*je suis heureux que vous ayez pu venir! - I'm glad you could come!
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

            My life was pretty much set out for me once I came out of my mother’s womb: I had my own maid—Lulu— by the age of five, I learned how to play the piano by the age of seven, I became the main face for my mother’s entire line by the age of ten, and I mastered the skill to speak, read, and write in three different languages by the age of fourteen— Korean, French, and English. I know, they were pretty random when you think about it, but they all made sense if you had my parents: my mother was Korean, so she made me learn Korean. My father was French, so he made me learn French. But they both knew English; I mean, how else were they going to be able to communicate? Anyways, I had to learn that, too. But that wasn’t too hard since I was born in New York. I don’t really know how that happened, I never asked my parents.

            But that’s not the point. The point is that there is this stupid guy in my way while I’m trying to get to class. The point is that stupid his girlfriend—whose Prada bag is obviously fake—is on his face, also blocking my way to class. My life wasn’t set out for this nonsense.

            I clear my throat and pull my sunglasses down. Both of their eyes meet mine. I blink once.
            Twice.
            They break their physical contact and bow to me. “Sorry!” they both say to me. I roll my eyes and lift my sunglasses back up, continuing to class. This isn’t high school anymore; I can’t just be fifteen minutes late to class all of the time. This is college, and I have to limit it to being ten minutes late. I look at my watch. Now I was twelve minutes late. If my stooges were here today, they could’ve fixed the PDA problem in a heartbeat and I would’ve been on time. But no, both of them just had to be sick.

            “Aubrey, je suis heureux que vous ayez pu venir!” Mr. DuBois, my fashion design professor, smiled. He freely speaks French to me from time to time (and it’s most of the time) because… well, I honestly don’t know why. Maybe he just feels more at home when he speaks French to me—Korea is not exactly “home” for a man who is originally from France. “Two minutes over, what happened?”
            “PDA in the middle of the halls is what happened.” I groaned. I scan the room, seeing people scattered around different mannequins in groups. I wasn’t one to work with other people. None of these people could pick up with my work anyways. I was blessed with my mother’s skills, brain, and eyes— I knew how to pinpoint what twelve inches was without using a ruler, I could make patterns as easily as I could say the alphabet backwards, and I could precisely guess a person’s inseam without a tape measure. After all, I wouldn’t be the daughter of Asia’s best fashion designer if I was completely clueless to what fashion was all about. Suddenly, my phone rings with a text message.
            Dad: Photo shoot at my studio, mom wants you here after class.

            The stooges, Trisha and Jiyeon, led me out to the set after I finished getting pampered. They were too sick to come to class, but not too sick to come to my photo shoot. Whatever. “You know the drill,” my father said as he clicks his camera. I stood there and yawned, listening for the clicks.
            Click two.
            Click three.
            “Good?” I asked him. He held up a thumb and I began to pose. It only takes him three clicks to perfectly get the camera focused and ready for a shoot. My father was Europe’s best photographer (he literally won an award that labeled him Europe’s best photographer). He’s huge in the fashion industry, different haute couture designers calling for him daily. He mainly likes to deal with Chrome Hearts, Jeremy Scott, Tom Ford, Valentino, and obviously my mother, Evelyn Sinclair.
            Suddenly, I see a familiar face walk out of the door. My heart nearly stops. Either my eyes were deceiving me, someone slipped something in my coffee this morning (Lulu, if you did something I will deport you back to Greenland), or that’s ing G-Dragon exchanging bows with my mother.

            I finish my individual shots and move off to the side, keeping my eyes on G-Dragon. Damn, he wasn’t Korea’s favorite idol for nothing. That boy was the definition of eye candy.
            And I guess his music is good, whatever.
            Suddenly, I notice him making his way toward me. My heart runs on a wild streak, my body starting to feel hot. “Hello, I’m Kwon Jiyong.” he says as he comes toward me with a hand held out, the slight purr in his English making my toes curl. Now this was the confusing part. Do I speak English back, or can I go straight for Korean?
            “Hello, I’m Aubrey Sinclair.” I say in Korean, giving him a smile as I shake his hand. His brows furrow as he studies me in confusion (damn, this guy can study me all he wants), but it all soon disappears as a charming smile grows on his face. Suddenly, Jiyeon joins us. Uninvited.
            “Hey, do you know Hyunjoong’s number?” she asks. I roll my eyes, huffing. I stomp my heels as I face my entire body to her.
            “Do I look like a phonebook?” I ask her. She stares at me, biting her lip. She shakes her head. “Then why would I have his number?”
            She bows and walks away. Honestly, I did have Hyunjoong’s number. But you do not just ruin a perfect moment with G-Dragon! God, people can be so ill-mannered! I huff out my frustration and turn back around, giving him a smile. “Sorry for the interruption.”
            “No it’s okay.” he says, breaking eye contact with me. “I have to go do my individual shoot anyways.”

            I observed G-Dragon closely—how natural he was in front of the camera, how he looked better at a front angle rather than the profile angle, and how he had four creases in his forehead when he cocked an eyebrow.
            Once he finished up, my mother gathered all of us up and explained the schedule. “Tomorrow, we’ll continue with the individual shots. I want to get the couple shots running by Thursday, and finish up on Friday…” she says. I bite my bottom lip, blocking out everything else my mother was saying afterward (it probably wasn’t that important anyways). So basically, my mother’s schedule is summed up in two points: a) G-Dragon and I will be seeing a lot of each other for the next three days, and b) I have to make him fall for me in the next three days (which, I’m sure, won’t be too hard). This is perfect—this boy will be mine.