THE TOP MODEL STARED AT GEORGE for a few seconds, long enough for the silence to turn into tension. The The Sunny reporter had asked a loaded, provocative question, laced with irony disguised beneath the elegance of his British accent — a verbal trap carefully constructed to provoke a reaction, a headline, perhaps even a scandal. Jessyca took a deep breath, maintained the enigmatic smile she had learned to wear in extreme situations, and answered with the composure of someone who knew that every word spoken in public could turn into gunpowder.
— I believe that love is free — she declared slowly — and exists independently of any form, label, or social expectation.
George raised an eyebrow.
— Could you be more specific, please? — he insisted, with the characteristic boldness of someone who could smell an explosive story.
Jessyca leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table covered in dark velvet.
— I was raised in a traditional household, in an environment dominated by staunch heterosexuals — she explained — but that doesn't mean I limit myself to believing that only couples of opposite sexes are capable of completing each other. Love has no gender. It simply happens... and when it does, no one can stop it.
The reporter pressed the record button and delivered his next blow:
— So, would you date another girl?
A murmur swept through the room. Jessyca answered without hesitation:
— Of course I would. I have absolutely nothing against lesbians — she said naturally — quite the opposite, I love going out with girls.
George, sensing blood, forced a crooked smile.
— That's not what the international press usually says, Miss Volpi — he provoked, his tone malicious.
Jessyca smiled, tilting her head slightly, her eyes sparkling beneath the spotlights.
— You're quite cheeky, George — she replied, her voice sweet and sharp as a razor — but I'll prove that I have nothing against lesbians. Any volunteers?
An electric silence spread through the Carlyle Suite. Suddenly, murmurs, whispers, exchanged glances. Then a female voice broke through the air:
— I volunteer — said one of the reporters, raising her hand, her face flushed with curiosity.
— Perfect — Jessyca replied, noticing that the young woman was attractive, with an innocent charm that contrasted with the boldness of the moment.
Jessyca slowly rose to her feet and walked around the table, camera flashes already flickering in anticipation. Jacob and Sebastian exchanged uneasy glances, unsure whether to laugh, intervene, or simply let the scene unfold.
— I want to see your eyes — Jessyca whispered, approaching the young woman.
With her right hand, she gently reached behind the woman's head, feeling the slight tremor of her hair, and brought her lips to hers. The kiss was slow, firm, unhurried — a silent declaration of power and freedom. Hundreds of flashes exploded like luminous grenades. For almost a minute, time seemed to stand still.
When their lips parted, the Englishwoman, breathless and astonished, whispered with an enchanted smile:
— I think you just made my day.
— Sometimes it's our lucky day — Jessyca replied before returning to her chair.
The audience reacted with applause, laughter, and hushed comments.
— I loved that — Jacob whispered in her ear, his voice husky and amused.
— You pervert — she replied, half irritated, half amused, turning back toward the audience.
A female journalist raised her hand:
— Kate, Elle Magazine. Was that staged? I mean... is it part of the perfume launch campaign? Something arranged under your confidential contract with Samwell LaVey?
Jessyca discreetly turned toward Sebastian, the LaVey executive, silently pleading for help. At that moment, she realized just how much trouble she had gotten herself into. Her impulsiveness, so useful for attracting attention, now threatened a multimillion-dollar contract — and she had no intention of losing it.
Sebastian understood the message without a word being spoken.
— I swear that wasn't in the script — he declared with a diplomatic smile — but I must admit I enjoyed watching it. As for the perfume we're launching tomorrow, I can tell you that it will be a milestone in the history of perfumery. An artisanal creation based on an ancient Egyptian formula, lost for millennia. It isn't merely a fragrance — it's an experience that engages the sense of smell, the mind, and... the soul.
The audience listened in reverent silence. The sensual atmosphere created by the kiss gave way to an almost religious fascination. Then a new voice rose from the third row:
— Tyler, London Magazine — the reporter introduced himself, forcing her to look away from the letter lying on the table. — Last month, you bought five Degas paintings. Is it an investment... or are you redecorating your apartment?
Jessyca smiled, genuinely this time.
— When I was little, I dreamed of becoming a ballerina — she confessed. — Decorating my living room with Degas's ballerinas is the most elegant way I've found to make up for that disappointment. They dance for me every day.
The reporter nodded, satisfied with her answer, and Jacob intervened, bringing the barrage of questions to an end:
— All right, everyone. I think we'd better give tonight's star a break. Tomorrow is going to be a big day, isn't that right, Sebastian?
— Without a doubt — the executive confirmed, rising to his feet. — Jessyca, say goodbye to the journalists. I'll take over from here.
The model stood with grace and carefully calculated charm.
— Thank you all for coming, but unfortunately I won't be able to stay for coffee... I mean, tea — she joked, drawing laughter from the audience.
— One last round of photos! — shouted one of the photographers.
She turned toward the cameras, flashed the iconic smile that had conquered the world, and held her pose for a few seconds. The flashes illuminated her face like lightning in a stormy sky. Then, without another word, she walked through the private exit, her heels echoing against the marble floor. The Black Angel — her bodyguard and inseparable shadow — followed close behind.