Eren's breath caught. Wear my design?
The words from Claude's smooth announcement rang in his ears like a curse. His stomach turned cold. No one knew that he was the mysterious designer behind the pseudonym Roselune. And no one had warned him that the final phase required each piece to be modeled.
He had no model. No plan. No time.
At his side, the bespectacled girl adjusted her glasses nervously. "Are you alright?" she asked, her voice quiet, uncertain. Her omega-scent was soft, almost smothered by the stronger pheromones thickening in the hall, but it trembled with her unease.
Eren looked at her—really looked. The frizzy curls. The awkward posture. The way her arms folded tight, as if to make herself smaller. It was like seeing a ghost of himself: the boy who used to be laughed at, dismissed, belittled. A boy no one thought worth defending.
And something inside him hardened.
"I need your help," he said suddenly, gripping her hand.
The girl's eyes widened. "M-me? I can't—"
"There's no time," Eren interrupted, his tone urgent but steady. He pulled her with him toward the backstage corridor, every step driven by instinct.
"Eren." Roen intercepted them at the threshold, eyes sharp as they swept from him to the trembling girl. "Did you hear what Claude announced?"
Eren nodded, determination flashing in his gaze. "I want her to wear it." He nudged the girl forward, presenting her.
Both Roen and the girl froze. "What?" they blurted together, disbelief etched on their faces.
The girl shook her head furiously, hugging her arms close. "No—I can't. Look at me. They'll laugh. I'll humiliate you." Her scent spiked sharp with fear, bitter and raw.
"You'll be perfect," Eren said softly, leaning closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "You're beautiful—more than you realize. They just can't see it yet." His own chest tightened as he spoke, because he wasn't only speaking to her—he was speaking to the shadow of himself he once hated. His thumb brushed over her trembling fingers, grounding her. "But I can."
Roen studied him for a long moment. Then his gaze slid over the girl and, unexpectedly, softened. "Actually… she does suit Scarlet Promise."
The name of Eren's piece seemed to pulse in the air like a vow. For a moment, even Roen's alpha presence bent quietly to the weight of it.
Eren exhaled, relief threading through the tightness in his chest. "Then it's settled. Let's get her ready."
He led the girl into the dressing room, and the moment the door opened, her breath caught. Draped across a velvet stand was the gown he had poured himself into—deep crimson silk that shimmered like starlight, threaded with gems that caught and fractured the light into constellations.
Behind them, unseen by Eren, Adriel stood frozen near the wings. He had watched the entire exchange, his alpha instincts taut and burning.
Every fiber of him screamed to pull Eren back, shield him from whispers, from risks, from exposure. And yet—he couldn't move.
Because in that moment, his omega wasn't fragile. He was fire.
And Adriel realized with a shock that his greatest desire—to protect Eren—might also be his greatest fear: that one day, Eren wouldn't need protecting at all.
Eren led the girl into a small private dressing room tucked behind the stage. The moment the door closed, the girl froze, her breath catching.
Laid out under the soft glow of vanity bulbs was a gown that shimmered like captured starlight, silk dyed the color of deep crimson dusk. On a velvet pedestal rested the centerpiece of Eren's final submission: a choker unlike any other, scarlet stones pulsing with firelight as though alive.
The girl pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. "This… this is yours?" she whispered, her voice small and awed.
Eren nodded, his throat tight. He could smell her nerves—an omega's anxious pheromones, sharp and bitter at the edges—but as her wide eyes reflected the shimmer of his work, the air shifted. Slowly, the tang of fear was giving way to something warmer, tentative: hope.
For the first time that evening, Eren's own fear loosened its grip. This wasn't about winning anymore. It was about showing the world a kind of beauty that couldn't be mocked, hidden, or dismissed. And he had chosen the perfect omega to reveal it.
Eren couldn't take his eyes off her. Dressed in the ivory gown, her wild curls gathered back from her face, she looked nothing like the bullied, trembling girl from earlier.
The scarlet choker settled against her throat as though it had been made for her, its gleam answering the soft light in her eyes.
Even Roen, leaning against the doorway, let out a low breath. "She… suits Scarlet Promise," he murmured, rare awe in his tone.
The gown itself flowed like constellations caught in fabric: a sweetheart bodice embroidered with silver threads, a skirt that fell in ripples of silk and organza, the hem kissed with crystal starlight. A sheer cape, stitched with galaxies, trailed lightly behind. Against it all, the Scarlet Promise choker burned, bold and luminous—the mark of transformation.
Eren's chest tightened. That's mine. My vision. My hands made this. And to see it not hidden in sketches or glass cases, but alive on a body that once shook with shame— It was almost too much to bear.
For a dangerous moment, a thought flickered: What if it were me? What if I stepped onto that stage, wearing the work I poured my soul into? Would Adriel's gaze finally fix on me—not as his duty, but as his choice?
But he crushed it down as quickly as it came. He couldn't. No one could know he was Roselune. Not Chloe—no, Claude. Not anyone. Tonight wasn't about him; it was about proving that his creations deserved to shine, even if he had to remain in the shadows.
"The Scarlet Promise belongs to you now," Eren said softly, steadying his voice. "Don't be afraid of them. You're stronger than their laughter."
The girl's hands hovered over the gown as if she didn't dare crease it. "Are you sure?" she whispered. Her pheromones spiked nervously, but the scarlet stones caught the light against her throat, radiant.
"I don't even recognize myself. Just an hour ago, I was—nothing. And now… even my grandfather might not recognize me."
Eren smiled faintly, though something in his chest ached like an old wound. I know that feeling. To want to vanish beneath their scorn, only to glimpse for a heartbeat the person you might become.
He reached forward, adjusting the choker with gentle hands, letting it rest perfectly at her pulse point. "You're not nothing," he murmured, his omega scent low and steady now, meant to soothe. "And tonight, they'll see it too."
"Eren." Roen stepped forward after a quiet exchange with a staff member, his deep voice carrying easily over the backstage clamor. "They're calling for the models. It's almost time."
The girl's head snapped toward him, panic sharp in her eyes. "Models? You mean… I have to walk on stage?"
Her knees wobbled. She clutched the vanity, knuckles white, as though gravity itself was conspiring to pull her down. "I can't. My legs—they won't stop shaking. What if I fall? What if everyone laughs at me?"
Eren moved closer, the warm spice of his pheromones brushing against her panic like a steadying hand. He set his palms gently on her shoulders, grounding her. "Listen," he murmured. "You've already stood against worse—remember those boys outside? You faced them, even when you were trembling. This is no different."
Her eyes filled, shimmering under the stage lights. "But out there… it's not just a few boys. It's everyone. All those people watching."
Eren crouched slightly so their reflections met in the mirror. And for a moment, he saw not just her—he saw himself as a younger Omega: awkward, mocked, dismissed. That was me once. And tonight, through her, I'll finally answer back.
"And among them is your grandfather," Eren said softly. His scent shifted warmer—cedar smoke threaded with honey, protective and sure. "When he sees you, he'll be proud. Not only of how beautiful you look, but of how brave you are. And those who tried to break you? This is your chance to show them they can't diminish you anymore."
Her trembling eased, her breath slowing as if inhaling his steadiness. "Do you really think so?" she whispered, her voice fragile.
Eren squeezed her hand, his own pulse quickening. "I don't think—I know. Don't walk for me, or even for the design. Walk for yourself. Claim the space that's yours."
For a long moment, she studied her reflection: the gown flowing like water, the shimmer on her skin, the faint curve of a smile breaking free. Her shoulders rolled back, as though shedding the weight of every cruel word she'd carried.
Eren's throat tightened. He had wanted his creations to capture love and destiny—but maybe what he had truly shaped tonight was courage.
"Yes," he said gently. "And you can decide your own story. Someone once told me my red hair meant I was bound by fate. I hated it then. But maybe fate isn't only what we inherit—it's what we choose to do with it. Even what feels like a curse can lead us somewhere better, if we let it. From here on, I can turn the pages of my own story."
His crimson hair caught the light as he smiled, and her gaze lingered on it with new understanding. Red wasn't just a color—it was a declaration.
"Shall we?" Eren asked, extending his hand.