s chair, one leg crossed neatly over the other, fingers resting against his chin like so ancient war general disguised as a fashion mogul. Every ti a flash went off his way, he smirked a little more. Shifted slightly. Tilted his head like he was posing without posing.
And when he caught one cara aid directly at him for a little too long, he turned—just barely—and looked straight into the lens.
Raised an eyebrow.
Smirked like sin in a suit.
It was not subtle.
Fiera, watching from the sidelines, nearly dropped her headset. "This cocky—" she muttered, trying not to choke on her own laughter.
Her assistant gasped beside her. "He’s flirting. With the caras."
"I know," she whispered back. "He’s such a problem."
Models passed by. The crowd whispered and clapped. So high-end clients murmured about ordering two of everything. So weren’t even looking at the clothes anymore.
But Fiera stayed focused.
Mostly.
Until her assistant leaned in and whispered, "He’s up next."
Fiera’s breath caught. "Already?"
"Finale," her assistant nodded, handing her the handheld mic. "You’re up with him."
And just like that—
Her stomach dropped.
Because it wasn’t just business now.
It wasn’t just fashion.
It was him. On stage. With her.
And this room? Full of powerful won and even more powerful caras?
They were about to see everything she tried so hard to keep in check.
Showti.
She took a deep breath, stepped onto the stage—and the room shifted.
A black-and-gold gown swept the floor behind her like royal fire. Her hair pinned in elegant waves, her heels tapping a controlled rhythm. She didn’t smile. Not yet.
Then Lux rose from his seat.
And the crowd forgot how to breathe.
He didn’t walk toward her.
He prowled.
The runway, already glowing beneath the lights, seed to dim around him—like even the stage knew who it belonged to now. Like he wasn’t walking to her, but claiming her.
The obsidian suit shimred faintly, catching the low amber lights in glints of crimson along the seams. It whispered of infernal fire and forbidden silk—tailored straight from a designer’s fever dream and a devil’s private wardrobe.
His eyes?
They didn’t sweep across the crowd like a model’s.
No. They locked on her.
Only her.
Like the hundreds of guests didn’t exist.
Like she was the last soul left to ruin.
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