I am a Delacroix

Julian was five when he first walked into the Delacroix showroom. Silk rustled like wind in a forest. Nude mannequins stood in rows, their sculpted hips sheathed in delicate lace. He held his mother’s hand, too tightly.

Camille Delacroix adjusted her black gloves and smiled down at him without warmth.

"You’ll get used to it, darling. This is your world."

The showroom smelled of perfume and ironed linen. Julian’s gaze fixed on a model changing behind a silk divider. She laughed, the bra strap slipping off her shoulder. His cheeks burned. He looked away, but not fast enough. Camille noticed.

"You must learn to see beauty clinically, like a surgeon. Emotion is weakness. In this family, image is everything."

He didn’t answer. At five, he didn’t have words for the unease. But it settled in him like a seed.

Julian turned nineteen surrounded by velvet and mirrors.

He lived in a penthouse above the Maison Delacroix flagship store, schooled by tutors, dressed by tailors, watched by cameras. Every inch of him had been sculpted to embody “refined masculinity,” but he hated the word. There was nothing masculine about his world.

The models called him "princesse" when they thought he couldn’t hear. His bones were slim, his skin pale and unblemished. His mother insisted he avoid sports, too many bruises. She wouldn’t risk him scarring.

He began skipping rehearsals. Smoked in secret. Disappeared to the streets of Montmartre in oversized hoodies, flirting with anonymity.

One day, he dyed his hair jet black and shaved the sides.

Camille was silent when she saw it. Then, slowly:

“If you insist on looking like a rebellious little girl, we’ll treat you as one.”

The scandal came from nowhere.

A leaked video: Julian at a party, drunk, laughing in a skirt borrowed from a friend. The press erupted. Delacroix heir cross-dressing? Camille saw opportunity.

Two days later, he sat at a long mahogany table. Camille, Clarisse, and the PR team watched him.

“We’re launching Éclipse, a gender-fluid lingerie line,” Camille said. “You will be the face.”

Julian blinked. “No.”

Camille folded her hands. “You’ll do it because it’s necessary. You’ll do it because you owe us.”

Clarisse looked down. She didn’t argue.

The weeks that followed blurred. Waxing. Makeup tutorials. A personal stylist named Élodie who never spoke but always smiled. Hormonal skincare. Corsets. Wigs. Lasers. Tutorials on how to move your hands.

On launch day, Julian, now “Jules” wore black lace and a sheer robe. The cameras flashed. Twitter exploded.

“The Delacroix Heir Breaks Gender.”

“Jules Delacroix is the Future.”

“Hot or Hoax?”

There were moments, brief and terrifying, where Jules felt real.

The way his voice softened with practice. How the heels no longer hurt. How the mirror reflected something interesting.

But beneath it was rot.

Jules cried into his pillow at night, terrified he no longer knew who Julian was.

Fans adored him. The press hounded him. The money rolled in. Camille was proud. Clarisse brought him new designs to wear.

He sat in interviews, legs crossed, laughing softly. Every gesture rehearsed. They called him brave. A symbol.

But no one asked him if he chose this.