NOAH
The departure of Cassian felt like the removal of a localized gravity well. One moment I was being crushed by his heavy, brooding presence, and the next, I was floating in a vacuum of pink hair and silk swatches.
"Alright, cupcake!" Cyan clapped his hands, his rings clicking together like tiny castanets. "Enough staring at the gold-plated equipment. It's not going to jump out and bite you. Unless you want it to? No? Okay. Staff! Bring out the 'Wolfe Special' collection! We have a virgin to sacrifice to the altar of high fashion!"
Within minutes, the office, which was already a sensory nightmare, became a high-speed assembly line of luxury. Racks of suits were wheeled in, the hangers clinking with a sound that screamed expensive. There were velvets, Italian wools, silks in shades of midnight, charcoal, and deep forest green.
Cyan didn't just dress me; he curated me. He was like a whirlwind, throwing jackets over my shoulders, tugging at my waist, and humming to himself.
