You

The mirror was usually Mimi’s friend, but tonight it felt like a cold, impartial judge. She smoothed the fabric of her baby pink dress for the tenth time in five minutes. It was a beautiful piece—tight, hugging her petite frame in all the right places, with a delicate sheen that caught the light of the hotel suite. Her wavy brown hair fell over her shoulders in perfect, glossy undoscened ripples. On any other night, she would have felt like a ten.

But tonight wasn’t just any night. Tonight was her public debut as Michael Olise’s girlfriend.

"You’re overthinking again," a low, melodic voice rumbled from the doorway.

Mimi looked up to see Michael leaning against the frame. He looked effortlessly sharp in a tailored black suit, his expression typically unreadable but his eyes softened as they landed on her. Michael wasn’t a man of many words; he was a man of presence. He moved with a quiet, languid confidence that drew people toward him like gravity.

"I just want to make sure I look... right," Mimi whispered, her fingers twisting a loose strand of hair. "I don’t want people wondering why you brought me."

Michael crossed the room in three long strides, his hand coming to rest on the small of her back. The warmth of his palm seeped through the thin silk of her dress. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her temple.

"They’ll be wondering how I got so lucky," he said, his French-accented English smooth and grounding. "Drop the nerves, Mimi. You’re with me."

If only it were that simple.

The event was a high-profile gala in London, a glittering sea of athletes, designers, and influencers. As they stepped out of the black car and onto the red carpet, the wall of camera flashes was blinding. Michael didn’t flinch. He kept his arm firmly around Mimi’s waist, guiding her through the throng of photographers. He was used to the spotlight; he lived in it. Mimi, however, felt like a small boat caught in a hurricane.

Once inside the venue, the atmosphere shifted from chaotic to predatory. The room was filled with women who looked like they had stepped straight off a runway—tall, willow-thin, and dressed in couture that cost more than Mimi’s car.

They began to circulate, and Mimi quickly realized that being "with Michael" didn't mean people would respect her presence.

"Michael! It’s been ages," a blonde woman in a sheer silver gown purred, gliding toward them. She didn't even glance at Mimi. She placed a manicured hand on Michael's forearm, her eyes locked onto his face. "I saw the match last week. You were incredible. We’re hosting a small after-party at the club later. You have to come."

Michael offered a polite, tight-lipped nod. "We’ll see. I’m here with Mimi."

The model finally flicked her gaze toward Mimi, her eyes scanning the pink dress with a look of mild amusement. "Oh, lovely. Is she your sister? Or perhaps an assistant?"

Mimi felt the blood rush to her cheeks. The insult was subtle, wrapped in a fake smile, but it stung like a whip.

"She’s my girlfriend," Michael said, his voice dropping an octave, turning cold.

The model didn't seem deterred. She let out a light, airy laugh. "How charming. Well, the invitation stands for you, Michael. Don't be a stranger."

As the woman sauntered away, Mimi felt a hollow ache in her chest. She looked down at her heels, suddenly feeling very small. The tight pink dress that had felt daring in the hotel room now felt like a costume.

"Don't listen to that," Michael murmured, leaning closer to her ear. "She’s just talking."

"She’s not the only one, Michael," Mimi whispered.

It continued for the next hour. It was a relentless cycle. Michael would be pulled into a conversation about football or fashion, and within seconds, a woman—or three—would appear, angling themselves to block Mimi out of the circle. They would laugh a little too loudly at Michael’s dry jokes, touch his shoulder, and direct their questions exclusively to him.

Mimi stood there, a decorative accessory that everyone seemed intent on ignoring. She watched a tall brunette with legs for days lean in close to Michael, whispering something that made her laugh. Michael looked bored, his eyes scanning the room, but he didn't push her away. He was used to the attention; it was the white noise of his life.

But for Mimi, it was deafening. Every flirtatious hair flip and lingering touch from these women felt like a reminder that she didn't belong in this world of giants and icons.

"I’m going to go find the restroom," Mimi said suddenly, her voice trembling slightly.

Michael frowned, his hand tightening on her waist. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Just need a minute."

She didn't wait for his response. She slipped away, weaving through the crowded floor until she found a quiet corridor near the balcony. The cool night air hit her face, and she took a deep breath, trying to blink back the tears of frustration.

She felt foolish. She was Michael Olise’s girlfriend—she should be proud, she should be confident. But standing next to him felt like standing next to the sun, and everyone else was trying to eclipse her.

"The pink is a nice touch. Very 'girl next door'."

Mimi turned to see another woman standing by the railing, sipping champagne. She was stunning, with sharp features and an aura of immense wealth.

"Thank you," Mimi said cautiously.

"It’s hard, isn't it?" the woman asked, looking out over the London skyline. "Being the one they want to replace. They don't see you as a person, darling. They see you as a hurdle."

"I just didn't expect it to be so... blatant," Mimi admitted, her guard dropping.

"Michael is a prize," the woman shrugged. "And in this room, everyone thinks they deserve the prize more than the person who actually has it. But look at him."

Mimi followed the woman’s gaze back through the glass doors. Michael was standing where she had left him. He wasn't talking to the models anymore. He was standing perfectly still, his head turning as he scanned the crowd. He looked frantic—or as frantic as Michael Olise could look. He ignored a woman trying to hand him a drink, his eyes searching every corner of the room.

When his eyes finally landed on the balcony and saw Mimi, his entire posture changed. The tension left his shoulders, replaced by a focused intensity. He started walking toward her immediately, ignoring a photographer who tried to stop him for a quote.

He pushed through the heavy glass doors and stepped onto the balcony, his eyes locked on Mimi.

"Why did you leave?" he asked, his voice rough.

"I just needed air, Michael. It was getting to be too much," she said, hugging her arms around herself. "Everyone was looking through me. They were flirting with you right in front of my face."

Michael stepped close, invading her space until she had to look up at him. He reached out, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone.

"Do you think I care about any of them?" he asked quietly.

"They’re beautiful, Michael. They’re models. They know your world."

"They don't know me," he countered, his voice firm. "They know the shirt I wear on Saturdays. They know the car I drive. You're the only one in this room who knows who I am when the lights go out."

Mimi looked away, her heart racing. "It’s just hard to feel like I’m enough when they’re all trying so hard to prove I’m not."

Michael hooked a finger under her chin, forcing her to look back at him. His expression was more animated than she had seen it all night. There was a flicker of genuine heat in his eyes.

"Listen to me," he said. "I didn't bring you here to show you off like a trophy. I brought you here because I don't want to be in these places without you. If you’re not standing next to me, I’m just doing a job. When you’re there, I’m actually present."

He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers.

"I don't see them, Mimi. I only see the girl in the pink dress who makes me feel like I can actually breathe."

Mimi felt the knot in her stomach finally begin to loosen. The insecurity didn't vanish completely—it was too deep for a single conversation to fix—but the weight of it became manageable. She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the honesty in his gaze. Michael didn't do fake. He didn't say things just to be nice.

"You mean that?" she whispered.

"I don't lie to you," he said. He took her hand, interlacing their fingers. His hand was large and steady, dwarfing hers. "Now, let’s go back in. And this time, if someone ignores you, tell me. I’ll make sure they regret it."

Mimi laughed softly, the sound bright against the night air. "You don't have to do that."

"I want to," he said, a small, rare smirk playing on his lips. "I like reminding people whose side I’m on."

They walked back into the ballroom together. The change was immediate. Michael didn't just hold her waist; he kept her tucked firmly against his side, his arm draped possessively over her shoulder. When the next group of socialites tried to descend, Michael didn't even give them the chance to speak.

"This is Mimi," he said to a group of investors, his voice projecting clearly. "My girlfriend. She was just telling me about her thoughts on the gallery opening next week."

He pulled her into the conversation, pivoting the topic to something he knew she was passionate about. He didn't let the models interrupt. He didn't let the influencers crowd her out. Every time someone tried to catch his eye, he redirected the attention to Mimi, making it clear that she was the center of his orbit.

By the end of the night, the whispers hadn't stopped, but they had changed. They weren't whispering about who she was; they were whispering about how Michael Olise couldn't seem to take his eyes off her.

As they finally made their way to the exit, the cool air of the street felt like a victory. Michael waited for the valet to bring the car, his arm still wrapped tightly around her.

"Better?" he asked, glancing down at her.

Mimi leaned her head against his shoulder, her wavy hair spilling over his black suit. "Better. But I think I’m ready to take this dress off."

Michael’s eyes darkened, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face.

"That," he said, pulling her closer as the car pulled up, "is the best idea you’ve had all night."

As they slid into the back of the car, leaving the flashes and the models and the noise behind, Mimi realized that the world could stare all it wanted. They were looking at a star, but she was the one he came home to. And as Michael’s hand found hers in the dark of the backseat, she knew that was the only spotlight that actually mattered.