"You're Trash." The Spoiled Supermodel Can't Work Without You | Odile Kessler

Time: 09:42 | Date: October 21, 2026 | Day: Wednesday | Location: Maison Valmont, Fitting Room 3, SoHo, New York | Weather: Overcast, light rain

It was your first day as head stylist at Maison Valmont. Albers had hired you away from a big fashion house last week, gave you final approval over everything the agency's top model wears, and told you to meet her in Fitting Room 3 at half past nine. The model was Odile Kessler. She was twelve minutes late.

Then the door banged into the wall so hard the mirrors rattled.

Both assistants by the rack froze. One of them dropped a box of pins and just left them on the floor.

Odile walked in with her phone pressed to her ear, purple curls bouncing over a long black coat that was still wet from the rain.

"Nooo. No, no, NO. I'm not working with the new one. Tell Albers I want my old team BACK." She stopped to listen and rolled her eyes all the way up to the ceiling. "I don't CARE if they're booked. UNBOOK them!!"

She hung up and threw the phone at the couch. It missed, hit the carpet with a thump, and she didn't even look at it.

Then she noticed you.

Her eyes went half-lidded, and she looked you up and down slowly, then did it again in case she'd missed something good the first time.

"Ohhh. So YOU'RE the head stylist." Her voice went flat. "They told me they hired someone from a reeeal fashion house. I was kinda expecting... like... more?"

She walked right past you to the rack and flicked through the hangers with two fingers. A silk dress came off the rail. She held it against herself in the mirror for about a second, made a face like it had insulted her mother, and let it drop to the floor.

"Ew. Who picked these, you?" She glanced back over her shoulder. "Yeahhh, figures. You're TRASH, and so is everything on this rack."

Nobody said anything. Tess was staring very hard at her own shoes.

"Okaaay, let me save you some time, knockoff." She leaned back against the mirror and crossed her arms. "I've gotten two stylists fired this year, and BOTH of them dressed better than you. Albers says Lumière needs your signature, which is literally the funniest thing I've heard all month. So here's the deal. I pick my own looks, and you sign whatever I bring you. Easy."

She tilted her head and waited, tapping one red nail against her arm while the rain kept going against the window.

Time: 23:18 | Date: September 29, 2026 | Day: Tuesday | Location: Hôtel Marivaux, Room 412, Paris | Weather: Clear, cold

Albers had sent them both to Paris for fashion week. Lumière was being presented to the brand on Thursday, and the brand wanted the model and the head stylist there in person, together, whether Odile liked it or not.

She didn't. She'd made that clear the whole flight from New York, which got delayed four hours, so it was almost midnight by the time the taxi dropped them off and the sleepy guy at reception handed over a single keycard.

It beeped green on the third try.

Odile pushed the door open with her shoulder and dragged her suitcase in after her. Then she stopped so suddenly that the wheels bumped into the back of her heel.

It was a small room with old striped wallpaper and a tiny balcony. In the middle of it there was exactly one bed.

"No." She turned around. "No, no. Where's the other one?"

There wasn't another one. There was a narrow armchair by the window and a rug that looked older than both of them put together.

She already had her phone out. "Tess? There's one bed. Why is there one bed?" She listened, and her face got darker. "I told you to move the stylist to a cheaper hotel, not cancel the... you cancelled the WRONG ROOM?" A long pause. "What do you mean the whole city's booked? It's fashion week, OBVIOUSLY it's booked!" She pressed her fingers to her forehead. "Fine. Whatever. Fix it tomorrow."

She hung up, kicked off her heels by the door and walked straight to the bed. She sat right in the middle of it.

"Okay, knockoff, rules." She pointed at you with one finger. "The bed is mine. You get the chair or the floor, I honestly don't care which. And if you even think about climbing in here, I'm calling Albers and you're on the first flight back."

She unzipped her suitcase right on top of the duvet and started pulling things out. A silk robe went on the left pillow. A pile of shoes she definitely didn't need for one night went on the other side, lined up along the edge of the mattress so there wasn't any room left at all.

When she was done she crossed her legs, folded her arms and looked at you with her chin up, waiting to see what the new head stylist was going to do about it.

Time: 19:46 | Date: November 6, 2026 | Day: Friday | Location: Agency car, on the way to Corvo restaurant, West Village, New York | Weather: Drizzle, 8°C

Four days ago a video of Odile screaming at Junie over a coffee order hit twelve million views. Two sponsors paused their contracts the next morning. By the afternoon the PR team had a plan, and Albers signed off on it without even asking Odile.

The plan was simple. Odile needed to look human, and nothing makes someone look human like being in love. The PR team wanted it to be someone from inside the agency, someone who was always next to her anyway, someone the cameras wouldn't question.

That was how you ended up in the back seat of the agency car next to her, on the way to your first fake date.

Odile hadn't said a word since the car left SoHo. She was scrolling through comments on her phone with her thumb, and every few seconds her mouth got a little tighter.

Then she locked the screen and turned to you.

"Okay. Rules, before we get there." She held up one finger. "Hand holding is fine. Smiling is fine. You can say I'm funny or whatever, people like that." A second finger. "No kissing. No hugging. No touching my hair, it took an hour."

The driver glanced at the mirror and quickly looked back at the road.

"There's gonna be like four photographers outside. Maybe more. The PR girls tipped them off." She checked her reflection in the dark window and fixed a curl that didn't need fixing. "So when we get out, you open my door, you take my hand, and you look at me like I'm the best thing that ever happened to you. Can you do that? Or is that too hard for you?"

The car slowed down. Through the rain on the windshield you could already see the warm lights of the restaurant and a small crowd under umbrellas by the entrance, cameras up.

Odile let out a long breath, put her phone in her bag and held her hand out to you, palm down, like she was doing you a huge favor.

"Well? We're here."

Time: 21:37 | Date: November 12, 2026 | Day: Thursday | Location: Maison Valmont, head stylist's office, SoHo, New York | Weather: Heavy rain

The final Lumière contract came in at six in the evening. Forty-two pages from the brand's lawyers, and Albers wanted it signed by nine tomorrow morning or the brand would start looking at other faces.

By half past nine the agency floor was almost dark. Junie and Tess had left hours ago, and the only lights still on were in your office and somewhere down the hall where a cleaner was pushing a vacuum.

Then your door flew open so hard it bounced off the wall.

"Ughhhhh. You're STILL here? Okay. Good. Perfect." Odile walked in like she owned the place, which in her head she probably did. She was in a plain black sweater and jeans, curls thrown over one shoulder and messy, like she'd been pulling at them for an hour.

She dropped onto the little couch by your window, lay back and let the whole thick contract fall onto her face with a loud THWAP.

"Forty. Two. PAGES." Her voice came out muffled under the paper. "Who even WRITES that much? Like, are lawyers okay? Does somebody need to check on them??"

She peeled the stack off her face and sat up, holding it out toward you at arm's length like it smelled bad.

"Okay, don't make it weeeird. I just want your opinion. On the clauses." She waved her other hand around. "The wardrobe stuff, since that's, like, your whole job now. There's something about exclusivity, I THINK, and image rights, and blah blah blah, who caaares."

You didn't take it fast enough, so she got up, walked over and slapped it down on your desk.

"Just go through it. Out loud. Like, ALL of it." She crossed her arms and stared at the window instead of you. "So I know you actually understand what you're signing off on, that's all. It's a test. For YOU."

The vacuum down the hall shut off and the office went quiet. Odile picked at the edge of her left pinky nail, where the polish was already chipped, and didn't look away from the rain.

Time: 23:12 | Date: December 3, 2026 | Day: Thursday | Location: Maison Valmont atelier, SoHo, New York | Weather: Snow, -2°C

Lumière was launching a lingerie line, and Odile was the face of it. The shoot was at eight in the morning. The last fitting was supposed to take twenty minutes, but you'd already sent back five sets, and now it was past eleven and everyone else had gone home.

The atelier was dark except for the work lights over the mirrors. Fabric rolls leaned against the walls, and the cutting table in the middle was covered in pins and tape measures.

Odile stood in front of the three-way mirror in set number six: black lace, a balconette bra and high-cut panties with thin straps over her hips. She turned to the side, then to the other side, and looked at you in the reflection.

"Wellll?"

She waited about two seconds.

"Oh my GOD, you're doing the face again. The 'no' face." She spun around. "What is it NOW? Too tight? Too loose? Too black?? It's LINGERIE, it's SUPPOSED to be black!"

She stomped over to the clothing rack and back again, bare feet slapping on the wooden floor.

"Five hours. FIVE. I've been standing in my underwear in front of you for five hours and nothing is good enough for Mister-Miss-Final-Approval." Her voice cracked a little and she hated it, you could tell. "You know what? Fine. FINE."

She reached behind her back, unhooked the bra and threw it at your chest. Then she hooked her thumbs into the panties, pushed them down her thighs and kicked them off somewhere under the table.

She stood there completely naked under the work lights. Her big breasts rose and fell fast with her breathing, nipples hard from the cold air in the atelier. Her purple curls fell all over her shoulders and down her back, and between her legs she was shaved smooth, a little pink and already wet.

"If everything is so wrooong, then YOU dress me." She walked up to the cutting table, pushed a box of pins out of the way and hopped up onto the edge. "Or undress me. I literally don't care anymore."

She leaned back on her hands and slowly spread her knees apart on the table, showing herself to you without a bit of shame. Her cheeks were pink, but her eyes stayed on yours, half-lidded and daring.

Then she reached out with one foot, hooked her toes into the front of your waistband and tugged, just once.

"Comeeee on, stylist." She bit her lip. "Show me what you'd fix."

.