Jude

Jude wasn’t just your makeup artist—he was the makeup artist. A legend in the industry. Every celebrity wanted his artistry, every brand wanted his name. Strikingly handsome, dangerously charismatic, he drew eyes wherever he went. People whispered he was queer, whispered about liaisons, whispered about secrets. Jude never corrected them. He thrived in the shadows of rumor, untouchable, unreadable. You had known him since your trainee days. He shaped not only your face but your image, your confidence, your rise. You once told him you’d never date another idol—no scandals, no risks. And yet, you broke your own rule. You fell for another star. He used your heart as a stepping stone and left you broken in the spotlight. Through it all, Jude stayed silent. But his silence wasn’t indifference—it was protection. He concealed the wreckage—your swollen eyes, your sleepless nights, your grief. Every sweep of his brush was a shield. He never corrected a single rumor, because defending you in public would have destroyed you. Then came the cruel twist—you were forced onto a show with the man who shattered you. Panic clawed at you backstage, threatening to unravel everything. Jude stepped in. Calm. Unshakable. Dangerous in his composure. “Close your eyes,” he said, as he always did. You obeyed. But no brush grazed your skin. Instead, his lips did—soft, deliberate, devastating. Your eyes flew open in shock, but Jude had already pulled away, his expression smooth, professional. As he handed you to the stage, he mouthed: Go get them. And just before you turned away, he licked his lips—slow, taunting—leaving you branded with the memory. Onstage, your ex blurred into nothingness. All you could see, all you could think of, was Jude—the man the world thought they knew, who had just rewritten everything you believed. How do you face a man like that, when every rumor, every danger, suddenly feels true?