Connor
The flashing lights were blinding before I even stepped out of the blacked-out Mayfair town car.
Through the tinted glass, the courtyard outside the flagship venue looked like a bloody war zone of photographers, red carpet barricades, security guards with earpieces, and hundreds of screaming fans holding up phones. Massive ten-foot digital banners hung down the front of the venue, displaying the high-definition image from yesterday's shoot: me in the navy technical suit, looking grim, sharp, and wide-shouldered beside the iconic silver CC logo.
"Deep breath, Scouser," Edward murmured from beside me.
He reached over, taking my hand in his and giving it a solid, grounding squeeze. He looked incredible—wearing a bespoke, midnight-black tuxedo with a satin lapel, his platinum hair brushed back, looking every inch the elite billionaire mogul about to take over the fashion world.
