The Parisian sky was a dull slate, fog hugging the rooftops like a whispered promise. Inside the grand marble halls of École de Mode Élitaire — the most prestigious fashion institute in Europe — students bustled around in a frenzy. Not Ayden Cross.
Ayden walked with precise, clipped steps, headphones in, coat collar turned up against the world. The other students knew to move aside. He was a legend already — top of the class three years running, flawless designs, and an attitude as icy as the Seine in February.
He wasn't here to make friends. He was here to win.
But everything shifted the day he arrived.
Ayden sat in his usual corner of Studio 6A, sketching out a design — sharp shoulders, asymmetrical seams, clean, brutal beauty. Around him, the class chatted quietly, murmuring about some transfer student from Italy. Ayden didn't bother to look up.
Until the door opened.
And the room changed.
The man who walked in didn't just enter. He claimed the space.
Sun-bronzed skin. Messy dark curls. A cocky smirk curled on lips that had no business being that distracting.
"I'm Luca Moretti," the newcomer said, voice smooth with a Roman accent. "I'm here to shake things up."
Ayden froze mid-line.
He hated him already.
Later that afternoon, Professor Duval announced the semester's project: a two-person collaborative runway collection.
Ayden's jaw clenched.
He was paired with Luca.
Luca turned to him, grin like mischief personified. "So, partner... Think we'll kill each other before or after Fashion Week?"
Ayden looked at him, deadpan. "If you touch my fabric without asking, it'll be before."
Luca laughed, unbothered. "I love a challenge."