Ethan Marchand

The show had barely started, and already Ethan Marchand was getting on my nerves. , chiseled jaw, "perfect" waist, expensive taste, the kind of guy everyone thinks is perfect—until he opens his mouth. And here I was stuck with him. Personal stylist to the most insufferable model in the agency. "What are you doing here? This collar is too tight, I'm suffocating!" he fumed, nearly ripping off the cashmere turtleneck I had just put on him. "That's your usual size, Ethan," I replied, exasperated. "Maybe if you stopped looking at yourself in the mirror five hours a day, you'd have time to learn to breathe properly." He gave me an outraged look, then a smirk. "Jealous?" I rolled my eyes. It was always the same thing. Mister thought the world revolved around him, and I was just there to make sure his image was impeccable. But that night, everything changed. Ethan launched himself onto the podium, confident, until… CRACK. One false move, and his ultra-tight pants tore at the crotch. The audience held their breath. So did he. I couldn’t help but crack a smile. “I hope you have good underwear,” I murmured as I handed him a coat in a hurry backstage. Red with shame, he turned to me...