Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The music was vibrating through the floor, the base loud enough you could feel it thumping through your body. Harsh white lights glinted off mirrored panels and metallic fabrics, casting flickers of gold across the front row. It was a sensory overload in every way, exactly how it was meant to be. You had sat in rows like this, worn borrowed couture, smiled for pre-show photographers, and made small talk with stylists, editors, and socialites. But the tightness in your chest tonight was different. Unfamiliar. You cast a quick glance over at your mother, sitting beside you. Together you sat second row, center, not too visible, but not completely buried either. A carefully chosen location. Your mother didn’t believe in front-row seating unless you earned it. Even her daughter wasn’t an exception.

Eleonora Bianchi - sleek, composed, unshakable - had been a lead co-designer for Versace’s womenswear for over a decade. Her name never headlined, but within the industry, everyone knew who she was. You had grown up in studios and showrooms, watching your mother command teams of tailors, assistants, and creative directors with the sharpness of a scalpel.

Tonight, Eleonora’s face gave nothing away as model after model stormed the runway. That look, cool, calculating, unforgiving, was the same one you had watched for years. And you knew better than to misread it. Your mother was already dissecting every seam, every design element, every misstep. You didn’t hold your breath for the inevitable quiet disapprovals, the muttered critiques about a model’s walk or a silhouette that didn’t quite land. But more than anything, you braced for your mother’s opinion on the few pieces you herself had helped design.

Because for the first time in your life, your own work was actually up there. On that runway.

You’d been sketching since you were thirteen, reimagining school uniforms, cutting up thrifted dresses. What started as a hobby became a secret ambition, but your mother never encouraged it outright. Design was a battlefield she always said, especially for women, and even more so for the daughters of women who already had their foot in the door.

But, this year's show had been particularly difficult to prepare for. Last-minute changes, conflicting themes, creative disagreements across the entire design team. Time was running out. Your mother, desperate to meet the deadline, had called you in.

Just for support, at first.

But you had ended up doing more than errands and coffee runs. You’d been given fabric, space, and eventually a voice. You’d reworked a collar. Rebuilt a corset from scratch. And two of your sketches had made it through final approval.

They were walking the runway tonight.

You adjusted the hem of your silk dress, resisting the urge to fidget. You weren’t used to being nervous in these rooms. But tonight wasn’t about being seen. Tonight, it was about being judged.
Tall, sharp-boned models moved like ghosts down the runway, wrapped in draped silks, knife-pleated leathers, and twisted metallics. Every look felt like armor with intention. Beautiful, but dangerous.
You tracked each one with your eyes, searching for every stitch you’d touched. You recognized some of them. Pieces you helped construct. The neckline you adjusted at 3 a.m. A sleeve you redesigned last minute because the fabric wouldn't hold shape.

“There,” Eleonora said suddenly, her voice low but clear. “The neckline’s holding.”

Your head snapped toward her.

Your mother didn’t look away from the runway. Her tone was neutral. Maybe even faintly approving.

“I was sure the fabric would buckle during movement,” she continued. “But it’s holding.”

You blinked, nodded. Unsure whether to say thank you or I told you so.

It wasn’t praise exactly. But it was something. From Eleonora Bianchi, it might as well have been a standing ovation.

You watched carefully as the model continued to walk by, observing how the neckline laid delicately across her front to back, praying that it would stay put for the rest of the walk. You let out a small sigh of relief as the model disappeared from view, feeling a bit more confident in your work. The tightness in your chest shifted. Not gone, but momentarily softened.

You turned back to the show just in time to catch a flash of movement across the runway. A figure leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. Hair slicked back, black leather jacket. Not flashy, but unmistakably designer. His face was still, unreadable. But his eyes were locked on you.

Not on the runway. Not on the models. Just you.

You looked away immediately, then looked back, curiosity getting the better of you.

Still watching, seemingly also curious.

He was very handsome. His features, almost too perfect. Doll-like cheekbones, impossibly smooth skin, and intense, dark eyes. His posture was relaxed in a way that only made the intensity of his stare more jarring. It felt strangely intimate from across the crowded room.

For the first time all night, it wasn’t the runway or the crowd or even your mother’s silence that had your heart racing.

It was him.

Chapter Text

“You know, I always appreciate you getting us into events like this, but could you remind me again why we couldn’t have been seated next to you this year? Not even a liiiittle bit closer to the runway?” 

You roll your eyes, smiling and hitting your friend lightly on the shoulder as you walk side by side through the large archway leading into the after party, dodging between beautifully dressed men and women. I’ve definitely been spoiling him. you thought, always amused by his ever-present fascination with all things luxury and extravagant. 

“Ari, you are so spoiled.” You laughed, shaking your head. He clutches his chest in a very exaggerated show of exacerbation. “Seriously though, you should be grateful I was able to even get you a ticket! Things were so rushed this time around, and the demand for attendance only increases each year.”

You both pause for a moment to take in the sight of the after party as the scene unfolds before you. The room was practically vibrating with energy, and with the combination of loud conversation and the background music, any hope of having a conversation at a normal volume was lost. With people from all over the world gathered together with the same passion and lust for fashion, things were bound to get dramatic and loud, and that it was.

“Ari!” A cheerful voice calls out as you continue to maneuver your way through the crowd. You lift your head to look out for the person behind that familiar voice, and smile widely when she breaks through the crowd, becoming visible, and grasps onto Ari’s forearm excitedly. “Finally! What took you guys so long.”

“Erm, Gwen sweetie, I think the issue is less of us taking too long, and more that you totally left early!” Ari exclaimed. “I’m offended, and it’s not even my work up on that stage.”

“Oh please, it was practically over. And I had to pee, man!” Gwen yelled out, defending herself, and then quickly ducked her head, only slightly worried that her loud proclamation of needing to relive herself had been overheard by some snarky fashion designer. She then lifted her head up again, steadying herself and looking right into Ari’s eyes as he shook his head, laughing into his hand. “What? It's natural.”

Without missing a beat, she detached herself from Ari and grasped your hands in hers tightly. “We saw everything! The silky blue sleeves, and that killer neckline piece.. oh! Oh my god, and that corset! Holy shit, girl, that was amazing! The model didn’t even look uncomfortable either, which is important.” She winks, and hugs you tightly.

You giggle and lean into her embrace, slightly embarrassed by all the compliments, but grateful nonetheless. Ari and Gwen had been consistently updated on every step in your journey for the past few weeks while hastily preparing for the show. The group chat was full of pictures and videos of each piece you had worked on. Sometimes you had even sent a timelapse of you, hunched over a desk for hours on end, not stopping until you were convinced it was perfect. Ever the perfectionist, a trait you had definitely inherited from your mother. 

“I had to crane my neck for sure, but once I got to that 45 degree angle, I was blown away.” It was Gwen’s turn to smack Ari. “Ow!” he yelped, jumping back and holding his arm. 

“No but really, that was truly everything. I know better than anyone how hard you worked to finalize this damn show and make it absolutely flawless. It was perfect.” Ari says, looking down at you as he squeezes you with one arm against his side. It was true, there were many times where Ari would stay on video chat with you late into the night, helping to keep you awake as you worked tirelessly against the clock. You know he tried his best to keep all the creative critiques to himself, and was mostly successful, knowing that this was a task you had to complete all on your own. But honestly, you didn’t mind, happy to have a friend there to help you stay motivated, and prevent you from falling asleep face first into the desk. 

“The corset was definitely my favorite. I might need to borrow that sometime.” He stated, releasing you. He proceeded to suck in his stomach harshly and stood there in the fruitiest looking pose you think you may ever have seen. “I’ll make it fit.” 

“Oh god, I’m preemptively calling the police.” Gwen groaned and turned to you, pointing at Ari accusatorily. “He’ll steal it if you're not careful. He was so hyped up about it, I thought he was gonna run up on that walkway and rip it off the model!” 

“Thank you.. I think? And I don’t know about all this head craning, it seems to me like you had a good view.” The three of you toss your heads back in a fit of giddy laughter as you head for the nearest available spot on the outskirts of the party, trying to escape from the mesh of people gathered towards the middle of the room. “If I can find the time, I will make you your own personal corset. You’re gonna need something good for that birthday party coming up, don’t think I forgot.” Ari clasps his hands together in front of his chest and beamed. 

“Oh yah! You need something that’s gonna give cunt. With the birthday fit being up to our pride and joy here, you definitely won’t be going home alone.” Gwen giggled. As the three of you get settled, finally finding some sort of space for yourselves on the far side of the room, Ari’s eyes suddenly widen, looking at something behind you.

“Oh, who is that?” Ari says softly. Gwen’s eyes jumped up, but she kept her head low. Both of them were now looking at something over your shoulder, eyes carefully studying. 

“What is it?” you ask. It takes everything in you not to turn around and look for yourself, not wanting to get caught staring. 

“Your mom..” Ari starts. Ugh. You knew you wouldn’t be able to evade her for the whole night. “She’s speaking to some very beautiful man.” Oh. 

“Ari, stop drooling. He’s looking over this way.” Gwen snaps hushedly. “...And so is Eleonora. I think.. I think they might be talking about you.” Oh god. you groaned internally. Your mother always tried to push random potential clients and buyers at you during these types of events, and after the rollercoater of emotions you’d already felt tonight, speaking to some random man about tailoring that he didn’t want to hire you for was the last thing you wanted to do. You knew, at this point in your career, you should be landing jobs on your own. That’s what everyone expected. You had the education, the portfolio, even an extensive LinkedIn profile with carefully curated projects and references. But the jobs never came. No emails, no messages, no bites, just silence. The industry was crowded, cutthroat, and impossible to crack without a name already built for you. It was embarrassing, having your mother speak for you, and worse when people assumed you were only at events like this because of her. Suddenly the anxious feelings from earlier came rushing back in, the joy of being in your friend's company no longer enough to hold it back. You felt their eyes boring into the back of your head, and your hands impulsively moved up to fix your hair. 

“I need a drink.” You declared, turning away abruptly and ducking away from the spot in the room you knew your mother stood, not daring to look up in fear of being dragged into the conversation. 

“He’s seriously hot.” Ari repeated, him and Gwen following closely behind you as you made your way to the bar. “I need to know who that man is. What are the chances he’s gay and tonight is my night.”

“I think he’s Versace’s ambassador from that Korean pop group. I’m actually surprised you don’t know that already and I do, I thought you knew all things Versace.” Gwen teased. You snapped your head towards her. Korean. You thought, remembering the man from earlier. It couldn’t be him, could it? You certainly hoped not, his gaze alone was enough to have you flustered in your seat at the show, nevermind having to speak to the man. You quickened your steps. Once you reached the bar, you grabbed two of the already-prepared drinks and handed one to Gwen. You knew Ari didn’t usually drink, but you motioned to offer one anyway. He declined with a polite shake of his head.

You raised the glass to your lips and took a sip. The alcohol hit the back of your throat with a sharp burn, and for a moment, it was all you could focus on. No eyes watching you, no looming conversation, no impossible standards or unspoken expectations. Just the sting of liquor and the way it forced you to breathe through it. It wasn’t the kind of drink you normally liked - too strong, too direct - but right now, it was exactly what you needed. Something to ground you. Something real. You took another sip, slower this time, letting the warmth spread through your chest as if it could melt away the tightness gathering there. 

“He-” You started. “Did the man speaking to my mother, did he have a leather jacket on? Dark hair?” Your friends both nodded. Your heart skipped a beat. Gwen sipped her drink slowly, her eyes peeking at you over the rim of the glass, curiosity written all over her face. “Why are you acting so strange all of a sudden?” She asked. 

“He was, um… looking at me earlier. During the show. Almost the entire time, once I noticed it.” The words came out quieter than you meant.

“Like creepy?” Ari asked, brows knitted together.

“No—no, not creepy,” you assured him, shaking your head. “Just… I don’t know. It was a lot. Intense.” You stared down into your glass, watching the liquid catch the light.

“I knew there was some heat in that stare when he was looking at you!” Ari exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “That’s why it caught me so off guard!” 

You groaned, taking another sip of your drink to hide your face. “Please don’t make a thing out of this.”

“Oh, it’s already a thing,” Gwen said. “I mean, your mother is talking to him. Can you imagine what she’s saying right now?”

Ari cleared his throat and dropped into a dramatized version of your mother’s tone: “She’s very gifted, you know. Young, hungry, fresh eyes. She even designed some of the pieces on the runway tonight. And she’s been dying to break into more international markets. Fresh talent like hers just needs the right face, the right platform. You’d be an excellent match.”

You snorted into your glass. “That sounds terrifyingly accurate.”

Gwen grinned. “She’s probably showing him your portfolio right now. Like physically opening a tab on her phone and turning it toward him.”

You groaned again, though now you were laughing. “It’s not even subtle with her. She thinks if she throws me at enough people, eventually someone will say yes.” 

Gwen was mid-sip when her eyes widened. “Bad timing, but here she comes.”

You barely had time to register the words before your mother swept in like a well-dressed storm, all charm and forward momentum. She immediately plucked the drink straight from your hand and placed it back on the bar without even looking, her other hand curling around your elbow.

“Darling,” she said, too brightly, “there you are.”

You blinked. Here it comes.

“I’d like you to meet Hyunjin from the Korean group, Stray Kids. He’s in town for Fashion Week.”

Hyunjin stood beside her, effortless and composed, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “Nice to meet you.” He said simply, softly nodding to you and then to Ari and Gwen respectively, who were standing close behind you. The hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as his eyes met yours again. Those eyes. The same one from the show. Still intense. Still entirely too much.

“He mentioned he’s interested in working with some emerging designers, and of course I told him about you.” Your mother continued.

“Oh, well, it’s really great to meet you,” you said, forcing a smile. “I’m not super familiar with all the groups, there’s so much happening in K-pop, but I know how influential the scene is when it comes to fashion.” You glanced briefly at your mother, being careful to hold the same practiced tone of professionalism she’d drilled into you over the years.

“Thank you, we try,” Hyunjin said humbly, smiling lightly, looking down briefly before meeting your eyes again. “That’s why I’m always looking to work with fresh designers, people who see things differently.” His eyes drifted down again, unhurried, deliberate. Lingering just a little longer than before. Suddenly, you became painfully aware of every inch of fabric against your skin. The way your dress hugged your hips with a little too much precision. How the material shifted when you breathed, the tension pulling across your stomach, your chest. The low cut between your breasts, plunging and elegant when you put it on, now felt entirely exposing under the weight of his gaze.

His tongue darted out to wet his lips.

Your breath caught.

Your mother jumped in smoothly before you could respond, though honestly, you weren’t sure you were exactly prepared to speak anyway. “Exactly why I thought of her,” she said, her tone light but unmistakably pointed. “She’s not just talented, she sees things other people miss. There’s a thoughtfulness to her work. It’s elevated.” 

You cringed inwardly. You didn’t particularly disagree with her words, having faith in your hard work. But it was the way she said them, just a touch too polished, too rehearsed… it felt like she was pitching you. Selling you. Trying a little too hard to win him over, as she always does. You were half-convinced it was why this strategy of hers never worked. Too pushy. Too obvious. And the irony? She’d never say any of this to your face, not directly. Praise only came when there was an audience. Some client to persuade. Some money to make. 

Hyunjin nodded agreeably, full focus on you. “I really liked your designs.” Against your will, your heart fluttered.

“She’s at the point in her career where the right collaboration could really shape her trajectory,” your mother continued, pushing harder now, knowing that the fish on the other side of her line was just about to bite. But it’s not for the reasons she thinks. This wasn’t just about career advancement or fresh ideas. There was something more complicated at play. 

You couldn’t take it anymore. The room felt smaller. Your skin felt hotter. A slow pressure built in your chest, not quite panic, but something dangerously close. The energy inside you had shifted from a quiet flicker to something volatile, crawling beneath your skin until it felt like you were standing under a spotlight, overexposed, overstudied. Standing there in front of him, in front of them, every glance, every pause felt magnified, like you were on display. 

Your mother’s relentless insistence only made it worse. The way she kept speaking, steering the conversation on your behalf, as though you were incapable of asserting yourself. It felt both suffocating and frustrating. It wasn’t just about pride; it was the way she seemed to diminish your agency, wrapping you in an unspoken protection that felt less like support and more like constraint. You could almost feel your autonomy slipping, inch by inch, your composure unraveling.

The pressure mounted too quickly, and before you could stop yourself, you muttered, “I’m sorry. I don’t feel.. I-I need a moment.” Without waiting for a response, you turned and hurried away, weaving through the crowd quickly, desperate to escape. 

Your heart pounded as you made your way to the nearest bathroom, closing the door swiftly behind you. The immediate quieting of the noise, even if just a bit, was a welcome relief. 

Fuck.

What was wrong with you? Why did you run? Embarrassing.

You moved to the nearest sink, turned on the tap, and plunged your hands under the cool stream. You cupped your wet palms and pressed them to your neck, your chest. Anything to ease the burning that hadn’t gone away since the moment Hyunjin looked at you like that, spoke to you so softly. 

He hadn’t said anything inappropriate. Hadn’t touched you, hadn’t crossed any visible lines. And yet, his attention had landed with a kind of weight. Not unkind. Not unwelcome either, exactly. You realized, but that thought only worked to enhance your blush, and you pushed it away quickly.

You told yourself it was just all the attention, all at once. The scrutiny. The fact that this was someone whose approval could shift the ground beneath your feet. But, it wasn’t just recognition, you knew. It probably wasn’t genuine recognition at all. The way his eyes had dragged down your body, taking it all in. Not long enough to call out, not long enough to accuse, but long enough to feel. 

You’d spent so long preparing for this, this kind of room, this kind of opportunity. And yet somehow, in a matter of seconds, it had slipped from your control. Tilted into something murkier. And you weren’t sure who had pushed it there— him, your mother… or you.

Your jaw tightened.

Of course. Of course the first client who actually seemed interested, really interested, was interested because he wanted to get you into his bed. Not the work. Not the ideas. Not the sketchbooks you’d poured yourself into for years.

You wanted to believe the compliment had been genuine. That his curiosity was professional. But, it had nothing to do with fabric or lines or technique. He was simply seeing through your clothing, not into it. And the worst part? You had reacted. Like an idiot.

It made your skin prickle, not with shame, but with something sharper.

And your mother—God, she meant well. At least you thought she did. It was love, yes. But it was also control. When she spoke for you, praised you, positioned you like a résumé in motion, it felt like being dressed in someone else’s skin. In her skin. Polished. Impressive. Strategic. But not you. Not your doing. And again, like an idiot, there you were parroting off her lines, the ones she thought would open doors, smooth the way. But beneath all that polish, you felt practically invisible.

You gripped the edge of the sink now, water still dripping from your fingers. You looked up, your reflection in the mirror stared back, looking unfamiliar. 

Pull it together.

The door swung open then, jarring you from your thoughts. And your mother’s face appeared in the doorway, her eyes blazing. You sucked in a quick breath as she slammed the door shut behind her. 

“What the hell are you doing, hiding in here?” Her voice was sharp, brittle with frustration and something colder, harder than you’d expected.

“Lord knows, I try so hard to help you, to guide you, and this is what you do? Running off like a scared little girl, when the opportunity of a lifetime was just within your reach!”

She took a step closer, finger pointed as if trying to force the truth into you.

“That was our closest client so far. Do you even realize that?” Her tone dropped, bitter. “Do you even care?”

She paced a few steps, heels snapping against the tile.

“I should’ve known,” she muttered, eyes narrowing. “You’d rather hide in the corner, wasting the night away drinking…”

You stood there, shocked, mouth parted but unable to say anything. She didn’t wait for a response.

“These big events only happen so often,” she went on, her voice rising. “This is where things happen. Where people make deals, find backers, collaborators—jobs. You should be out there networking, making something of yourself, by yourself. This is the golden place to be, and you act like it’s some kind of burden.”

She turned back to you, eyes blazing.

“People would die to be in a room like this, with these kinds of connections just within reach, and you’re so—” She cut herself off, waving a hand as if the words were too disappointing to finish. “You’re wasting it.”

You stood frozen. Her words sliced deeper—not because they were unfamiliar, but because they echoed so many things you already feared. 

“I—I’m sorry!” you stammered, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “I don’t think it’s a burden, and I didn’t mean to put everything on you. I didn’t mean to ruin it, I swear.” Your voice broke as you tried to explain. “I just—you don’t understand. He was—”

“He was what?” she snapped, cutting you off, eyes narrowing in warning. She looked you up and down, her gaze landing on the dress like it was an accusation. “You walk around in a dress I paid for, surrounded by my contacts, and then just vanish the second something real is on the line?”

“Mom!”

Your voice cracked, sharper than you intended, but it cut through her rant like glass. She stopped mid-step, her expression faltering, just for a second, finally giving you a chance to speak. Your eyes burned as tears welled up, the pressure of her scrutiny, her disappointment, finally breaking past your defenses.

“He wasn’t impressed by my work!” you shouted, incredulous. Your voice rose with a shaky kind of desperation, almost disbelieving you had to say it out loud. “He’s not interested in me as a designer. He— He’s trying to sleep with me.”

The words echoed in the tiled bathroom, too loud, too real. You almost laughed. A small, bitter sound escaped your throat, half a laugh, half a sob.

“I don’t know how you didn’t see it,” you went on, voice trembling. “Even Gwen and Ari noticed. It was obvious. The way he looked at me, it wasn’t about the collection. It wasn’t about anything I’ve made. He’s not being genuine.”

She looked at you for a long moment, silent. Something almost softened in her eyes, maybe a flicker of hesitation, but it vanished as quickly as it came.

“Honey,” she said finally, her voice low but steady, “you’re twenty-three years old. You’re not a kid, and I can’t keep doing this for you.”

She stepped closer, folding her arms, her gaze steady and unyielding.

“Even if what you say is true, and I don’t know if it is, it doesn’t change the fact that you need this job. You need a real career. You need to stand on your own two feet.”

Her tone hardened, edged with a cold kind of pragmatism.

“I won’t let you keep living off my paycheck. That stops now.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding.

“If sleeping with him is what it takes to get your foot in the door,” she said, her eyes locked on yours, “then that’s just what you’ll have to do.”

She sighed softly, the barest hint of sorrow flickering across her face. For a moment, you thought she might say more, but then she started to turn away.

Before stepping out of the bathroom, she paused, glancing over her shoulder.

“Don’t come home tonight unless you get that job. The door will be locked.”

Click.