~Leon's POV~
"Leon, what is wrong with you?" I muttered to myself.
I was the one setting the trap, but it felt more and more like I was the one getting caught in it.
A few minutes later, Becklan returned.
He was carrying a tray with my breakfast, but I noticed he had balanced his own small plate of food on the side.
He gently placed my meal in front of me, then took a step back, clearly ready to bow and excuse himself.
"Where are you going?" I asked, my voice cutting through the noise of the room.
Becklan hesitated, confusion flickering across his face. "To find another place to eat, sir."
"Sit," I said.
My voice wasn't a command this time; it was strangely gentle.
Becklan's jaw dropped. "Huh? Sit... what?"
"Sit down and eat your food," I repeated, gesturing to the chair opposite me.
He looked at me as if I had suddenly grown a second head. He was clearly waiting for the punchline.
"If you don't want to," I added, my tone sharpening to hide my embarrassment, "you can leave."
"No!" Becklan said quickly, sliding into the chair. "Thank you, Mr. President. You're... you're so generous."
I looked down at my coffee, a small, involuntary smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
I asked myself again: What is so special about him? Why am I being so soft?
I lifted my head to take a bite of my food, but my gaze got stuck.
Becklan was eating, completely unbothered now. He looked carefree, his cheeks slightly puffed out as he chewed, unaware of the attention he was drawing.
He looked… unexpectedly cute. Softly adorable.
I couldn't stop staring. The sharp, arrogant President of Leon Haute Couture was being reduced to a spectator by a boy eating toast.
The tension in my chest shifted. It wasn't just lust anymore; it was something warmer, something that was starting to matter.
Becklan noticed my silence and looked up, slowing his movements as confusion crossed his face.
He touched his cheek, then his chin, looking genuinely flustered. "Mr. President? Is there something on my face?"
I snapped back to reality, my mask slamming into place. I had to say something, anything to hide the fact that I was captivated.
"Yes, Beck," I said, my voice dripping with forced venom.
He froze, his hand still on his cheek. "What is it?"
"I never knew you were this ugly," I lied, the words tasting like ash. "I was just trying to figure out how one person could be so unappealing."
Becklan's face fell instantly. The spark of happiness he'd had just a moment ago vanished, replaced by a deep, visible hurt.
He looked down at his plate, his shoulders slumping.
I should have stopped, but the panic in my heart pushed me further. "How can you be so lean and have such an ugly face? Gosh, I really want to..."
"Do I really look that bad to you?" he cut in.
His voice was tiny, stripped of its usual spark. He sounded genuinely wounded.
Seeing him like that, my resolve crumbled. The coldness I was trying so hard to project felt like a heavy, suffocating lead.
"I thought there was something on my face," he whispered, not looking up. "I didn't know you were staring just because you thought I was hideous."
My heart gave a painful thud. I had gone too far. The "ugly" comment was a total fabrication, but it had hit him exactly where it hurt.
"That's enough," I said, my voice losing its edge. "There's nothing on your face. Just finish your breakfast."
Becklan opened his mouth to press further, his eyes searching mine.
"Eat your food and be quiet," I shut him down, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Inside, I was losing a battle. I couldn't resist his cuteness, no matter how hard I tried to stay cold.
What exactly is going on with me? I stared at my plate, but I wasn't seeing the food. I was seeing him.
The silence that followed was heavy and uncomfortable. I wanted to reach out, to tell him I was lying, to tell him he was the most beautiful thing in the room.
But I couldn't. I just sat there, watching him push his food around his plate, his appetite clearly gone. Hating myself for being the reason his smile disappeared.
The tense silence was shattered as Davies leaned in, his voice urgent as he whispered into my ear.
"Mr. President, the technical rehearsal at the venue begins in sixty minutes. We need to move."
I nodded, shifting back into my professional skin. It was a relief to have a distraction.
"The main show is scheduled for a four-hour countdown."
"And the models?" I asked, my voice cold and focused.
"They'll be taken straight to the backstage area for hair and makeup as soon as we arrive. The lead stylist will need your final approval, so maybe we should get started."
I stood, straightening myself.
"Fine," I said. "Inform the team I'm on my way. I want the runway floor polished to a mirror finish. No slips, no errors."
I turned to look at Becklan, who was also standing, looking small and defeated beside the table.
"Becklan," I said, my voice sharp and commanding. "Clear these plates and grab your things. You're coming with me to the venue."
He didn't look me in the eye. He just gave a stiff, mechanical bow. "Yes, Mr. President."
As he walked away to follow my orders.
I headed back to my room to dress for the day, my mind shifting gears.
This was a joint fashion show, which doubled the pressure. Two brands, one runway, and no room for mistakes, everything had to be flawless.
Once I was suited up, Becklan followed me to the venue. He remained silent, a quiet shadow behind me as I navigated the storm of the backstage area.
The next few hours were a blur of stimulation.
The models moved with precision, each step perfectly timed. The lights caught every detail of the "Prism" collection, highlighting its brilliance. The joint showcase was flawless, closing with a thunderous standing ovation that resonated throughout the grand marble hall.
By the time the final lights dimmed, the tension of the day finally snapped, replaced by a surge of victory.
I congratulated my team, thanking them for their incredible work, then left the venue first with my assistant and Beck. Back at our accommodation, I waited for the rest of the team to arrive.
When they finally showed up, I took in the sight of my exhausted yet exhilarated team.
"Today was a win," I announced, my voice cutting through the clatter of the packing crew. "Go change out of your work clothes, we're celebrating tonight."
A cheer went up from the models and stylists.
I shot a glance back at Beck. He was leaning against the wall, his head slightly down, looking visibly drained.
I left him behind and went inside to change.
After changing my outfit, I stepped out back. Everyone else had already changed and returned for the celebration. The staff had set out drinks, and the team began settling into the lounge chairs, laughing and clinking glasses in a toast to our success.
But as I looked around the room, I realized Beck was nowhere to be found.
I scanned the group again. Frank was also missing from the circle.
A sharp, cold knot tied itself in my stomach.
I leaned over to Marcus. "Have you seen Becklan?"
"I saw him heading toward the back garden terrace a few minutes ago, sir," Marcus replied.
I stood up immediately. Ever since that morning at breakfast, Beck had been acting strange, distant, and quiet.
Was I really that harsh? I wondered, my feet already moving toward the quiet corner of the place.
I reached the shadowed seating area near the edge of the terrace. What I saw stopped me in my tracks.
Beck was there, his arms wrapped around Frank in a tight hug.
But that wasn't all. Beck was shaking, his face buried against Frank's shoulder, sobbing. Frank was holding him firmly, trying to console him.
"Why does he never like me?" Beck's voice trembled, muffled against Frank's jacket. "Why does he hate me so much?"
Frank rubbed his back, murmuring, "It's okay. It's alright, Beck."
I froze in the shadows, my blood turning to ice.
Who was he talking about? Who was the person Beck believed hated him so deeply?