Chapter 152: Turn a Blind Eye

It seemed that Blaine Jackson, the renowned makeup artist, was having an off day—or, as some might jokingly suggest, he'd been hexed. The entire morning had been a comedy of errors, the sort that could tarnish even the most untouchable reputations. And now, things had escalated.

"Ahhh—oh my God! My eyes!" 

A bloodcurdling scream echoed through the studio, startling everyone—staff and clients alike. The sound reverberated through the open-concept workspace, drawing a throng of onlookers toward Blaine's private styling suite. 

Gasps rippled through the group like a wave. 

"Oh wow, that's brutal! Look at her face—covered in powder!" 

"I know, right? It's going to take, what, two bottles of makeup remover to clean that up?" 

"Maybe this is some avant-garde skincare trend we just don't know about?" 

The murmurs, a mix of awe and schadenfreude, filled the air. 

From her position in the crowd, Claire Grace watched as Blaine, who was usually composed and impeccably stylish, stood frozen with his perfect features clouded by frustration. His typically glowing confidence had darkened into an unmistakable storm. 

Under normal circumstances, the gossiping onlookers would have been subjected to one of Blaine's legendary tongue-lashings. But today, he held his temper—for a reason. The "accident" wasn't just an ordinary misstep. Blaine had zoned out so severely that he managed to aim a blow-dryer—set on full blast—directly at a client's face while holding a compact of loose powder in his other hand. The result? The poor woman's face was dusted white like a snowstorm had hit her, and even worse, her eyes, nose, and mouth were filled with powder. 

Fortunately, Blaine was quick on his feet—figuratively, at least. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced with a dramatic flourish, "what you are witnessing today is a cutting-edge, avant-garde facial styling technique. It's called 'Rise from the Ashes'—a bold new trend in the world of beauty." 

Without skipping a beat, Blaine gathered his wits and turned his full attention to the unfortunate client. His hands moved deftly, his years of experience shining through as he transformed the situation into a masterpiece. By the end of it, the woman's face was radiant, and the crowd, who had been skeptical moments earlier, erupted into applause. 

"Wow, Blaine, you really are a genius! She looks like a goddess!" 

"Sign me up for the 'Rise from the Ashes' makeover!" 

"Me too!" 

The once-critical audience was now clamoring for appointments. Blaine gave a self-satisfied smirk, ready to turn and leave, but stopped abruptly when his eyes met Claire's. Her gaze was clear and filled with admiration, almost childlike in its sincerity. 

Oh no. That silly girl couldn't actually believe his impromptu "Rise from the Ashes" act was part of his genius repertoire, could she? 

The very thought made Blaine's lips twitch in exasperation. If it weren't for his momentary lapse in concentration—wait, lapse? Blaine froze, his thoughts taking a sharp turn. 

The reason for his distraction was standing right there: Claire. 

He quickly averted his gaze, muttered something under his breath, and bolted toward the stairs, leaving Claire to clean up the aftermath. Confused but unbothered, Claire began tidying up Blaine's workspace, only to discover that he had left his phone behind in the chaos. 

---

In the lounge upstairs, Blaine slouched on the plush couch, his head tipped back against the cushions as he tried to steady his breathing. Inhaling and exhaling deeply, he attempted to push away the tension coiled in his chest. 

This wasn't like him. Blaine Jackson was meticulous, a perfectionist who never faltered. Yet here he was, botching jobs left and right, distracted to the point of near disaster. 

He knew exactly when the unraveling had started—this morning. The moment he realized he might have feelings for… no. He shook his head. He needed to calm down, regain control. He didn't like Claire—not in that way. 

Sure, she was charming in a bumbling, unassuming sort of way. But Blaine was determined to convince himself that his feelings for her were purely platonic—like the affection one might have for a little sister. Yes, that was it. Nothing more. 

But even as he tried to rationalize his emotions, another voice, deep within his mind, taunted him. 

"Oh, come on, Blaine. If you didn't have feelings for her, why are you so flustered? Admit it—you like her." 

"Shut up," he muttered under his breath, clenching his fists. 

"You're fooling no one, you know. Keep this up, and everyone in the studio will figure it out. You might as well wear a sign that says, 'I'm hopelessly in love with Claire.'" 

Blaine's eyes flew open, a glint of annoyance sparking in their depths. He refused to engage with the mocking voice, choosing instead to focus on the ceiling as though it held the answers to his predicament. 

But the voice persisted. 

"Face it, Blaine. You can't even look at her without zoning out. You're doomed." 

"Enough!" Blaine hissed, sitting up abruptly, his expression a mix of exasperation and defiance. 

At that moment, the soft sound of footsteps echoed from the staircase. Blaine's head snapped toward the noise, his sharp gaze locking onto the figure descending toward him. 

It was Claire, holding his phone in her hand, her expression tinged with concern. 

"Blaine, are you okay?" she asked, her voice gentle but laced with worry. 

Blaine didn't respond immediately. His heart skipped a beat as he took in the sight of her—a mix of confusion and something deeper flickering in his eyes. Before he could gather himself, he felt his balance waver, his body tilting ever so slightly. 

"Blaine!" Claire exclaimed, rushing forward, her arms outstretched to catch him before he could fall.