Chapter Text
Balenciaga
Paris, France
8:58pm
The last of the day’s light bled out across the Parisian skyline, casting the large showroom in a dusky glow. The store had officially closed two hours ago, yet its cavernous halls stood with a tense, anticipatory silence.
You checked your reflection one last time in the glossy black mirror panels– clean, sleek, and sharp enough to pass for someone who belonged in Balenciaga’s upper management. You hoped.
You checked your watch. The black handle read 8:58pm. You exhaled.
Two minutes until the mystery client, your thoughts hummed.
"He's early," murmured Camille, the receptionist, as she passed you a minimalist black folder embossed with a silver 'S.J.W.' monogram. "You’ll do great."
You took the folder without flinching. Your patent heels holding your posture up firm. “He’s expecting someone senior.” You said flatly, showing one last strand of vulnerability.
Camille gave you a look that hovered somewhere between admiration and pity, “Whoever he is, he won’t know the difference.”
You gave her a soft smile, “You’d better hope so.”
And just like that it was 9:00pm. Sharp.
The automatic doors whispered open. The air shifted.
He stepped in, alone.
Tall. Composed. Dressed in all black—of course. His presence wasn’t loud, but it vibrated with the same frequency as an unsheathed blade.
The man was unreadable, as if any attempt to decipher his expression would only end in failure.
You didn’t need to introduce yourself to find out who he was. Sung Jin-Woo. You’d heard the whispers, seen the footage, everyone in fashion, and better yet half the world had.
But fashion didn’t know him because he was flashy or thirsty for the limelight. No, quite the opposite actually.
He avoided cameras like a curse. Wore silence like it was tailored to him. And still, somehow, he had become an icon. Sophisticated. Elegant.
And tonight, he had requested a private styling session under one condition: total discretion.
You stepped forward, careful not to overplay the greeting. “Mr. Sung. Welcome to Balenciaga. I’ll be assisting you tonight. My name is y/n.”
He regarded you in silence, eyes dark and unreadable.
Then, a single nod. "You’re not the one I asked for."
You remained poised, wondering how he would immediately see through you. “No. But I’m here to assist you in any way you need.”
Was that a dumb response? Your fingers curled just slightly. But there was no way you would lose his business, or better yet let down your brand.
There was a beat of silence. Then, a shrug that somehow felt like a test passed. “Fine, then.”
Camille rose a little too fast, offering him bottled water off a shaky tray. “Water, Mr. Sung?”
Jin-Woo smirked slightly, while holding his hand up. “No, thank you.” He turned back to you, his eyes mesmerizing. “I’d like to get started.”
You motioned towards the suite behind you, all set up and ready for his appointment.
“I’ve pulled some pieces based on your preferences. Clean silhouettes. Monochrome tones. Minimal branding. But if there’s anything you want to change, I’ll make it happen.”
He followed without another word. The private suite door clicked shut behind him.
And just like that, you were alone with the master of shadows.
Balenciaga
Private Suite
9:38pm
The door sealed you two into a room that suddenly felt more like a stage. Minimalist, low lighting, sleek chrome fixtures. Intimate in an odd way.
Jin-Woo didn’t say much at first.
He moved like a shadow that knew it was being watched – deliberate and soundless, his eyes taking in the room, the racks, you.
He didn’t look at you often. But when he did, it was intentional. Direct. Like he was trying to gauge whether you were useful or ornamental.
You were used to powerful men. Men who strutted, who postured, who needed you to know how important they were.
But Jin-Woo was different.
He didn’t try to take up space. He just… did.
His presence pressed against your skin, just beneath it, like something electric. He wore a fitted black coat with a high collar that framed the sharp line of his jaw. Every piece on him was tailored to near perfection, like his body was a weapon and the fabric simply obeyed.
You straightened your back and met his gaze as you opened the folder Camille had given you. Inside: mood boards, texture samples, and garment suggestions. You offered it, but he didn’t take it.
Instead, he stepped closer.
Your breath pulsed, but only for a second. His presence was surprising. Slow, magnetic, yet comforting.
“Do you usually get nervous?” He asked, voice low.
You didn’t blink. “Not in this business.”
The best response you could come up with. Damn, this man was so direct.
Whatever the case, it earned something. Another smirk. Faint - like it curled up without his permission.
He took the folder from your hands then, his fingertips brushing your skin. Cold. Or maybe you were just sweating.
“I didn’t request anything flashy,” he said, flipping through the pages. “I’m not here to be seen. Only in Paris for an event HQ is making me attend.”
You nodded. “You never are.”
That made him pause. His eyes flicked up again, and this time he studied you. Not just your face, but your posture, the way your black collared blouse hung tightly around your chest.
A flicker of something crossed his expression, maybe curiosity. Maybe annoyance. He was unbearably hard to read.
But still, you pressed on.
“We’ve pulled more for you in the back. Tailored trousers, leather outerwear. The palette stays between charcoal, obsidian, and ash.” You hesitated. “I can bring them out at your command.”
Jin-Woo lifted his brow. Another smirk. “Command?”
You winced at the awkward comment. Pissed that you let something so weird slip.
But instead you just chuckled to yourself, “Not command , I mean request.”
He ignored you, stepping toward the racks again slowly, scanning the hangers with his hands in his coat pockets. The silence returned, but it wasn’t empty.
You watched as he started sliding off his coat, folding it neatly and setting it on the black velvet bench behind him. And with that you caught a glimpse of the way his shirt clung to his frame. Broad shoulders. Clean muscle. God-like stature.
You realized you were watching too long.
He noticed.
“You’re not from the senior team,” he repeated again without looking, adjusting the collar.
Another strike. Of course he’s pointing that out again. You didn’t help him into the fucking jacket.
But you answered confidently. “No. I’m filling in.”
He turned then. “Well, I’ll be in all week. That is until the event of course.” He paused, staring at you. “Think you can handle it?”
A challenge. Not cruel– but serious.
“Try me.” You said keeping eye contact, trying out a lighter tone.
Something in his gaze softened. He nodded, then turned back to the mirror.
“This is good.” He said, commenting on the sharp coat hugging his frame.
“You make it good.” you replied, without thinking.
A pause. Another smirk, with a surprised chuckle.
You wanted to end it all.
His eyes cut to you through the mirror. Awkwardly, he said, “...thanks.”
It was a single word. But it felt heavier than it should have.
You offered a small, polite smile. But inside you were screaming.
He looked at you again—longer this time. His voice was smooth, deliberate. “You’re better than they said you were.”
Your brows lifted slightly. “Who’s they ?”
Another half-smirk. “People who think I don’t pay attention.”
He stepped forward, just slightly. Close enough that you could feel his presence hum in your bones again.
“I want you for the rest of my sessions,” he said simply.
Your throat tightened. A flood of surprise washing over you.
“Of course.” You nodded, keeping a professional distance.
He looked back at you through the mirror, “Oh, and next time,” his voice hung low, recalling the shaky receptionist, “I would like to be completely alone.”