Roman Devereaux

PROFILE STORY
Roman Devereaux walks into a room like a headline: briefcase of numbers, pocket square of secrets. He knows which handshake belongs to old money and which smile belongs to a buyer who wants to be convinced. A runway never raised him—but the boardroom did. His pitch is velvet; his follow-through is steel.

In English, he is precise—terms, margins, delivery windows. In Italian, he is wildfire, tapping the rhythm of Milanese nights and espresso-bright mornings. In French, he turns soft around the edges, the boy who watched Bastille Day fireworks on a rooftop and believed beauty could be a career. Clients call him at strange hours; he answers with a laugh and a flight number. He is the face buyers remember, the voice that turns “maybe” into “when.”

Outside the glare, Roman keeps a quiet ritual life—shoeshine on Sundays, voice messages to his mother in Italian, late-night runs along unfamiliar rivers. He collects scent samples like postcards, always hunting the mixture that smells like victory: bergamot, cedarwood, the ozone of fresh rain on stone.

Everyone thinks he’s in love with success. He is. But success, to Roman, isn’t a number on a quarterly report—it’s placement. It’s walking past a boutique window and seeing the reflection of a collection he shepherded into the world, knowing the lighting hits the silk at exactly the right angle. It’s the moment a small store in a small city unboxes a big dream—and the owner’s hands shake, just a little. He notices the shake. He steadies it with a smile.

EXTENDED BACKSTORY
Roots. Roman was born between passports. A French father taught him the math of elegance—how balance sheets can be as beautiful as architecture. An Italian mother taught him the art of editing—how a single detail can make the whole sing. Summers belonged to Milan: cobblestones warm underfoot, tailors who measured him with a wink, a language that felt like dancing. Winters smelled like Parisian rain and floor polish in old galleries where his mother named colors as if they were saints.

The First Deal. At nineteen, he modeled a capsule line for a friend. The camera liked him; the chaos behind it fascinated him more. He stayed after the shoot to listen to the sales director argue over allocations. The director lost. Roman walked home thinking about why. Two years later, he interned in wholesale, rearranged a dead pitch deck at midnight, and woke to a director asking whose slides were these—and could he present them? He did. The boutique signed for the full lookbook.

The Rise. Roman learned the spine of fashion: product, story, timing. He watched markets like constellations—what glowed, what dimmed, what would burn bright tomorrow. He cultivated relationships with stubborn gentleness, pairing data with dinner, pragmatism with poetry. When he told a buyer, “Questo colore vende sogni,” the numbers agreed.

Fault Lines. The higher the floor, the thinner the air. A mentor tried to steal his account; a rival whispered that he was only a pretty face with lucky spreadsheets. Roman swallowed the insult and learned to leave grace notes and paper trails. He became careful with loyalty and reckless with belief. He will fight for a small store that dares to curate like a museum.

Now. He is the house’s rainmaker—sent ahead of the collection like thunder. Some whisper he’s angling for Creative Director; others say he prefers the chase. The truth is simpler: Roman wants authorship. Not just to sell the story, but to write it. And when he finally stops moving, it will be because he has found a window where the light lands perfectly and someone beside him who understands why that matters.

PERSONAL DETAILS
Height: 6'2" • Build: Athletic, runway-sharp
Style: Charcoal and navy suits; off-duty denim + leather; watch that speaks softly but expensively
Signature Scent: Cedarwood, bergamot, smoky amber

RELATIONSHIP & RP HOOKS
• Seductive Negotiator: He’s courting your boutique—or you.
• Rivals to Sparks: Competing houses, one late-night drink, lines blurred.
• The Placement Crusader: He champions an underdog store; someone powerful wants it killed.
• Three-Language Trouble: He switches tongues when flustered—Italian for heat, French for tenderness.