Sinbad
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Chapter 216: She A Model
🕑 Added 2025-05-29 18:47:01 +0000 UTCQuick update before that chapter. Not sure how many of you guys see the Discord update. I need a break, I’m burning out. Last few chapters didn’t feel right to me and I was just writing chapters that I wasn’t proud of.
So in order to make sure I don’t burn out from writing this story completely, I’m gonna take a week break from tomorrow until June 6. I will not post chapters on Webnovel either. So you guys will still stay ahead.
So no chapters for 7 days.
I hope you guys understand my position.
And I have you guys like this chapter.
Now to the chapter
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November 7, 2015 — JFK Airport, Private Terminal
6:41 PM, Local Time
Barbara stood just past the rope line, arms folded tight over her coat. One boot tapped the floor with no rhythm, like her foot was arguing with itself.
She was trying to act normal. Like any other woman in a fancy coat, just waiting for someone important to land. But it wasn’t working.
Her fingers kept curling into the sleeves, bunching fabric into little fists. Every few seconds, she shifted her weight—left, right, back again—as if one position might make the plane arrive faster.
It had been three weeks.
Three weeks since she’d kissed him. She missed hugging him in that dumb way he hated, arms around his waist, face buried into his shoulder like a koala. She missed having her hand tucked under his shirt on the couch just because. She missed hearing him say her name without lag.
Now he was somewhere in the air above her, and she couldn’t get her lungs to behave.
She peeked down the runway again. Nothing. Just the low hum of machinery and those blinking lights in the distance—cold, distant things.
“Get a grip,” she whispered. “You’re a full-grown woman..”
It didn’t help. Because when the jet finally crested into view—nose gleaming like it knew something—her breath caught so suddenly she had to blink twice to stay upright.
The plane slowed to a stop.
The jet touched down with a smooth groan of tires against tarmac, taxiing past rows of blinking floodlights and weather-beaten hangars. The skyline sat distant and gold-edged behind the glass.
Tristan blinked slowly, waking up from a nap looking around. This was his first time visiting New York and safe to say, he already hated it just from looking out the window.
“New York,” he muttered. “Where rats run the streets and people call it character.”
The stairs folded out with a mechanical hiss. Cold air rushed in like it had been waiting all day.
He stepped down one boot at a time, shoulders tight from the flight.
But then he saw her.
Barbara stood behind the security rope just outside the private terminal, coat cinched at the waist, arms crossed in a way that said don’t talk to me. Her breath clouded in the air. Her lips pressed flat — not angry, not even annoyed, just… waiting.
Then she caught sight of him.
And something in her face broke open like spring.
She didn’t wait. She didn’t wave. She didn’t fix her scarf or say a word. She just ran.
Boots pounding the floor.
Tristan stepped down onto the tarmac just in time to catch her — arms flung wide, breath knocked from his lungs as she crashed into him like she was trying to make up for every second apart.
“You’re late,” Barbara whispered, her voice tucked into his collarbone.
“I had to dribble through three Watford midfielders just to get here.”
She leaned back only enough to narrow her eyes and jab a fist into his chest.
“Still late.”
He looked down at her. Smiled for real this time.
“I missed you too.”
.
They walked side by side along the dimly lit path toward the car park, the hush of evening settling around them. The air smelled faintly like something was burning but Barbara didn’t seem to notice. She was practically vibrating.
Not in a dramatic way. Not loud or giddy. Her hand was looped through his arm, her grip a little too tight, like her body was trying to convince itself this wasn’t another dream.
Tristan glanced sideways.
“Your hand’s shaking.”
Barbara ducked her head. “It’s cold.”
“It’s not cold.”
She exhaled a breath that looked suspiciously close to a laugh. Then shook her head like her thoughts were too jumbled to untangle.
Tristan slowed just enough to nudge her toward him and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
“I missed you,” he said again, voice low.
“I know.”
And then she smiled — that same messy, devastating smile she’d given him back in spring when everything was still new.
Ahead, a black SUV sat idle near the curb. Sophia was in the driver seat.
No fans. No shouting. No one running over for a picture. Just two people walking like they weren’t worth noticing.
Tristan blinked at the skyline, pale against the early dark.
“I forgot what this feels like,” he murmured.
Barbara tilted her head. “What?”
He kept his eyes forward. “To not be watched. Back home, if I walked out of an airport like this, there’d be fifty people and three tabloids pretending they cared about the weather.”
She bumped his arm with her shoulder. “You’re still famous. They just have celebrities here who get arrested weekly. You’re not exciting enough.”
“Good.”
Barbara laughed softly. “You love it.”
“I love this,” Tristan said, squeezing her hand. “You. No flash from cameras. No chanting my name. Peaceful for once.”
They reached the car.
The driver’s window rolled down as they approached, and Sophia leaned over from behind the wheel.
“There he is,” she said, smiling wide. “Welcome to New York, superstar.”
Tristan opened his mouth, but she beat him to it.
“Don’t worry. No red carpets. No press. Just traffic, overpriced coffee, and me behind the wheel. Lucky you.”
Barbara laughed and opened the back door herself, sliding in without letting go of Tristan’s hand.
“Good to see you,” Sophia added, softer now. “Really.”
Tristan gave her a tired but genuine smile. “Good to be seen.”
He climbed in after Barbara, pulled the door shut, and let his body sink into the seat as the SUV pulled away from the curb.
Outside, neon signs blurred past in streaks of blue and orange. Taxis honked. Pedestrians crossed without looking.
And no one recognized him.
Barbara curled into his side the moment the car started rolling, head resting against his shoulder like it belonged there.
Tristan shifted just enough to press a kiss to the top of her head.
“Still shaking,” he whispered.
“I know,” she mumbled, eyes closed. “Just—shut up and let me be happy.”
He chuckled quietly and tightened his arm around her. Outside, the streets rolled.
Sophia glanced at them through the mirror but didn’t say anything. Just turned the heat up two notches.
“So,” Tristan said eventually, “am I allowed to nap? Or do I need to be charming until we reach the studio you've been renting? I’m still a little mad at you for not staying in a hotel.”
Barbara answered without lifting her head. “Babe, it’s my money. And where would Sophia stay?
“You wound me. You didn’t think I wouldn’t pay for your best friend?”
She smiled against his shoulder. “She’s my best friend so I pay for her.”
Sophia from that front seat was just ignoring everything.
The SUV turned onto a narrow side street tucked between two brownstones. Barbara’s studio wasn’t much from the outside — just a second-floor walk-up.
Sophia parked neatly by the curb and twisted around in her seat.
“Alright,” she said, “this is where I leave you lovebirds.”
Barbara reached for the door handle.
Sophia raised a hand. “Ah—wait. One rule.”
Barbara paused, brows lifting. “Sophia—”
“I’m serious,” Sophia said, voice deadpan. “You have a show to walk on the tenth. If you pull a muscle doing something stupid, I’m blaming both of you.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “I’ll be gentle.”
Sophia groaned. “That’s worse. Stop. Don’t say things.”
Barbara was already laughing, the kind that crinkled her whole face.
Sophia opened her door halfway, then leaned toward Barbara again.
“I trust you,” she said, quieter now. “Just… don’t disappear for three days. Let the man breathe. And hydrate.”
Barbara gave a mock salute. “Ma’am, yes ma’am.”
“Good,” Sophia muttered. “Now get out before I start charging overtime.”
Tristan climbed out first and went around to help Barbara out — not because she needed help, but because he could.
She leaned into him once they were both on the pavement, fingers threaded through his like she was afraid he’d vanish if she let go.
Sophia pulled the SUV away with one last honk.
And then it was just the two of them on a quiet New York street.
Barbara looked up at him. “Ready to see my terrible little studio?”
He smiled. “Lead the way.”
.
The door creaked open into a space that smelled faintly of vanilla and lavender. Warm light spilled from a lamp by the window. A candle flickered in a jar on the counter. The hardwood floors creaked slightly under Tristan’s shoes.
Barbara set her bag down and kicked off her boots by the door. She didn’t say anything at first—just turned, stepped into him, and kissed him.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t dramatic.
It was a kiss that came from the middle of her chest like she’d been saving it for days.
Tristan kissed her back, steady and slow. One arm slid around her waist, the other hand resting just above her hips, fingers barely moving.
But when she pressed in closer, hips against his, he eased back—just enough to make her notice.
“Hey,” he murmured, brushing her hair behind her ear like he was smoothing the fuse off a bomb. “ Not until after the show.”
Barbara tilted her head, grinning. “Really?”
“I’m serious.” He glanced down at her collarbone like it might get both of them in trouble. “Nothing makeup can’t cover. And definitely nothing that changes how you walk.”
She let out a small laugh—quiet, low in her throat. “There are other options,” she said, barely teasing.
Tristan swallowed. A slow, deliberate gulp like he was talking himself out of something stupid. His hand stayed exactly where it was, unmoving.
“Okay, up to you,” he said.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Just stood there—bodies close, breath warm between them, like they were leaning against the edge of something.
Barbara’s smile tilted, half wicked. She leaned in, kissed the corner of his jaw—soft, quick.
.
Later That Night
The lights were dim. A single blanket was wrapped around both of them as they lay side by side on the futon, pillows jumbled, one window cracked open to let in the city noise. Barbara’s leg was hooked over his. Her head rested on his chest, her hair spread across his shoulder like a warm scarf.
“What do you wanna do tomorrow?” she asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” Tristan said. “Walk around. Explore that city, this is my first time here, you know.”
Barbara looked up. “You want pizza?”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t mind that, see what all that hype is about. Probably take a few bites from each slice, I have a match against Spain coming up. Probably should call Soma about how many slices we can eat.”
She smiled. “We can do that. “
They were quiet for a few seconds. Then Barbara shifted again, her hand tracing idle lines across his chest.
“…So,” she said, “that Watford match.”
He exhaled slowly.
“Wasn’t cocky,” he said. “Not really. I still gave everything I had. I just got… too comfortable. Like nothing could go wrong. Like I couldn’t be stopped.”
Barbara didn’t say anything. Just kept listening.
“And the others?” he added. “Off day. Everyone had one. It happens. But I should’ve dragged us out of it. I didn’t.”
Barbara leaned up and kissed his chin.
“You’re allowed a bad game, you know.”
“Yeah,” Tristan said quietly. “Just not on the days people expect us to win. But we learnt our lesson.”
.
Next Day
11:42 AM, Local Time
The city smelled like steam and bagels and someone burning their third attempt at brunch.
Tristan tugged the beanie lower over his curls. It was borrowed—Barbara’s idea—and too tight, but it worked. A scarf hid half his face. Dark hoodie, plain jeans. Just another tall guy in SoHo trying not to look lost.
Barbara walked beside him, hood up, sunglasses on, coffee in one hand and the other looped through his arm.
They’d already been to two pizza spots. “For research,” she’d said. He was starting to think she just wanted to watch him struggle with molten cheese and flimsy paper plates.
“Alright,” Tristan said, eyeing the next corner. “This the place with the fold-it-in-half slice or the one you made me use a fork at?”
Barbara sipped her coffee. “This one’s famous for being cash only and making you feel judged.”
“Perfect. Can’t wait to be humiliated by a guy named Sal.”
They turned the corner.
A group of teenagers passed them, barely slowing. Then one of them did a double-take. Phone out. Whispered. Another turned.
Two quick photos, a thumbs-up, a polite “thank you” from Tristan—then the moment passed. No crowd. No shouting. Just a few kids walking off like they’d seen Spider-Man at the bodega.
Barbara beamed. “Well handled.”
“Yeah,” Tristan muttered. “I’ve trained for this.”
They ducked into the next pizza place—narrow, loud, and hot enough to fog Tristan’s glasses. They ordered one slice each, nothing fancy. Just sauce, cheese, and regret.
Barbara grabbed them a seat by the window. Tristan watched the street through the glass, chewing slowly like he was still evaluating the dough.
“I get it now,” he said eventually.
“Told you,” she said, mouth full. “Crack in cheese form.”
Then it happened.
The door opened with a burst of laughter, high voices, heels on tile. Barbara didn’t even look up at first—but Tristan did.
Kendall.
She walked in wearing black-on-black with a cropped jacket and sunglasses still on indoors. She had a friend on each side and that gait models carried like they owned the floor beneath them.
She didn’t see him immediately. But when she did, her lips parted slightly.
Barbara noticed too.
She shifted her weight subtly, and in one smooth motion, slid her arm around Tristan’s waist. Her chin lifted a little. Possession worn like perfume.
Tristan noticed—and loved it.
He bent down and kissed the top of her head. Kendall reached the counter, caught his eye again, and smiled.
Tristan lifted a hand in a small wave.
She waved back.
Tristan leaned in close, lips just below her right ear.
“Still my favorite runway girl,” He whispered.
.
Kendall hadn’t expected to see him here.
Not in this hole-in-the-wall pizza place in SoHo.
But maybe she should’ve. Barbara was leading the show this year, and Tristan Hale—whatever else he was—was devoted.
She noticed him before he noticed her. Just the flash of his profile. The curls. And then Barbara leaned in, slipped an arm around him like it was instinct.
Kendall didn’t stop walking. Didn’t say hi. Didn’t break stride or lift her glasses. She just smiled, nodded once when he saw her, and moved past like it wasn’t a thing.
Because it wasn’t.
She liked him.They’d had dinner. Laughed.
Still texted every once in a while.
But she wasn’t Barbara.And she didn’t want to be because some things weren’t meant to be complicated.
And this—whatever that was—was already written.
She would say hi to him and Barbara after that show. Those two clearly didn’t want to be bothered.
.
November 10, 2015
Backstage, Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show — 6:24 PM
The air buzzed with heat and nerves. Perfume clung to the curtains. Lights flickered, half-testing, half-flirting. You could hear stilettos echoing over the hardwood, laughter under tension, camera shutters popping like distant firecrackers.
Tristan stood near the velvet rope, just far enough from the chaos to breathe. Suit dark, collar sharp, hands tucked in his pockets. He wasn’t scheduled for anything. Just an invite. A name on the list. A boyfriend in the crowd.
And still, the cameras found him.
“Tristan! Tristan Hale, one second?”
He turned.
The reporter was already weaving through assistants and makeup artists. Mic in hand. Heels too high for this kind of carpet. Blonde, overdone, with a badge that read Jayde Harrington – EntertainmentNow! in a bubbly font that didn’t match the teeth behind it.
She smiled wide. “You clean up well. Not used to seeing you on red carpets.”
“Thanks,” Tristan said. “Not really a red carpet kind of guy.”
Jayde laughed like she was paid by the decibel. Then leaned in, just enough for the camera crew to follow.
“So, Tristan Hale. England’s golden boy. World’s most eligible twenty-year-old. Who are you most excited to see tonight?”
He didn’t blink. “My girlfriend.”
She gave a pause. “Barbara Palvin?”
“Always.”
Jayde’s smile twitched. “Sure, of course—but there’s a stacked lineup tonight. Selena’s performing. Gigi’s walking. A lot of temptation in the room. Nothing else catches your eye?”
He looked at her like she’d just asked if he planned on cheating mid-show.
Then calmly— “I’m here for Barbara.”
Jayde pressed on. “No offence, but there’s history here. People remember that whole thing with Selena—her fans, the tweets, everything. Doesn't it make things awkward for you?”
He didn’t answer at first. Just glanced past her—toward the hallway that led backstage. Where Barbara would be. Where she was already getting ready.
She was over that drama. He wasn’t about to dig it back up for a soundbite.
“I don’t know her,” Tristan said. “I wish her the best tonight.”
A pause.
Then, firmer— “I know Barbara.”
He gave a polite nod and walked away. No need to say more.
.
Backstage
Barbara sat at her mirror, wings off, robe still tied. Her fingers tapped against her thigh. Not nervous. Not really. Just… waiting.
Selena’s voice bled through the monitors—smooth, breathy, full of crowd-pleasing crescendos. The bass thumped low in the floor.
The girl can sing. But her mind was on being the best model she can be. This was important for her career.
Tristan was here. And she wasn’t giving him a half-assed walk.
In the Audience
Tristan sat near the front. Rows of photographers lined the pit below. Lights caught on his cheekbones every few seconds. Someone handed him a flute of champagne—he didn’t touch it.
Onstage, Selena strutted down the runway in sequins. Heels high. Smile flawless. Voice locked in.
He watched. Polite. Respectful. The crowd screamed when she spun into the chorus like it had been choreographed by the gods.
And still—
Nothing.
No spark. No click. No curiosity.
He just looked toward the wings. Where Barbara was next. Where the real show would begin.
.
The lights dimmed.
A slow bassline rolled through the air like thunder under silk. Fog curled at the edges of the stage. Camera shutters snapped in anticipation.
Then she stepped out.
Barbara.
Wings black and gold, feathered and light enough to float.
Tristan didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe for a second, if he was honest.
She walked like the runway was hers. Like it wasn’t a walk at all — just gravity bending politely out of her way. Every movement was fluid. Controlled. Just dangerous enough to feel like a dare.
And when she reached the end—
She turned.
That turn.
It wasn’t for the cameras. Not for the crowd. Not for anyone watching at home.
It was for him.
Her eyes swept the crowd once, landing right where he sat. She didn’t hold it long. Didn’t need to.
The crowd roared around him. Phones in the air. Applause like a small earthquake. But it all felt quiet to him as that show continued.
Backstage — 7:31 PM
The moment she was off the stage, Barbara exhaled sharp through her nose, like her ribs had been holding something hostage the entire time.
Assistants swarmed. Robe back on. Wings unstrapped. Heels handed off. Someone shoved a water bottle into her hand and reminded her to smile because there were still cameras back here, too.
She didn’t care.
She was already walking. Past hair. Past makeup. Past everyone who was still riding high off their walk.
Tristan was waiting near a side curtain, one hand in his pocket, the other holding onto nothing. Just standing there like the moment hadn’t already knocked him flat.
When Barbara reached him, she didn’t say anything.
She just walked straight into his chest and stayed there. Tristan kissed the top of her head once.
Then murmured, low against her ear— “That was unfair.”
Barbara pulled back slightly, eyes flicking up. “What?”
“I couldn’t even pay attention to the rest of the show.”
She laughed, soft but a little breathless. “That’s your fault.”
He didn’t say anything back. Just kissed her once — not too hard, not too soft — like he wasn’t in a rush to let go.
.
The city buzzed behind them. Paparazzi shouted from across the barricades, flashes bouncing off car doors and velvet rope. But the second they stepped into the SUV, the world faded again.
Barbara kicked off her heels immediately. Pulled the pins out of her hair.
Tristan helped. Quietly. Careful.
She leaned her head against the window with a tired smile.
“I did good,” she whispered.
He turned toward her. “You did amazing”
Barbara grinned, eyes still closed. “You better remember that.”
“I’m never forgetting it.”
She reached out and laced her fingers with his.
And the car rolled forward, headlights carving through the New York night.
.
Wow I’m just rereading this and wow does it feel like filler and not my writing. God do I need the damn break.
During that break I come back to this chapter and edit it and make it better.
