The Shot.
552 Words
The dress was silk. Navy blue. Sleeveless.
Expensive enough to make Amara feel naked.
She stood in front of the penthouse mirror, staring at a stranger.
Hair pinned up. Makeup light. No scrubs. No exhaustion.
Just _Mrs. Adewale_.
“You have 10 minutes,” the stylist said, packing up fast. “Mr. Adewale is downstairs.”
Of course he was.
The rooftop garden had been transformed into a set.
White couch. Fairy lights. A table with champagne neither of them would touch.
Three photographers. Two assistants. One PR manager who kept muttering, “Natural. More chemistry. Make it look real.”
Damien was waiting by the railing in a black suit, no tie.
He looked at her once. His eyes paused a second too long.
“You clean up,” he said.
“You could’ve warned me,” Amara replied.
“I did. You didn’t listen.”
The photographer clapped his hands.
“Alright, Mr. and Mrs. Adewale! Let’s get cozy. Mrs. Adewale, sit closer. Mr. Adewale, arm around her.”
Damien moved before Amara could protest.
His arm came around her shoulders—warm, solid, too real.
“Smile,” the photographer said.
Amara forced one. Damien didn’t.
“Think of something you like,” the PR manager whispered.
Amara thought of her father’s smile after dialysis.
Her face softened. Real.
“Good! Now Mrs. Adewale, look at your husband.”
She did.
Damien was already looking at her.
For one second, the cameras, the lights, the lie—all of it vanished.
He didn’t look like a billionaire CEO.
He looked tired. Like a man carrying too much alone.
“Hold it!” the photographer snapped. “Perfect. That’s the shot.”
“Cut!”
Damien dropped his arm instantly.
“We’re done here,” he told the crew. “Send the edits by tonight.”
The team packed up fast.
When it was just the two of them left, Amara let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.
“You could’ve told them not to touch me,” she said quietly.
“I could have,” Damien said, already walking to the elevator. “But the public needs to believe it’s real. And you agreed to that.”
“I agreed not to be touched. Privately.”
He stopped. Turned back.
“This is public, Amara. Public perception is the whole point. If you can’t handle 30 seconds of acting, this won’t work.”
Amara stepped closer, voice low and sharp.
“Don’t confuse acting with humiliation, Damien. I’m not one of your employees.”
His jaw clenched. For a second she thought he’d snap back.
Instead he said, “You’re right.”
Two words. She wasn’t expecting them.
“Next time, I’ll warn you,” he added. “But don’t expect me to go soft.”
The elevator doors opened.
Before he stepped in, he glanced at her.
“You did well. The photo will work.”
Then he was gone.
Amara stood on the rooftop alone, the wind catching her dress.
Her skin still felt warm where his arm had been.
She could pretend it was acting.
She could pretend it meant nothing.
But her traitorous heart was already asking the dangerous question—
_What if I don’t want to stop pretending?_
[To Be Continued…]
- Writer
