Prologue
Nari
The phone vibrated like an angry hornet in my lap, Seiji’s shrill voice slicing through the tinted windows of the sleek black Mercedes. “Be on time! You know Ombré is a big thing, Nari—don’t lash out!” he screamed, each word dripping with that familiar mix of panic and diva energy.
I didn’t even look at the screen properly. My hands were busy on the glossy carbon-fiber console between the seats—my makeshift altar for the moment. The little baggie crinkled, pristine white powder catching the filtered sunlight like fresh snow on a runway. I tapped out a fat, generous line with the edge of my black Amex, the one Valentino himself had slid into my palm after that last show. Perfect, powdery, promising. I rolled a crisp hundred-dollar bill tight—elegant, expensive, utterly disposable—leaned down, and inhaled hard. One sharp, burning pull. Then another. The chemical sting flooded my nostrils, bitter and electric, racing straight to the back of my throat.
“Nari! Nari!” Seiji screamed again, voice cracking like cheap heels on concrete.
“Hm, I’m on the way,” I drawled back, voice low and lazy, already tasting the numbness spreading across my gums. I ended the call before he could spiral further.
God, maybe it was a spectacularly stupid idea to do this right before one of the most important auditions of my life. Ombré wasn’t just another casting—it was the casting, the one that could lock me in for the entire season. But the runways with Valentini had already made me a hit, a glittering little disaster the industry couldn’t stop watching. They called me “Velvet Venom” on the blogs, “The Pretty Poison Prince,” “Runway’s Favorite Wreck.” One of the most followed gay models on the circuit, every thirst-trap post racking up hundreds of thousands while the straights pretended to clutch their pearls. Follow me, hate me, book me, baby.
I slipped the car into drive and pulled out onto the boulevard, the engine purring like a satisfied lover beneath me. At first, the cocaine was just a gentle hum. A warm, tingling buzz kissing the edges of my nerves. My fingers felt lighter on the steering wheel, the leather suddenly softer, more alive. The city lights outside sharpened—neon pinks and golds bleeding into the dusk like wet paint on a fresh canvas. Pretty. So pretty. Too pretty for this bullshit.
Then it layered deeper.
The second wave hit like silk unfolding in my bloodstream, smooth and seductive. My heartbeat quickened into something luxurious—strong, confident, invincible. A slow, delicious euphoria crept up my spine, vertebra by vertebra, turning my posture straighter, my jaw sharper. The air in the car tasted sweeter, charged. I glanced at myself in the rearview: eyes bright, pupils swallowing the color, skin glowing with that artificial, otherworldly sheen. Look at you, Nari. Absolute fucking masterpiece. They’ll eat you alive and beg for seconds.
Deeper still.
Now it was roaring. A crystalline high, sharp and glittering, slicing through every foggy thought like a stiletto through chiffon. My mind raced ahead in brilliant, frantic spirals.
Oh Seiji, you frantic little chihuahua. Ombré is a big thing? No shit. Everything’s a small thing when you’re this deliciously untouchable. The wheel felt like an extension of my hands—precise, powerful. Every traffic light melted into a jewel. The other cars on the road? Slow, pathetic cattle. I weaved between them with predatory grace, the engine’s growl vibrating straight into my bones, matching the pounding in my chest.
Endless energy. Endless confidence. Endless want. My skin prickled with electric pleasure, every brush of fabric against my thighs, my chest, sending tiny fireworks. The sarcastic inner monologue turned vicious and golden: They think they can cast someone better? Please. I’ll walk in there dripping charisma and controlled chaos. They’ll forget every other boy’s name before I even hit the end of the runway. Velvet Venom doesn’t audition—he arrives.
Deeper. Deeper.
The peak crashed over me in luxurious, rolling waves. Time stretched and sparkled. The boutique’s glowing sign appeared blocks away, but I was already there in my mind—strutting, owning, destroying. My thoughts fragmented into gorgeous shards: heart hammering like a bassline... world so vivid it hurts... this is living, this is flying, this is why they all chase me... A wild, euphoric laugh bubbled out of my throat, unbidden and sharp. I caught my own gaze in the mirror again and winked at the beautiful, wired creature staring back.
Bad idea? Maybe. But god, what a magnificent one.
I parked with a smooth flourish, killed the engine, and stepped out into the evening air that now felt like velvet wrapped around lightning. Let Seiji scream. Let the The world shimmered like a fever dream dipped in chrome as I stepped into the boutique’s sleek, minimalist waiting area. Everything felt hyper-real yet distant, edges softened by that glorious chemical veil.
“Mr. Lim! Come with me, this way,” the casting director’s assistant chirped...
“Nah, I can handle it,” I replied, voice low, smooth, and mature—every syllable dripping with practiced nonchalance, like I’d already walked a thousand shows and owned the entire goddamn season. I flashed her a lazy half-smile, the kind that usually made assistants blush or back off. She didn’t.
“Sir—maybe you should wait. Mr. Belladonna hasn’t come in yet—” she squeaked, louder this time, but I was already gliding past her, ignoring the warning like it was cheap perfume. The coke was still riding high, layering itself in thick, delicious waves: a sharp, crystalline focus wrapped in warm, euphoric confidence. My heart thrummed a perfect rhythm, my skin buzzed with electric silk, and every breath tasted like victory and expensive trouble.
I slipped into the waiting line—somewhere in the chaotic middle, surrounded by tall, starving, beautiful creatures. The fact that Rocco Belladonna kept everyone waiting, especially the older, bigger sharks of the industry, was downright diabolical. Power move after power move. Classic.
Shia Stefannova stood right beside me, all sharp cheekbones and quiet lethality.
“Hi!” I greeted her, my voice bright despite the storm in my veins.
“Hi… oh, you’re that new rising one,” she said, tilting her head with a small, knowing smile. We chatted quietly for a while—light, easy banter about past seasons, the ridiculous schedules, who was sleeping with whom backstage. It felt like an honor just to be recognized by her. When we shook hands, her grip was firm, professional, and for one suspended second, all I could focus on was that simple contact—skin on skin—while the rest of the room blurred into soft, unimportant watercolor smudges. Faces remained vivid, sharp, almost too clear, floating like perfect portraits against a hazy backdrop. The rest? Just pretty noise.
I’d slid on my sleek, lightly tinted glasses the moment I entered, the dark frames a necessary armor. They hid the massive, raven-black pupils swallowing my irises, the telltale glossy sheen, the way my eyes darted with that wired, predatory energy. Without them, I’d look like a beautiful feral animal ready to devour the entire room. With them? I looked mysterious. Edgy. Intentionally untouchable. The high kept deepening, folding in on itself—euphoria stacking like luxurious cashmere layers, making my blood sing and my thoughts race in deliciously sarcastic spirals. Look at me, playing pretend normal while my nervous system throws a private rave.
Then came the sound.
Sharp, rhythmic click-clack of boot heels slicing through the murmurs like a whip. Everyone stood up almost instantly. I rose with the crowd, the movement fluid, effortless—until he entered.
And just like that, the cocaine euphoria began to shift.
The warm, golden, bubbly rush that had been carrying me like liquid sunlight started to cool, condense, and transform. The bright, giggling invincibility drained away in seconds, replaced by something sharper, heavier, more dangerous. My heart, which had been pounding with euphoric joy, now slammed against my ribs with a colder, tighter intensity—still racing, but now edged with adrenaline, fascination, and a low thrum of unease. The glittering high didn’t vanish; it mutated. It turned darker, silkier, more electric. A wired, predatory focus wrapped in chills. The lovely floating feeling sank into something denser, almost obsessive. My skin still buzzed, but now it prickled with icy needles of awareness. Every sense locked onto him.
He entered like a storm wearing couture.
A broadly built, commanding man moved through the space with deliberate, unhurried power. Perfect Italian-cut suit hugging his massive frame, impeccably trimmed beard framing a jaw that could cut glass, and hair styled with ruthless precision. Glasses sat on his nose, sharpening the cold, calculating gaze beneath. His black Birkin gleamed like a dark star, and those burgundy boots with glossy black heels struck the floor in a rhythm that demanded worship. This man didn’t just work in fashion—he was fashion, distilled into something ruthless and magnetic.
A white luxury coat draped over his broad shoulders, speckled with subtle grey and off-white details, the inner lining flashing pure burgundy with every step. A single elongated silver crucifix earring swayed like a pendulum of judgment. His turtleneck and perfectly tailored ankle pants clung to powerful thighs, accented by heavy rings and a sleek watch.
His presence was dominating—oppressive, intoxicating, suffocating in the most exquisite way. Broad shoulders, controlled posture, an aura so thick and heavy it pressed against my chest like a physical hand. A violent chill raced down my spine, delicious and terrifying, twisting the remnants of my cocaine high into something far more intense. The bright euphoria had been stripped away, leaving behind a razor-sharp, almost anxious thrill. My mouth went dry. My palms tingled. A dark, magnetic pull mixed with genuine intimidation coiled low in my stomach.
Fuck… who let Lucifer walk the runway?
As he passed me, the cold radiating off him hit like dry ice. I stared from the corner of my eye, side-glancing that powerful profile. The large “Lucifer” tattoo in deep blood-red script marked his skin—prominent, unmissable, a warning carved in flesh. This man was a monster. Not less than one. The kind who devoured his enemies one by one, giving pain to pain, never granting the mercy of a clean death. He made them feel every cut, every humiliation, every soul-crushing blow, trapping them in a personal hell where suffering became eternal.
This… this was Lucifer himself—the Lucifer who wears tailored damnation, burgundy sin, and Italian cuts like second skin, turning every step into absolute, walking hellfire.
The mutated high surged again, no longer playful but deep, obsessive, and razor-edged. My thoughts spun in darker, more sarcastic spirals: Well, hello, Mr. Belladonna. You just murdered my lovely little sunshine,bright euphoria and replaced it with this… this deliciously anxious, cock-throbbing tension. Congratulations, you beautiful motherfucking bastard. Now I’m not just peaking—I’m locked onto you like prey that wants to be eaten.
I stood there, no longer floating on euphoric clouds but pinned to the ground by something far more addictive—chilled to the bone, painfully alert, heart hammering with a mix of fear, awe, and raw want. The glasses suddenly felt like the only thing keeping my blown pupils and dilated hunger hidden.
I was no longer playfully high.
I was hunting. Or being hunted.
And Rocco Belladonna had just become the centre of both.
His assistant, Lucy, emerged like a tightly-wound spring, clipboard in hand, voice clipped and professional as she began calling names one by one. The room had fallen into an almost suffocating silence, thick and heavy, entirely dominated by Rocco Belladonna’s mere presence. No one dared speak above a whisper. Even the usual nervous chatter of models had been murdered by that cold aura.
I watched as a few came out after their turns, eyes red, cheeks streaked, lips trembling. Some were full-on crying, mascara running like expensive war paint.
“What the fuck…” I muttered under my breath, staring.
Shia leaned in slightly. “Oh it’s hard to work with a man like Rocco Belladonna,” she said, circling a finger near her temple. “He kind of… messes with your head.”
“Oh, I feel the same,” I whispered back, the mutated high still twisting in my veins—sharp, anxious, magnetic.
“Though his work… is extremely profitable,” Shia added with a small, knowing smile. “Once you get in, the popularity never ends.”
“Lim Nari,” Lucy called, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
“All the best, da?” Shia said softly.
“Thanks,” I replied, flashing her a quick, confident grin that didn’t quite reach my wired nerves.
I stepped forward with deliberate elegance, my heels clicking sharply against the polished floor in a clean, rhythmic cadence that echoed through the deathly quiet room. My hair bounced lightly with each measured step, catching the light like black silk. The cocaine had reshaped itself into something colder and more focused now, every movement feeling precise, predatory, almost theatrical. I walked the short impromptu runway space they had set up, turned with fluid grace at the end, and strutted back to my original position, stopping directly in front of them.
Luke, the casting director, stood right beside Rocco. Where Rocco was ice and domination, Luke was all anxious warmth and nervous energy—gesturing expressively, smiling too much, clearly trying to balance the suffocating atmosphere his boss created.
I looked straight into Rocco’s eyes.
They were dead. Flat. Bottomless black pits behind those glasses, void of any warmth or light. Yet somehow, they were terrifyingly alive—sharp, calculating, piercing straight through skin and bone. Those eyes gave me violent chills, the kind that slithered down my spine and pooled low in my stomach. The mutated high made it worse: my heart hammered harder, the thrill turning darker, more obsessive.
“He’s perfect,” Luke gushed beside him, voice bright and eager. “The proportions, the walk, the face—exactly what we need for Ombré this season. Fresh but sharp. He has that edge the campaign is begging for—”
While Luke kept praising me, Rocco slowly reached into his coat, pulled out a sleek black steel cigarette box, and took out a deep red cigarette. Without a word, without even glancing away from me, he lit it with a matte black lighter. The flame flickered across his cold face for a second before he exhaled a slow, controlled plume of smoke, those dead-yet-alive eyes never leaving mine.
The silence in the room felt even heavier now. My skin buzzed with tension, the high pulsing in dark, dangerous waves as I stood there, locked in that chilling stare.
I was no longer just auditioning.
He was standing in front of the devil himself.
Rocco exhaled another slow plume of deep red smoke, those dead-yet-alive eyes still locked onto me. His voice cut through the suffocating silence like a chilled blade—low, authoritative, and utterly indifferent.
“There are dresses in the Ombré collection. Some reveal more. Some reveal less. Skin is part of the story.” He paused, taking another deliberate drag. “Strip down to basics. Now. Show me the body.”
The words hit like ice water dumped straight onto my already twisted high. The dark, obsessive thrill instantly curdled into sharp irritation. Are you fucking kidding me? My jaw tightened, teeth grinding behind my polite smile.
I need the role. I love being a model. I need the role. I love being a model. The mantra repeated viciously in my head, desperate and sarcastic, while pure annoyance burned under my skin.
“Yes,” I answered, voice steady despite the irritation clawing at me. “Though this wasn’t listed in the brief or the contract. Where should I change?”
Rocco stared at me for a long second, completely unfazed. He took a slow, luxurious drag from his blood-red cigarette, the ember glowing like a warning. Smoke curled lazily from his lips as he replied, cold and final:
“Now.”
The single word dropped like a guillotine. The entire room remained deathly silent. No one dared make a sound.
I forced a sharp, dazzling smile and began stripping right there. Jacket off. Shirt peeled away. Pants slid down. Until I stood in nothing but my tight black boxers, the cool air brushing against my exposed skin. The mutated high made every sensation sharper — the goosebumps, the weight of every stare, the burning awareness of Rocco’s gaze dragging slowly over my body.
I walked again.
Elegant. Precise. Professional. My hair bounced lightly with each step, heels clicking sharply against the floor. But inside, it felt like a walk of shame wrapped in defiance. Every movement burned with irritation and dark adrenaline. I could feel Rocco’s eyes on me the entire time — heavy, unrelenting, clinical. When I turned and strutted back, I caught him smirking faintly while flipping through my portfolio file, one corner of his mouth lifted in cold amusement.
He closed the file with a soft snap.
“You can go.”
Just like that. No praise. No warmth. Only that flat, commanding dismissal.
I dressed quickly under the heavy silence, irritation still crackling through my veins alongside the twisted high. As I walked out, one thought repeated louder than everything else:
I needed this role.
And whether I liked it or not, this devil had just seen every inch of me.
Just like that. No praise. No feedback. No “you’re cast.” Only that flat, commanding dismissal.
While I quickly dressed back up, Rocco barely glanced at me again. He simply lifted two fingers in a lazy, imperious hand gesture toward Lucy. She immediately stepped forward.
I was still buttoning my shirt when Lucy approached, holding out a sleek black folder. “Here’s your schedule for fittings and look tests over the next two weeks,” she said professionally. “We’ll need your availability for the shoot dates as well. Please leave your booking contact with me — we’ll reach out to Mr. Seiji within a day or two to confirm everything.”
I took the folder, completely flabbergasted. That’s it? “You can go” actually meant I got the fucking job? The sheer minimalism of it made my blood boil. No congratulations, no explanation, nothing. Just cold smoke, a humiliating strip-down, and a casual flick of his fingers like I was some disposable piece of meat he’d finished inspecting.
My irritation toward Rocco Belladonna flared hot and vicious. Arrogant, narcissistic bastard. The twisted high only amplified it — turning my anger into something sharp, personal, and dangerously addictive.
I gave Lucy a tight smile, thanked her, and walked out of the room with my head high, the schedule clutched in my hand like a golden ticket wrapped in pure bullshit.
Seiji was going to lose his mind when he heard this. But right now, all I could think was how much I already hated — and strangely craved — whatever fresh hell working with Rocco Belladonna was going to be.
I stormed out of the boutique and slid into the driver’s seat of the Mercedes, the black folder still clenched tightly in my hand like evidence from a crime scene. The leather seat felt cool against my back as I slammed the door shut, the sound echoing my mood perfectly.
The mutated high was still simmering in my veins — no longer euphoric, but sharp, restless, and laced with pure irritation. My skin buzzed with leftover adrenaline, jaw tight, fingers twitching. Every little thing felt amplified.
I pulled out my phone and fired off a quick message to Seiji.
Nari: got the contract. Nari: I have some fittings to go on, bye
Short. Dry. I didn’t feel like explaining the humiliating strip-down, the dead-eyed stare, or how Rocco Belladonna had treated me like a piece of meat on a runway. Not yet. I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and stared at the folder in my lap for a second.
That’s it? A half-assed “you can go” and suddenly I’m in? The sheer arrogance of that man made my blood boil all over again. No real feedback. No “welcome to the campaign.” Just smoke, silence, and a lazy hand gesture like I was yesterday’s trash being dismissed. Fucking devil.
I exhaled sharply, started the engine, and peeled out of the parking spot. The city lights blurred past as I drove toward my next commitment — a quick evening shoot for a magazine spread. The twisted high kept my senses dialed to eleven: every horn, every flash of neon, every vibration of the car felt personal. My mind kept drifting back to those cold, dead-yet-alive eyes and that faint, mocking smirk while he looked through my portfolio.
I hated how much it stuck with me.
By the time I reached the next location, the irritation had settled into a dark, simmering knot in my chest. I parked, checked my reflection in the mirror — eyes still a little too bright, pupils still blown — and forced on my signature runway smile.
Whether I liked it or not, I was now officially part of Rocco Belladonna’s Ombré world.
And something told me this was only the beginning of a very dangerous, very addictive kind of hell.
