Chapter 65: I Want You….

The set is a whirlwind of controlled chaos—assistants darting with reflectors, stylists fussing with flower arrangements meant to frame the star, a low hum of urgent directions.

The manager, Jack, trails behind me, his silence thick with nervous energy. He finally gathers the courage to speak.

“Mr. Kael, I must admit, I was quite shocked to hear you were coming here personally.” He tries for a light tone and misses.

I glance at him, my silver gaze sharp enough to cut glass before it softens into a bland smile.

“Mr. Jack, have I caused an inconvenience?”

He shakes his head, a quick, jerky motion.

“No, sir! Not at all. I’m just… curious. What brings you to our little shoot?”

I don’t bother looking at him again, my eyes scanning the organized frenzy.

“Moon Arden.”

His steps falter. “Sir, but—”

I stop walking and turn to face him fully. The movement is slow, deliberate.

“Do you have a problem with that?”

His face pales. “No! No, of course not. It’s just… Mr. Moon has made it clear he doesn’t wish to be disturbed by visitors today.”

My smile returns, but it’s a different shape now—thin, sharp, predatory.

“We’re cousins, Mr. Jack. Do you really think I require an appointment? Or his… approval?”

He hesitates, a deer realizing it’s wandered into a lion’s den. Beads of sweat appear at his temple.

“N-no, I didn’t mean it like that. Of course you can see him. You’re family. Please, this way.”

He gestures frantically toward a large, secluded VIP styling tent, cordoned off from the main bustle.

My hands slide into my pockets. I start walking, a faint thrill of anticipation cutting through my usual calm.

I can’t wait to see him. Not a picture, not a description on a page, but the living, breathing male lead of this story. The superstar who drives cities to madness.

The two black-suited guards follow. Without looking back, I say, “You two, stay here.”

They don’t question it. A synchronized nod, and they melt back into the periphery, leaving me utterly alone as I approach the entrance to the lavish tent.

Before I push through the flap, I hear voices from inside—a low, intimate murmur, a soft, flirtatious laugh.

I stop.

Then, silently, I enter.

The air inside is different. Warm, perfumed with expensive amber wood and something else—a clean, oceanic, subtly dominant scent.

Moon Arden’s pheromones.

I take a silent step forward.

And my eyes freeze on the scene.

Just like the author described. The number-one model is also the number-one playboy.

He has the young, flustered male makeup artist backed against a vanity, one hand possessively on the smaller man’s waist, pulling him close.

“…stay with me tonight,” Moon Arden is murmuring, his voice a velvet seduction.

“I’m leaving for K-Country tomorrow. Who knows when we’ll see each other again?”

They are inches apart. The makeup artist is a bright, blushing mess.

A slow, villainous smile spreads across my lips. He just made my job infinitely easier.

In one smooth, silent motion, I pull my phone from my pocket. I raise it, tap record, and capture several clear seconds of the compromising scene.

“How lovely,” I say, my voice cutting through the intimate bubble like a shard of ice.

The makeup artist’s eyes snap to me, wide with horror. He lets out a choked sound, shoves against Moon Arden’s chest, and practically runs from the tent, vanishing in a blur of panic.

I stare at Moon Arden’s broad, perfectly tailored back. He doesn’t startle. He simply goes still. Then, with a model’s practiced, unhurried grace, he turns to face me.

Sky-blue eyes, clear and deep as a tropical sea, meet mine. Exactly like the pictures. Handsome in a way that feels almost unfair.

My smile doesn’t waver. I slip my phone back into my pocket, the damning evidence safely secured.

“Long time no see,” I say, my tone light, almost friendly. “Dear cousin.”

He stares at me, silent, his expression unreadable. The playful charm is gone, replaced by a cool, assessing stillness.

I take a calm step closer, closing the distance he’d just created with his fleeing acquaintance.

The game has begun, and I’m holding a very interesting card.

Moon Arden’s gaze holds mine. There’s no shock in his deep blue eyes, no flicker of guilt about the scene I just witnessed.

Just a cool, appraising calm that mirrors my own. He turns away with a fluid, unhurried motion, picks up a bottle of water, and takes a slow drink.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice as smooth as the amber-scented air.

I step forward and lower myself into the makeup chair. “I’m here to meet my dear cousin,” I say, my smile soft, benign.

His eyes sweep over me, head to toe, taking in my composed posture, my tailored suit amidst the chaos of his world.

Then, a low laugh escapes him—rich, amused, and utterly condescending. “Zyren, cut the crap. Get to the point. Sweet words from your mouth are… funny.”

He’s still chuckling, shaking his head as if I’m a child performing a bad trick.

My smile doesn’t waver. I reach for another water bottle on the cluttered table, unscrew the cap with a quiet click, and take a deliberate sip.

“Is that so?” I ask, my voice mild.

I close the lid, set the bottle down with a soft thud, and meet his eyes again. The levity is gone from my expression.

“Yes. I’m here for a reason.”

He stops laughing. Blinks. His gaze sharpens, waiting.

“Be my company’s model,” I state, no fanfare, no polite padding.

He blinks again, then his eyes narrow. He leans back against the edge of the table, crossing his arms. A slow, prideful smile touches his perfect lips.

“Wow. Mr. Zyren Kael comes all the way here… to ask me to do modeling?” He taps his chin playfully. “It doesn’t feel much like a request.”

I lean back in the chair, mirroring his casual posture, my smile a ghost of his own.

“Who told you I was making a request?”

His smile falters for a fraction of a second. “What if I say no?”

My expression doesn’t change. The soft smile remains, but it’s edged in frost.

“Do you really think I’m sitting here to hear the word ’no’?”

He scoffs, turning away as if bored. “Just hire someone else.” He takes a step toward the tent flap, dismissal in every line of his body.

My voice stops him, clean and clear.

“I want you.”

His steps freeze. He doesn’t turn around, but his shoulders have gone rigid. The silence in the tent is suddenly heavier than the screams outside. He’s listening.

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