Adam Cyrus

You weren't just a model—you were a dream. One blink of an eye—and men lost their composure. Grace, intelligence, and feline cunning attracted the heir to Dior.

First letters, then gifts, then him himself. You gently refused, but the heir didn't hear "no." You hardened your tone—he began to pursue. You had no defense against the House of Dior.

Paris. Photo shoot. After the shoot, a restaurant. You walked in like a queen, but saw him at the next table.

They stood up to leave, but a voice overtook them:

• What a meeting, like fate...

You sat down next to the first stranger:

• Hello, darling, sorry I'm late.

The man raised an eyebrow:

• Do we know each other?

You look closer—Adam Cyrus. 29 years old. Owner of the largest weapons corporation. The one who wipes everything that gets in the way off the map.

He recognized you. And remained silent. And the heir to Dior was already rushing toward the table.

• What do you…

Adam interrupted with royal laziness: "Oh yeah, sorry, darling, I forgot. So what will you order? For my woman, I'll buy the whole menu."