I didn't answer right away. The city roared softly below us, indifferent to moral debates.

"It's better," I said finally. "Not perfect. Not pure. But better. And better matters in a world that rarely offers clean choices."

She held my gaze, searching, then nodded slowly.

"Spoken like someone who understands systems," she said. "And the cost of pretending they don't exist."

"Yes," I said immediately. "Because they choose it. They can leave anytime. That's not a cage—that's employment."

The word immediately wasn't accidental. It came out clean, unhesitating, the kind of answer you give when you've already had this argument in your head a hundred times and buried the counterpoints in shallow graves.

"Employment where the product is themselves." Her tone wasn't accusatory. It was surgical. Catherine didn't argue like most people. She placed ideas on the table and watched to see what bled.

"Every job is selling yourself. The construction worker sells his body's labor. The teacher sells her knowledge and time. The CEO sells his decision-making ability. We're all commodifying ourselves.

The only difference is who pretends they aren't, how much they're paid, and how much control they get."

Catherine didn't interrupt. She studied me the way investors study a pitch they didn't expect to hear from someone this young. Not hungry. Not amused. Not predatory. Analytical. Like she was trying to reconcile two incompatible datasets: my age and my answers.

"You're seventeen."

"Today, yeah."

"And you talk like someone who's lived three lifetimes."

I shrugged. "I see things differently."

"Clearly."

She turned fully to face me, leaning against the railing, hips swaying, thighs parting slightly. The city below hummed, oblivious. Millions of people living small, private tragedies while we debated philosophy above them with champagne breath and too much money.

"Which is why I need to ask you something. A favor really."

The word landed heavier than it should have. Catherine didn't ask for favors. She made offers. She negotiated outcomes. A favor meant uncertainty.

I waited, cock twitching, heat building, my mind already racing through scenarios I didn't trust myself to name.

"Two months ago," she began, voice low, breath warm against the night air, "something incredible happened. One of my clients—older gentleman, very wealthy, very connected in fashion—was so satisfied with one of our models that he did something unprecedented. He recommended Meridian Elite to the Paris Fashion Week organizing committee."

That earned a reaction before I could stop it. My eyebrows rose.

"Paris Fashion Week."

"Not just any show," Catherine continued, excitement creeping into her voice despite her attempt at control, nipples straining under emerald silk. "The evaluation for preferred agency status during Paris Fashion Week. It works in stages—and everything happens in Paris. It's almost a three-month commitment."

Paris. The word alone carried weight. Not romance. Not croissants and postcards. Power. Gatekeeping.

Old money deciding who was allowed to matter.

She turned to face me fully, and I watched her shift gears.

This was Catherine in her natural habitat. Empire-builder. Survivor. Predator with a conscience.

"First stage starts in November. Fifty agencies from around the world arrive in Paris and present their models to the organizing committee. But it's not just a one-time presentation—it's ongoing evaluation throughout November and December.

"Portfolio reviews, live runway sessions, interviews, observations of how models work with different designers during test fittings. The committee watches everything. At the end of December, they narrow it down to ten agencies for their preferred vendor list."

"And that's where you need to be."

"That's where we need to be," she confirmed, pulse racing under her skin. "Because once you're on that list, everything changes. Fashion houses don't hire models directly—they book through agencies. When Chanel needs three male models for their show, they call the agencies on the preferred list first. Same with Dior, Valentino, Givenchy, all of them."

She wasn't pitching anymore. She was mapping a battlefield.

I nodded, understanding the structure. It was familiar. Different industry. Same hierarchy. Same choke points.

"So Meridian Elite is the contractor. Your models are contracted to you. The fashion houses book through you, pay you, and you pay us."

"Exactly. I take a percentage, handle all logistics, negotiate rates, manage relationships with the houses. The models focus on their work, I handle the business."

She smiled slightly, lips wet. "It's why agencies exist. Individual models don't have the leverage or connections to negotiate with houses like Chanel. But an agency with a roster of talent? That has power."

"And being on the preferred list means you get called first."

"Priority booking for every major show—Paris, Milan, New York, London. It's the difference between scraping for work and having more offers than you can accept."

There it was. The quiet desperation under the polish. Catherine didn't fear failure.

She feared irrelevance.

Her expression grew more serious, scent flaring—jasmine, arousal.

"If we make the cut in December, the real work begins in January. The fashion houses review portfolios from the ten preferred agencies and choose which specific models they want for their shows. Then everyone stays in Paris for intensive preparation. Training sessions with each house that books you. Runway rehearsals in the actual venues.

"Fittings—they take your measurements, you try on every piece you'll wear, they make adjustments. Hair and makeup tests. Learning the choreography for each show because every house has a different style, different energy, different vision. You might walk for three different houses in one week, which means three different aesthetics to embody."

I pictured it. Controlled chaos. Exhaustion disguised as glamour. People breaking themselves politely.

"And then the actual shows."

"January 21st through 29th. Nine days of shows. Morning rehearsals, afternoon shows, evening galas. It's exhausting, high-pressure, and the entire fashion world is watching."

She paused, chest heaving. Not from desire this time. From ambition.

"But if you do it right—if Meridian's models shine—we're not just on the preferred list. We become the agency big fashion gaints remember. The calls don't stop. The bookings multiply. It's exponential growth."

I processed the timeline.

Three months. Paris. Power brokers. Old money. A favor.

And the quiet certainty that if I said yes, nothing about my life stayed small ever again.

"So, three months in Paris total. November and December for evaluation and vetting. January for prep and the actual shows."

Saying it out loud made it real. Three months wasn't a trip. It was a relocation. A pause button slammed down on everything familiar.

"Yes."

"And I have my female models secured. But of the needed three male models I only have two of the three male models required. My others are out of shape and age I want for something this big."

There it was. The missing variable. The equation she hadn't written yet but had been circling since the moment she touched my arm.

"So, I assume, you need me as the third to meet minimum requirements."

She didn't answer immediately. Catherine never rushed the moment where truth became explicit.

"I have Damien and Laurent—both talented, both the right aesthetic," she said, fingers brushing my arm, casual on the surface, deliberate underneath. "But the committee requires three male models minimum, and Peter—you have something most men chase their entire careers and never touch. It isn't technique. It isn't conditioning. It's presence. When you enter a frame, the frame reorganizes itself around you. The camera doesn't observe you—it obeys you. People don't decide to watch. They simply do. That isn't taught. That isn't trained. That's godlike."

I understood before she finished.That quiet internal click. The sound inevitability makes when it locks into place.

"You want me."

"I need you." Her voice slowed, careful now, like something fragile being placed on stone. "I know you signed with Meridian as an escort. I know runway modeling was never part of the agreement. And I know asking this on your birthday borders on cruel timing. But Peter—"

She looked at me, and for the first time all night, the strategist cracked. Just a hairline fracture. Enough to let truth breathe.

"You are built for this. Your proportions are exact. Your face holds attention without asking for it. Your movement carries authority without effort. You don't walk—you arrive. And beyond all of that, you have what the industry cannot manufacture."

Her voice dropped. "Conviction. You believe you belong wherever you stand. Not arrogance. Not performance. Belonging. That's why you're dangerous. That's why you're rare. And that's why this only works if you say yes."

I'd been called a lot of things lately. Dangerous. Beautiful. Ridiculous. Emperor. God. Perfect landed differently. It scared me more than the rest.

"When is it?"

"The evaluation starts in November. We'd need to be in Paris by early November for the vetting process. It runs through December, then if we make the cut, January for prep and the actual shows. Almost three months total."

"Three months in Paris."

Hearing it again didn't make it smaller.

"I know it's a huge ask. Three months away from everything here. But Peter—" She leaned closer, the city noise swallowing her breath. "This is everything I've built leading to this moment. If you help me on this one, I promise, I'll do ANYTHING..."

I held up a hand.

"Stop."

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