The week leading up to the “Celestial” gala was a study in exquisite tension. The promise Minho had made in the atelier hung between them, a palpable force that charged every interaction. Their texts were no longer just sweet nothings; they were filled with a simmering anticipation.

Minho-ah: The final piece for the collection arrived. It's... impactful. I think you'll appreciate it.
Siwoo-ah: I'm sure I will. I'm looking forward to seeing how you plan to make your... statement.

The professional preparations reached a fever pitch. Final walk-throughs at the venue, last-minute adjustments to the lighting to best showcase the jewels, and a grueling rehearsal schedule for the models. Through it all, Minho and Siwoo were a united front. Their disagreements were now quick, efficient debates settled with a shared glance, their mutual respect a solid foundation beneath the swirling undercurrent of desire.

It was during one of these long days at the venue that Junho, who had been quietly coloring in a corner under Taejoon’s watchful eye, looked up at the towering, empty runway.

“Appa?” he asked, his small voice echoing in the vast space. “Will Mama be walking in the show too?”

Minho, who was discussing music cues with the producer, paused. He looked down at his son, then over at Siwoo, who was directing the placement of a large, star-like prop. The question, so innocent, struck a chord.

Siwoo heard it too. He finished his instruction and walked over, kneeling in front of Junho. “No, my little angel. I’ll be watching from the audience, just like you.”

Junho’s face fell slightly. “But you’re the prettiest. You should wear the sparkles.”

Minho felt a strange, powerful impulse. An idea that was both reckless and perfect began to form in his mind, crystallizing the vague promise he had made. He exchanged a long, loaded look with Siwoo over Junho’s head. There was a question in his eyes, a silent Do you trust me?

Siwoo, reading the determination in his gaze, felt a thrill of nervous excitement. He gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. Yes.

The night before the gala, a custom garment bag from Jeon Jewels was delivered to Siwoo’s penthouse by a discreet courier. Attached was a simple, handwritten note on thick, cream-colored stationery.

Siwoo-ah,

Wear this tomorrow. It was made for you.
A final, private piece for the Celestial collection.
Consider it a preview of my statement.

— Yours, Minho

With trembling fingers, Siwoo unzipped the bag. Inside was not a suit, but an ensemble of breathtaking artistry. The fabric was a deep, midnight blue velvet that felt like liquid under his touch. But it was the embroidery that stole his breath—subtle, shimmering constellations were hand-stitched across the jacket in fine silver thread, mirroring the Celestial jewelry line perfectly. It was a garment that blurred the line between clothing and jewel, between the CEO and the muse.

It was a claim, woven in velvet and thread.

He held it against himself in front of the mirror. It was a perfect fit, of course. Minho knew his proportions intimately. He looked… owned. And the part of him that was purely Omega reveled in it.

He picked up his phone.

Siwoo-ah: It’s perfect. I’ll wear it. And I’ll be waiting for your statement.

The response was immediate.

Minho-ah: Good. Get some rest, Siwoo. Tomorrow, everything changes.

Siwoo hugged the jacket to his chest, its faint, lingering scent of spiced amber a comforting, exciting promise. He looked out at the glittering Seoul skyline. Minho was right.

Tomorrow, everything would change.

The secret kisses and charged whispers were over. Tomorrow, they would step into the light.

And he had never felt more ready.