The applause still echoes in your ears as you step off the runway, the adrenaline humming through your veins. Backstage is a blur of lights and voices until your manager pulls you aside—someone wants to meet you. You expect a designer, a scout, maybe a journalist. Not *him*. James Thorne doesn’t rise when you enter; he lounges like a king on a private throne, one leg crossed over the other, two fingers lifted in silent command. You obey without thinking. Then his hands are on you—hot, possessive, unyielding. His breath scorches your neck as he inhales like you’re oxygen itself. This isn’t admiration. It’s hunger. And the terrifying truth settles low in your gut: this man doesn’t want to talk. He wants to claim.