Adrien woke up before his alarm again.
For a second, he didn't recognize the ceiling.
It wasn't the pale cream of his parents' estate. It wasn't the perfectly curated molding chosen by his mother's interior designer.
This ceiling was clean white. Minimal. Framed by recessed lighting and bordered by floor-to-ceiling windows that let the city bleed into his bedroom in soft gray morning light.
The penthouse.
A slow smile spread across his face.
He rolled onto his back and stretched, the sheets cool against his skin. The quiet was different here—deep, private. No distant footsteps. No staff murmuring. No door opening without a knock.
Just him.
He lay there for another minute, staring at the skyline.
Final year.
The words sent a strange thrill through him. One last year at École Saint Laurent Academy—arguably the most prestigious private academy in the country. A place where heirs of empires studied beside prodigies and politicians' children. A place built on reputation and legacy.
And today, he was arriving from his own penthouse.
Adrien swung his legs out of bed and stood.
He moved through his morning routine with quiet precision—shower, steam fogging the glass; cold water at the end to sharpen his senses; a crisp white shirt; charcoal trousers tailored perfectly; his blazer hanging just right across his shoulders.
He paused in front of the mirror, adjusting his collar.
He didn't look different.
But he felt it.
Free.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
He glanced at it.
A notification from Camille Group's official account.
Élan Nocturne – Official Release.
His thumb tapped it open instinctively.
The perfume commercial.
Zane.
Adrien leaned back against the dresser and pressed play.
The screen opened with slow piano notes—low, deliberate.
Morning light filtered through towering glass walls, mist curling around exotic plants. The Montclair Conservatory looked almost mythical.
Then—
Zane appeared.
Barefoot on white marble. Cream silk shirt open at the collar. Damp hair pushed back. Jaw tight.
Adrien's lips twitched.
The camera lingered on Zane's hands brushing against deep green leaves. The way his fingers trailed over petals like they were skin.
Zane's voice came in, low and measured.
> "Desire… is not asked for."
A faint accent clung to the English.
The scene shifted. He stood beneath cascading vines, eyes dark, gaze direct into the lens.
> "Il se prend."
Adrien chuckled quietly.
It is taken.
Zane's pronunciation wasn't perfect. Not terrible—but not natural either.
The commercial continued.
Close-up of his neck. The line of his collarbone. His hand lifting the perfume bottle, glass catching the sunlight.
> "Je ne suis pas le rêve…"
A beat.
"Je suis la tentation."
Adrien laughed softly under his breath.
Iam not the dream. I am the temptation.
He could already imagine how many times they'd had to redo that line.
The final shot showed Zane standing still as mist swirled around him.
> "Élan Nocturne."
A slow breath.
"Possédez la nuit."
Own the night.
The music faded.
Adrien stared at the black screen for a second longer than necessary.
It was undeniably good.
Zane had a presence that cameras adored. Controlled. Intense. Magnetic.
Adrien shook his head, amused.
"You must have struggled," he murmured to himself.
As if summoned by the thought, his phone buzzed again.
Zane: check your messages 😂
Adrien frowned slightly and opened the chat.
A video file.
He pressed play.
The camera angle was slightly shaky—clearly shot by someone on set.
Zane stood in the conservatory wearing the same silk shirt, script in hand, looking frustrated.
"Okay," the producer said off-camera. "From the top. French this time. And please, Zane, softer on the 'r.' It's not English."
Zane inhaled dramatically.
"Je ne suis pas le… rehv."
"Rêve," someone corrected.
"Rêve," Zane repeated, overemphasizing it.
A stylist snorted in the background.
Zane glared at them. "I'm trying."
"Again," the producer sighed.
Zane read:
"Je ne swee pah le… rehhv—"
The entire crew groaned.
Zane dropped the script. "Why didn't you people send me the parody days before so I could train properly?"
The producer's voice came, exhausted. "We did. Three days ago."
Zane froze.
"…Oh."
Laughter erupted behind the camera.
He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "Okay but in my defense, French is… dramatic."
"Again," the producer insisted.
Zane straightened and tried once more, but this time he overdid the accent so badly that even he burst into laughter halfway through.
The video ended with him muttering, "I should've stuck to punching things."
Adrien covered his mouth to muffle his laugh.
It was ridiculous.
And endearing.
He typed back.
Adrien: 😂
Then, after a second:
Adrien: i can't believe they let you near french.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Before Zane could reply, Adrien's driver knocked gently on his bedroom door.
"Sir, the car is ready."
Adrien locked his phone and grabbed his bag.
"Coming."
The black sedan glided smoothly through morning traffic.
Adrien leaned back in the leather seat, replaying the commercial in his mind. The way Zane's voice had dipped slightly on the lower notes. The way his expression shifted between restrained and dangerous.
He shook his head lightly.
Why did it matter?
The academy gates came into view—tall wrought iron engraved with the school's crest. Beyond them, manicured lawns and ivy-covered stone buildings stretched under the pale sky.
Prestigious didn't begin to cover it.
The car rolled to a stop.
Students were already gathering near the entrance, uniforms immaculate, laughter carefully measured. Expensive watches glinted. Designer shoes clicked against cobblestone.
Adrien stepped out.
Conversations faltered for half a second.
They always did.
Not because he was loud or attention-seeking—but because Adrien Camille carried a presence that didn't need volume.
He adjusted his blazer and exhaled softly.
Final year.
Let it begin.
---
Across town, Zane's morning was nothing like calm.
He hadn't eaten properly in days.
Not because he wanted to look good for a camera.
But because today was weigh-in day.
He stood on the gym scale, sweat already clinging to his temples.
His coach squinted at the numbers.
"Three kilos," the coach muttered. "You're three kilos over."
Zane exhaled through his nose.
"What time is weigh-in?"
"One p.m."
Zane checked the wall clock.
Nine.
Four hours.
The coach clapped his hands. "Alright. Lemon water. No solids. Hoodies on. We sweat it out."
Zane nodded, already pulling one hoodie over his head.
Then another.
Then a third.
Four layers of sweatpants followed.
He looked ridiculous.
His gym mates snickered.
"Bro looks like he's moving to Antarctica."
"Shut up," Zane muttered, tightening the drawstrings.
He took a long swig of lemon water, face twisting at the sourness, then stepped onto the treadmill.
The machine roared to life.
Miles blurred beneath his feet.
The hoodies trapped heat instantly. Sweat soaked through fabric within minutes. His breathing grew heavier, but he didn't slow down.
He couldn't.
Three kilos.
He ran until his legs felt hollow.
Then longer.
By the time he finally staggered off the treadmill, he was dizzy.
"Bathroom," he muttered hoarsely.
One of the gym guys laughed knowingly. "Yeah, go handle business."
Zane shot him a look but didn't argue.
Inside the restroom, he peeled off the top hoodie, steam practically rising from his skin. He leaned over the sink, breathing hard.
Then—
Yes.
That.
Desperate times.
He handled what he needed to.
Afterward, he stepped onto the small scale in the corner.
The numbers blinked.
He blinked back.
Then stared.
He'd lost four kilos.
Relief crashed into him so hard he laughed weakly.
"Coach!" he called out.
The coach hurried in, checked the scale, and exhaled loudly. "Good. Good. That's enough."
His gym mates cheered softly.
Zane wiped sweat from his face and reached for his phone.
Adrien had reacted to his video with a laughing emoji.
Zane smiled.
Just a little.
It was enough.
The weigh-in took place at the Grand Arena Pavilion—a massive indoor stadium used for major sporting events.
Athletes lined up backstage, tense and silent.
Zane stripped down to his shorts and stepped onto the official scale.
The commissioner read the number.
It matched.
"You're good," the man confirmed.
Zane stepped off, relief flooding his veins.
One hurdle cleared.
By the time he got home, he could barely stand.
His body felt like it was made of sand.
The smell hit him first.
His favorite meal.
His mom was already setting the table.
"You look like you fought the devil," she said, eyes widening.
"Won," he corrected weakly.
She laughed and pulled him into a hug. "Eat."
He did.
Slowly at first. Then faster.
The food tasted like heaven.
He leaned back afterward, full and exhausted, when his phone buzzed.
Email.
Camille Group.
He opened it.
> Reminder: Boxer Advertisement Shoot – 2 Days.
Location: La Grande Halle de Lumière (face-Off Event).
Participants include reigning champion: Dante Moreau.
Zane's jaw tightened.
Dante Moreau.
The man who had beaten him in the finals for three consecutive years.
Cool. Calculated. Untouchable.
The email continued.
> You will pose for promotional photos with Mr. Camille, the Camille Hydration Bottle line, and Élan Nocturne fragrance.
Additional group photos with Camille-sponsored boxers required.
Zane's heart pounded—not from fear.
From excitement.
This was big.
Huge.
Then another notification appeared.
Another email.
> Maintain optimal physique. Public anticipation is high. Visible abdominal definition is expected during shoot.
Zane stared at the screen.
He had just nearly passed out losing four kilos.
And they were reminding him not to "eat too much."
He leaned back slowly, phone resting on his chest.
Pressure.
Everywhere.
In the ring.
In front of cameras.
In private messages.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
Then his phone buzzed again.
Adrien: final year officially started.
Zane opened his eyes.
And smiled.
The weight felt lighter suddenly.
For now.