Chapter 2
Three years ago, in the PULSE magazine office, my voice exploded across the entire space: "What do you mean by last-minute cancellation?!"
Fury was about to burst from my chest. Standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, I could feel everyone in the editorial department behind me holding their breath, not daring to make a sound.
Good. That's exactly the effect I wanted.
At 29, I controlled the entire New York fashion scene's narrative. Behind me on the wall hung those classic magazine covers, each one a masterpiece I had personally orchestrated. I was Delphine Waverly, the queen of PULSE, and no one dared defy my will.
Until today.
"Boss, we need to find a replacement immediately." Jenny approached cautiously, clutching a stack of candidate portfolios.
I spun around sharply, my heels clicking an icy rhythm on the marble floor. The stammering explanations from the modeling agency on the phone only fueled my rage.
"A bunch of incompetents! Can't even find a decent male model!" I grabbed the portfolio, flipped through a few pages, then slammed it on the desk. These so-called "candidates" were an insult to my professional taste. "You call these rejects models? Tomorrow's shoot affects the entire quarter's sales, and you bring me this garbage?"
The entire office atmosphere froze. I loved this feeling.
"Give me one more hour. If you still can't find suitable candidates, you're all fired!"
Just as I was about to continue, the office door was gently pushed open.
Time stopped.
The roar in my open mouth suddenly caught in my throat.
A young man in an ordinary delivery uniform entered, carrying an insulated bag. Sunlight streamed in behind him, gilding his silhouette with golden edges.
My God.
This face... I'd seen countless male models, attended countless fashion shows, but never had a face shocked me so profoundly at first sight. Perfect cheekbone structure, eyes as deep as the ocean, and that innate aristocratic bearing. Even wearing the most ordinary delivery uniform, the aura he radiated could conquer any camera.
This was the face I'd been searching for!
"Sorry to interrupt, ma'am." His voice was deep and magnetic, with a hint of apology. "Your lunch has arrived. I need a signature."
I felt my heart skip a beat. This was impossible—I never let any man affect my emotions, never. But now, I was actually getting flustered by a stranger's voice.
"I..." Damn it, I was actually speechless! Me, the most feared she-devil in the entire New York fashion circle, rendered mute by a delivery boy.
This feeling was both shocking and thrilling.
"Wait!" I suddenly snapped back to reality, my voice carrying a tremor I could hear myself. "Don't leave yet. Take off your jacket."
I had to confirm. If he was really as perfect as I thought...
"Excuse me, what did you say?" He looked confused, asking politely.
"Take off your jacket. I want to see your physique." My professional instincts were completely activated. I began circling him, examining him with a professional eye.
The more I looked, the more satisfied I became. The more I looked, the more excited I got.
Broad shoulders, narrow waist—perfect golden ratio. Slender fingers, elegant neckline. This was simply a masterpiece carved by God himself! I could imagine how stunning he'd be in front of cameras, how much attention he'd bring to PULSE.
No—how much glory he'd bring me.
"Little boy, want to make big money?" I tried to control the excitement in my voice, but could still hear that tremor. "Be my exclusive model. Room and board included. One month's pay is more than you'd make delivering food for a year."
What a generous offer! Any rational person wouldn't refuse.
But his expression changed instantly.
"Ma'am, I'm not that kind of person. Please show some respect." He stepped back, looking at me warily.
What?
I couldn't believe my ears. Me, the editor-in-chief of PULSE, the trendsetter of the entire New York fashion circle, rejected by a delivery boy?
This feeling of rejection... actually made me even more excited.
"Interesting..." A dangerous smile curved my lips. No one could refuse me, no one. The more this boy resisted, the more I wanted to possess him.
I watched him hastily pack up his delivery bag to leave, my mind already made up.
"Jenny!" I shouted to my assistant. "Find out everything about him. Name, address, family background—everything!"
I wanted this perfect boy, at any cost.
Three days later, at midnight, I stood in the stairwell of a dilapidated apartment building. My cashmere coat clashed with this dark, cramped environment, but I didn't care. The investigation results both sympathized and excited me—Harold Sterling, 21 years old, father was a gambler who ran off after accumulating massive gambling debts, leaving him alone to bear the burden.
Perfect prey.
The more desperate someone is, the easier they are to save. And I was going to be his savior. This feeling was too wonderful—I could imagine him kneeling before me in grateful tears.
Heated arguments echoed from the stairwell. I hid around the corner, watching three thuggish debt collectors surrounding my Harold.
My Harold? When did I start thinking of him that way?
"Kid, where's the money? The $200,000 you promised to pay today?"
"I need a few more days, please..." Harold's voice carried desperation, that helpless tone stirring inexplicable anger within me.
How dare they? How dare anyone treat the person I had my eye on this way?
"Extension? You've been stalling for three months! No money, pay with your life!"
Watching those men about to lay hands on Harold, rage instantly ignited within me. I stepped out of the shadows in my heels, my voice cold as ice: "How much? I'll pay for him."
Everyone froze, including Harold. He looked at me in shock, those deep eyes filled with disbelief.
"Two hundred thousand." The lead debt collector stared at me steadily.
Without hesitation, I pulled out my checkbook, scribbled quickly, and tore off a check to throw at them. "Get lost."
Watching the debt collectors flee in embarrassment, my heart swelled with an intoxicating sense of conquest. He needed me, depended on me, and now, he could never leave me.
"You... why are you helping me?" Harold looked at me in shock.
I looked down at him condescendingly, savoring the shock and gratitude in his eyes—this was exactly the script I had orchestrated.
"Because you belong to me now." My voice was soft as a feather, yet carried undeniable dominance. "Tomorrow morning at nine, come to this address."
I handed him a business card and turned to leave.
The next day, I waited for my "trophy" in my luxury apartment, wearing my silk robe with my hair casually draped over my shoulders. When the doorbell rang, I was in an exceptionally good mood. The moment I opened the door, I saw the shock on his face.
"Welcome to your new home." I smiled with satisfaction.
Watching him stunned by my apartment filled me with pride. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Central Park, and every piece of interior decoration was priceless. This was the world of the wealthy, the life I was offering him.
"This is your room." I opened a door, enjoying the surprise in his eyes. "This is your wardrobe, with clothes custom-tailored to your measurements. Starting tomorrow, you'll be my personal model."
I led him on a tour of this carefully arranged "cage," watching his complex expression. Confusion, shock, and a hint of fear? I felt a perfect sense of control washing over me.
"Come, sign this." I handed him the contract I had carefully prepared. "Exclusive modeling agreement. The terms are simple. You cooperate with all my shooting arrangements, and I handle your food, housing, and debts."
I watched him review the contract, watched the increasingly complex expressions on his face. Every clause was carefully designed by me to ensure he was completely under my control.
"You're what I bought." I sat on the sofa, legs crossed, admiring him. "Listen to me, and I'll ensure you live worry-free. Isn't that fair?"
I loved this feeling of control, especially controlling such a perfect man. He was a priceless work of art, about to belong to me.
Harold's hand trembled as he held the pen. I could see his internal struggle, but I also knew he had no choice.
Swoosh—
He signed his name.
In that moment, my sense of satisfaction reached its peak. He was mine, completely and utterly mine.
A few weeks later, in PULSE's photography studio, I watched Harold under the lights, my heart filled with pride.
"Perfect! That's the expression!" the photographer exclaimed, clicking rapidly. "This kid was born for this job—his camera presence is incredible!"
Of course, my eye was perfect. Weeks of professional training had made him more confident, that innate quality showing brilliantly under the camera. Hearing others praise him filled me with smugness.
This was my discovery, my cultivation—he was my masterpiece.
But... why was there a strange feeling in my heart?
After the shoot, we had dinner in the apartment. Harold sat quietly across from me, carefully cutting his steak. The light fell on his profile, making him look incredibly gentle.
I found myself noticing how he ate, his occasional gentle smiles, the increasingly confident light in his eyes...
When did all this start?
"Thank you." Harold suddenly looked up, those deep eyes meeting mine directly. "These past few weeks... I've learned so much. Not just modeling techniques, but many other things."
My heart jolted.
There was something in his gaze that made me panic. It wasn't the familiar gratitude or dependence, but something more pure, more sincere. A warmth I'd never seen before that left me bewildered.
"I just wanted a perfect model..." I heard myself murmuring.
But deep inside, a voice whispered: Is that really all?
Watching Harold softly say "good night" and leave the dining room, I sat in the empty space, suddenly feeling a hint of panic.
Was I collecting a work of art, or was I... falling in love with a person?
No, Delphine Waverly would never fall in love with anyone, especially not a boy I was keeping. Absolutely not.
But why was my heart racing uncontrollably? Why was I already looking forward to seeing him again tomorrow?