Two days later, the city pulsed with anticipation.
The official face-off event was being held at La Grande Halle de Lumière, a glass-domed exhibition hall near the river, a venue typically reserved for fashion galas and luxury brand launches. Tonight, however, it belonged to fists, rivalry, and spectacle.
And to Camille Group.
Zane Calloway stepped out of the black car in a tailored charcoal suit that had been fitted for him the night before. The fabric hugged his shoulders perfectly, clean lines accentuating the width of his frame and the narrow taper of his waist.
He adjusted his cuffs.
His palms were damp.
Inside, the air buzzed with camera shutters and overlapping conversations. Giant LED screens looped previews of the upcoming fight: Zane Calloway vs. Dante Moreau –The Reckoning.
The words felt heavy.
A stylist from Camille Group rushed toward him the moment he entered.
"Zane, this way," she said briskly, guiding him behind a velvet partition.
Within minutes, he was seated beneath bright vanity lights. Brushes swept over his cheekbones, fingers styled his hair into something intentionally undone yet deliberate.
"Relax your jaw," the makeup artist murmured.
He obeyed.
"You have a strong face," she added approvingly. "We'll sharpen it."
Another assistant adjusted the lapels of his suit.
"Lucien wants you magnetic."
Zane swallowed.
Magnetic.
He hoped he could just be steady.
When they were done, he barely recognized himself. His cheekbones looked sharper, his jaw more defined. His skin glowed under the artificial light. He looked—
Expensive.
"Perfect," the stylist declared.
A production assistant approached.
"You're on in thirty seconds."
Zane inhaled once.
Then stepped toward the stage.
The moment his polished shoes hit the platform—
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
Cameras erupted like a storm of white lightning. The sound was overwhelming—rapid-fire shutters, shouted questions, the low hum of media energy.
He forced himself to smile.
To stand tall.
His name echoed across the hall.
"Zane! Over here!"
"Look this way!"
He turned slightly, giving different angles as he'd been coached.
And then—
The announcer's voice boomed.
"And now—three-time defending champion—Dante Moreau!"
The energy shifted instantly.
Applause grew louder.
Dante stepped onto the stage in a deep navy suit, confidence radiating from every movement. He was slightly taller than Zane, leaner in build but sculpted with precision. His dark hair was slicked back, expression calm—almost bored.
Dante didn't look nervous.
He looked certain.
They stood across from each other beneath the lights.
"Face each other," a photographer instructed.
Zane turned.
Dante met his gaze without blinking.
For a moment, the noise faded.
Three years.
Three finals.
Three losses.
Dante's lips curved faintly. "Ready to lose again?"
Zane kept his voice low. "Not this time."
"Shake hands."
They did.
Firm grip.
Smile for cameras.
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
Zane's smile felt tight.
But his eyes drifted.
Scanning the crowd beyond the lights.
Searching.
And then he saw him.
Adrien.
Standing beside a Camille Group representative, dressed in a crisp ivory suit that made him look almost luminous beneath the chandeliers. Calm. Controlled. Observing everything.
Their eyes met across the stage.
For a split second, Zane forgot the cameras.
Forgot Dante.
Forgot everything.
He smiled.
Not the polished one.
The real one.
Adrien's lips twitched almost imperceptibly.
Then the moment broke.
"Interview time," an assistant called.
The interview stage was set slightly to the side, lit by cooler white lights.
Zane sat first.
The interviewer—a poised woman with sharp eyes and sharper cheekbones—smiled at him with something that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Zane Calloway," she began, voice smooth. "First time being sponsored by a major luxury brand like Camille Group. Must be overwhelming."
"A little," he admitted honestly. "But I'm grateful."
"Of course," she said lightly. "Though some critics say you're more of a marketing gamble than a proven champion."
A ripple of murmurs from the audience.
Zane kept his posture straight.
"I've worked hard for this opportunity," he said calmly.
"But you've never beaten Dante Moreau in a final," she interrupted. "Why should anyone believe this time will be different?"
He opened his mouth—
She continued.
"And you didn't attend university. Some argue discipline and education play a role in strategic fighting. Do you feel disadvantaged?"
Zane blinked once.
"I don't think—"
"You also come from a modest background compared to Mr. Moreau. Does that pressure affect you?"
He clenched his jaw subtly.
"No. I train. I improve. That's what matters."
The interviewer tilted her head.
"Do you think Camille Group chose you for skill—or aesthetics?"
A few people laughed softly.
Zane felt heat crawl up his neck.
"I think they chose me because they see potential."
She smiled thinly.
"We'll see."
The questioning continued in that rhythm—each inquiry edged, undermining, almost taunting.
He answered as steadily as he could.
But it stung.
He wasn't stupid.
He knew how different her tone was compared to—
"Dante, welcome back."
The shift was immediate.
Warm.
Respectful.
"You've dominated this rivalry for years. What gives you the edge?"
Dante smiled modestly.
"Experience."
"You must feel confident going into this match."
"I do."
"No doubt you'll deliver another spectacular performance."
Zane stared at the floor for half a second.
It wasn't subtle.
The difference.
When the interview concluded, applause followed Dante louder than him.
Zane stepped off the platform, shoulders tight.
And instinctively—
He looked for Adrien again.
He was still there.
Watching.
Not smiling now.
Just watching.
And something in his expression made Zane's chest feel lighter.
He didn't hesitate.
He crossed the floor directly toward him.
Adrien remained composed as Zane approached.
Up close, the makeup artists had done their jobs well.
Zane looked devastating.
"Nice performance," Adrien said coolly.
Zane smirked. "You mean the interview?"
Adrien raised a brow. "You handled it well."
"You think so?"
"She was disrespectful."
Zane's smile faltered briefly. "I'm used to it."
Adrien didn't like that answer.
"You shouldn't be."
For a second, the noise around them blurred.
Zane leaned slightly closer. "Were you worried about me?"
Adrien scoffed lightly. "Don't be ridiculous."
But his gaze lingered a moment too long.
Before either could say more, a coordinator interrupted.
"Photo session for sponsors."
Zane straightened.
"Guess that's me."
"And me," Adrien replied.
They moved toward the designated backdrop.
The sponsorship photoshoot was intense.
First, Zane alone.
Holding the sleek Camille water bottle, muscles subtly flexed beneath a fitted black tee.
Then with the perfume—Nocturne Élégance—the bottle dark glass against his fingers.
"Chin up."
"Turn slightly."
"More intensity."
He delivered.
Every shot more confident than the last.
Then—
"Boxer campaign teaser."
Assistants adjusted lighting.
Adrien stepped beside him.
Even without changing clothes, the proximity shifted the air.
"Stand closer," the photographer instructed.
They did.
Shoulders nearly brushing.
Zane could feel Adrien's warmth.
"Look at the camera."
They did.
"Now look at each other."
They did.
For half a second—
No performance.
No cameras.
Just eye contact.
The photographer inhaled sharply.
"Perfect."
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
Afterward, as staff reviewed shots, Zane leaned slightly toward him.
"I'm looking forward to the full shoot."
Adrien crossed his arms. "Try not to mispronounce anything."
Zane laughed softly. "Cruel."
"But effective."
He liked this.
The teasing.
The sharpness.
It felt alive.
Across the hall, Dante watched them briefly before turning away.
The rivalry wasn't just in the ring anymore.
By the end of the event, Zane was exhausted.
But exhilarated.
As commercials replayed on surrounding screens and photographers continued snapping final shots, he realized something.
For the first time—
He didn't feel small next to Dante.
He didn't feel like a gamble.
He felt visible.
And when he caught Adrien watching him one last time before leaving—
He felt chosen.
Tomorrow would be training again.
Soon, the fight.
And the boxer commercial.
But tonight—
As he stepped down from the platform one final time—
Zane Calloway walked taller than he ever had before.
And Adrien Camille noticed.