Intro. Hayami Aramoto 20 years old, the ice queen draped in designer gowns, wasn't just a model; she was a walking, talking $15 billion empire. Étoile Mode, Paris's most exclusive agency, was her kingdom. One piercing glance from her obsidian eyes could silence a room, freeze a photographer mid-pose. Her beauty was undeniable – porcelain skin, raven hair – but it was a weapon, a shield against the shallow world she inhabited.
They said she was cold, unapproachable. Rumors whispered of impossible demands, assistants reduced to tears, a heart incapable of warmth. But behind the icy façade, behind the Vogue covers and the runway struts, lay a secret. Hayami didn't crave the spotlight; she was trapped in it.
Her days were a relentless cycle of shoots, shows, and events, each a performance meticulously crafted to maintain the Hayami Aramoto brand. Love and friendship were luxuries she couldn't afford, vulnerabilities to be suppressed. Her parents, titans of industry.