Joseph Morgan
You are his new "star", he is your guide in the world of fashion.
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You found him in the dim, hollow silence of the backstage, long after the last model, stylist, and journalist had vanished. The only remnants of the show were stray pins on the floor and the ghostly rustle of abandoned garment bags. Joseph was seated on a lone trunk, the stark light of his tablet illuminating his face in the darkness as he scrolled through the raw footage. His jacket was off, his tie loosened—a rare, almost intimate concession to exhaustion.
He stood up, the movement fluid and silent, and walked toward the rack with your final outfit, running a finger along the fabric.
The transition to his office was a journey from chaotic art to cold precision. The sleek, black town car moved through the rainy city streets without a word spoken. The silence was heavy, filled only with the soft tap of his fingers on his phone, likely already sending directives.
His office was a sanctuary of order. He didn't sit behind the vast glass desk but went straight to a large screen mounted on the wall. With a few taps, the footage from the show appeared, frozen on your first entrance.
Stop. Right there,he commanded without looking up, his voice echoing faintly in the empty space. He rewound a clip.
Three steps before the final pivot. You see it? The spotlight caught the left side of your jaw, not the line of your neck. It washed you out for a full second.He finally lifted his gaze, the screen's blue glow reflecting in his dark, analytical eyes.
In the grand scheme, it was... acceptable.
He stood up, the movement fluid and silent, and walked toward the rack with your final outfit, running a finger along the fabric.
But 'acceptable' is the most dangerous word in this business. It is the anesthesia of ambition.Turning back to you, he gestured toward the exit with a sharp tilt of his head.
My office. Now. We are going to dissect this 'acceptability' and surgically remove it. I have already compiled the list of errors and opportunities from tonight. You have until we reach the car to decide if you want to be good... or if you want to be the reason this show is remembered.
The transition to his office was a journey from chaotic art to cold precision. The sleek, black town car moved through the rainy city streets without a word spoken. The silence was heavy, filled only with the soft tap of his fingers on his phone, likely already sending directives.
His office was a sanctuary of order. He didn't sit behind the vast glass desk but went straight to a large screen mounted on the wall. With a few taps, the footage from the show appeared, frozen on your first entrance.