NOVEL WEB Chapter 901: If Lovesickness Were a Disease
After testing a batch of shots.
Martin realized Sofia's suggestion was spot-on.
The mist forming and fading on the visor with each breath amplified that bone-deep isolation of humanity adrift in the void.
"Perfect—let's roll with it!"
Martin grabbed Sofia's shoulders in excitement. "Hey, gorgeous, you should've joined my set sooner. I could've made you an AD—maybe even tossed you a role."
"Too late now?"
"Nah, never too late. I'll have DeLorean cut you a paycheck."
"Easy there—I'm on vacation, just pitching in temporarily. Don't wanna get sucked back into work mode."
As she spoke, a shy flicker crossed Sofia's brow. She wasn't fully used to Martin hugging her in front of the crew, but damn, she savored the thrill.
She felt her body stirring again.
Her cheeks flushed pink.
Martin sniffed the air, smirking wickedly. Sofia's body always seemed that responsive.
In the end, Sofia stayed on as Martin's assistant director.
Sure, she'd called it a vacation to LA, but deep down, she knew the truth: she missed him—heart, body, the works!!!
If lovesickness was a disease, Sofia figured Martin was her cancer cells—the incurable kind.
She'd never ached for anyone this fiercely.
Three days later.
It was the date on Kim Kardashian's invite: her new collection launch.
When it came to fashion, folks first thought New York or Paris.
But hit LA, and you'd get it—this city's artistic vibe, overflowing energy, and blinding sun carved out its own niche, worlds away from New York's glitzy hustle.
The fashion crowd had clocked the contrast ages ago: two wildly different cities, both intoxicating in their own right.
Sunshine, beaches, palms, short shorts on long legs by the shore... That was LA style. And Kim's runway vibe.
Martin scanned the show—models stuck in his mind, but the clothes? Accessories? Zilch.
No wonder Kim's line bombed in the mid-upper circles—zero standout factor!!!
Everyone knew fashion brands targeted mass market, mid-class, and upper-class tiers.
Skip the masses below—they weren't shopping style; survival was the game.
Top-tier billionaires? Meh—custom threads all the way.
So mid-class and upper-mid were the real moneymakers.
Kim aimed for upper-mid.
But her product's positioning? Way off.
Fashion split into mass trendy and personality-driven. The former hit mid-class wallets; the latter upper-mid tastes.
Mid-class had cash but no time—hustling jobs meant grabbing affordable, popular looks that saved money and hassle.
Upper-mid had dough and leisure: second-gen heirs, execs, celebs. They craved uniqueness—no copycat outfits. They'd pay extra for it.
Kim's line priced for upper-mid but styled for mass tastes. No shock it flopped—until the price cuts later.
Of course, Martin kept his critique zipped. None of his business. He was just there for the eye candy.
Runway wrapped, Kim whisked Martin backstage. Models swapping outfits didn't bat an eye at him striding in—no shyness, just bold stares appraising the sky-high billionaire. A few gutsy ones even hiked up their hems.
Kim swatted asses left and right, barking: "Out! Everyone out—don't cockblock!"
Total madam energy.
Martin just grinned, quietly soaking in the scenery.
Quickly, she led him to a small dressing room door.
Kim hesitated.
Knock... or nah?
Her eyes hardened.
Gritted teeth.
No risk, no reward. (Euro-style, but you get the gist.)
She shoved the door open.
Martin blinked—that's your blood sis in there!
"Ah~!"
A yelp pierced the air.
Kendall Jenner, mid-slide of tiny panties up her thighs, froze as Kim and Martin burst in. Terror-struck, she screeched, body locked.
Martin's eyes flicked over—scoping the full vista in a heartbeat.
Then he played the gentleman, turning away.
And shamelessly added: "Sorry—didn't see a thing."
Kim chuckled: "My bad—forgot Kendall was still changing. But Martin, you're a true gentleman."
To her sis: "Hurry up and dress. Martin's here special to drop off that signed Harry Potter for you."
Kendall snapped to, fumbling into her clothes.
The 16-year-old newbie to romance had zero playbook for this—total deer-in-headlights. Outside, the "veterans" clocked Kim's scheme instantly, smirking behind pursed lips.
Kim didn't give a damn about them.
All she cared about was hooking her fave sis onto Martin's line. That'd lock down the family's black-fan base—no one daring to cross them.
As for Paris Hilton? Ha—once sis snagged Martin, who'd fear pissing off Paris?
Truth was, Kim had outgrown Paris ages ago. Trailing her ass? Just for the connections, right?
With Martin? Who needed Paris's Rolodex?
In the original timeline, Paris crashed from scandals around then—Kim bailed early.
Here? Martin's butterfly effect kept Paris's "side hustle" thriving, scandal-free. Steady as she goes.
Kim sensed Paris wouldn't sweat Martin's girl count. Hell, none of his women seemed to—not just Paris. Weird, right?
"Martin's harem"—that buzzword fueled endless industry gossip. Everyone dying to know his secret.
Kendall finally dressed, cheeks blazing as she tugged Martin's shirt from behind. "I-I'm ready."
He turned, eyes lighting up. White tank top, braless but nipped with pasties underneath. Tiny denim shorts hugging like a whisper. Legs waxed smooth, endless and taut.
Smoking hot!!!