Just Trash The Message

The soft hum of an electric steamer filled the room as August sat on a dress chair in the center, his gaze fixed on the rows of outfits and shoes that lined on rolled in racks.

The room compared to his own pristine white room was one of the faint yellow painted rooms in the main house, starting from the leather couches to the glossy wooden floors, and even the full-length mirrors that reflected every angle of him.

It was a room that echoed bland but radiated sophistication, each piece of furniture deliberately placed, each corner a testament to understated luxury.

A team of designers and stylists buzzed around him, each with a role, each with their own vision.

Fabrics whispered as hangers were pulled along rails, the soft rustle of luxury. Sadly, none of those luxurious adornments meant to cover his nakedness was his. They were all brought in by his client.

An Armani suit, dark as midnight with a sheen that caught the light just so, was laid out alongside a crisp white shirt, its cotton so fine it was almost a second skin.

A Balenciaga overcoat, sharp and structured, was next in line, followed by an array of ties and pocket squares in rich, muted tones—deep burgundy, forest green, royal blue.

Celine stood nearby, her delicate hand resting on her chin, considering what would suit what.

She had first soughted out an outfit - a Chanel three-piece suit in deep emerald that definitely contrasted the room's starkness but would have complemented the elegance August Farley was all about.

Sadly, he rejected it! Now, she just watched as the stylists fussed over every detail, their movements brisk yet reverent.

"How did Reed do last night?" she asked, her tone soft, though her eyes never leaving the outfits.

"Better," August replied, his voice distant as he examined a pair of polished oxford shoes from Gucci. The black leather gleamed under the overhead lights, as if whispering promises of elegance with each step. "You know how he is. It takes time."

Celine nodded, a knowing look crossing her features. Reed was always a delicate subject, his deep autism making every interaction, every word, both precious and fragile.

She had put him to bed the night before, the way she always did when August had to be out late. It was a routine they had fallen into. Verily, she was okay with that routine.

"Are you sure you want to go tonight?" she asked, her voice now tinged with concern. "It's a lot for you right now, isn't it? Plus, you know… the twins…"

August's gaze hardened for a moment, his hands moving to adjust the cufflinks on the white shirt he'd chosen. They were subtle, yet elegant, with tiny inlaid diamonds catching the light with every movement.

Speaking about twins… ugh! He felt like puking.

"A million dollars, Celine. A million dollars to take a picture with his bride tonight, the engagement and next up, the wedding," he said, his tone betraying a hint of the frustration and deep hurt he carefully concealed. "I can't turn that down. Not with the way we are living. Not with the dying need of Little Candy entering elementary school soon."

Celine sighed, the sound barely audible over the quiet conversation of the stylists.

One of them, a young man with tousled hair, kept glancing at August as if he were a statue come to life, his hands trembling slightly as he smoothed out the lapel of the Armani jacket.

The designer beside him, a woman with sharp features and a keen eye, was already thinking of the next ensemble. In her mind, August was the perfect canvas—handsome, brooding, and utterly unattainable.

The team moved with synchronized precision, a dance of fabric and accessories.

One stylist held up a tie in deep sapphire, while another presented a pair of sleek leather gloves, both from Hermes.

The decision lay with August, but his mind was elsewhere. He thought about Reed, his son, who he had locked up in his room (which Reed was well comfortable and secured with) and he also thought about his father, 'Sean.'

As they wrapped the black tie around his neck, the silk cool against his skin, August turned to Celine. "This money isn't just for me," he murmured, his voice almost lost in the room's hushed atmosphere. "It's to hide Reed as well. We need this."

The designers, oblivious to the depth of the conversation, continued their work, but the room felt the weight of his words.

Celine didn't respond immediately, her eyes softening as she looked at him. She felt really sad for August.

She knew what he wasn't saying, the strain of balancing his life with Reed's needs, the pressure of maintaining the public image that allowed him to command such fees and that related to four years ago.

"Still," she said after a moment, her voice gentle but firm, "don't let them push you too hard. You're doing this for Reed, but he needs you in one piece too. Plus, the twins aren't worth it."

It was one of the twin's engagement, one of the Glory Boyz and it was Mason's. And that's what all the sourness and sadness was all about.

The makeup artist, a petite woman with sharp eyes and steady hands, began her work on his face, applying a foundation that matched his skin tone perfectly.

Her thoughts, though hidden behind a professional facade, lingered on the way August barely acknowledged her and how pretty she thought she was. 'Hmph! I look a million times better than this woman with him.'

She had worked with models who craved attention, but August seemed immune to it, as if his mind was always somewhere else.

It made her job easier in some ways, but she couldn't help feeling a twinge of jealousy when he turned his attention back to Celine, the woman who clearly held a piece of his world in her hands.

The designers and stylists around him could sense the undercurrent of tension, their own thoughts a mix of awe and envy.

Some admired Celine, others resented her, thinking she must be more than just a friend to hold August's attention so completely.

Yet, as much as they speculated, none dared to voice their thoughts aloud.

August was more than a client—he was an enigma, a man who carried his burdens with a grace that made him both compelling and unreachable.

The final touches were added—a spritz of cologne, subtle but lingering; the perfect angle of his pocket square; the precise knot of his tie.

August looked every bit the image of perfection they had crafted, yet he felt none of it. To him, the reflection in the mirror was just another mask, another role to play.

"I'll be fine," he said finally, more to himself than to Celine. "I have to be."

And with that, he stepped into the shoes that would carry him through the night.

"Hey," Celine called out to him. "Your ipad. I think you have a message."

August, who had already walked up to the door after the designers, etc who had already left the room, turned back glancing between Celine and the iPad on the dress table.

Deciding, he replied. "It's just one. I'll get to it when I'm back." He turned to leave and instantly another dinged followed.

"Oops! I guess it's two now," Celine mocked, feigning a cosplay voice.

"Ugh!" August groaned. Stockpiled notifications really were his allergy, tch! "What does it say?" He asked.

"Err.." Celine opened the iPad, checking the notifications out. "Oh, the first is just a reminder to not be late for the engagement party. Hehe," she laughed nervously.

August narrowed his eyes, feeling really bitter. 'Is he so much in a rush to make his woman happy?' He thought it was unfortunate. He rolled his eyes. "And the next?"

Celine read on, "The second one, it says… errr? Some King Von Blac…."

"Just trash the message!" vexed August yelled the reply, then went out, banging the door behind him.

Celine: "...."