I'm Not Supposed To Love You

After months of sleepless nights, all checklists were ticked. The ballroom inside Westford Hotel glittered like a dream. Crystal chandeliers that hang from the ceiling casted beams across the marble floor–and soulful rhythms of jazz created a calm groove. In fact, every corner of the ballroom was a beauty to behold. The smell of fresh rose and champagne blended together, giving a perfume of luxury. Outside the ballroom laid a radiant long red carpet, and the venue was surrounded by excited reporters. Aima Deville spotted her reflection in the mirrored door: sleek black dress revealing her small curves–her hair tied into a knot that wouldn't dare loosen–a headset tucked against her ear with clipboard in hand. The final hour before any event was always the most fragile–a moment before success or disaster, and she had learned to thrive in that. The ongoing feast wasn't just any event. It was a charity function with one of New York's richest and most popular companies: the Graham Group as special guest. The gist was, if Crown Events pulled this off, they could secure the exclusive contract for the upcoming charity event by the Graham Group–an extremely desirable opportunity. Aima's boss, Jane Cobbs, had made the stakes clear to her prior to the event: “We won't just impress them, we will cause them to remember our name–even if they pretend not to. We are winning this contract hands down.” The irony wasn't lost to her. The people Aima had worked and created beauty for, never regarded her as their equal. And that was fine. Her entire career as a senior event planner, was built on the satisfaction of being unnoticed. In the end, her ultimate goal was to make beauty look effortless. And that was her focus. “Aima,” came Jane's voice through the headset. “There's no wine on table twelve. Get it sorted.” “Already on it,” Aria murmured into the mic, while moving through gowns and tuxedos of arriving guests like a ghost among gods. She stopped over at table twelve, gestured subtly at the wine waiter and at the same time, adjusted a wine glass that sat out of line. The smallest details matter a lot, her late mother used to say, while clipping stems at her flower shop, with rough hands from years of work. The reminiscence of her mother's voice still echoed in her memory: we make beauty for others to feel alive. Even if they never see us doing it. Aima turned to find Jane walking towards her in her signature red heels. “You did it again Aima.” She remarked, surveying the ballroom with a small approving smile. “It's flawless.” Aima gave a faint smile, “almost.” And Jane's face straightened. “You'll never allow yourself to enjoy your victories, will you?” “There is always another detail to fix.” Jane swallowed a sigh, “finish strong tonight.” She said, walking off. The night pressed on with a sequence of music harmonies, murmured conversations, champagne bubbling and servers parading with trays. The event had already commenced in full swing, with ongoing whispered coordination through headsets. Gathered at the center stage of the ballroom was a group of executives–the table of big men, their laughter louder than the rest. Seated amongst them was a man in a tailored black tuxedo with full beard neatly trimmed and oiled, hair well-groomed and intentionally styled, posture effortlessly controlled. His smile–three seconds long. A face Aima had seen and admired in publications–Carl Graham. He was the billionaire CEO of the Graham Group. Charming to the press, terrifying to his staff. He carried a presence that pulled attention without asking for it. And even from a distance, Aima could feel the magnetism he carried. His stare across the ballroom was cunning, assessing, and observant. Instantly, he caught a gaze with Aima. She felt her heart beat strongly, but still stayed in composure. Refusing to be intimidated–just aware. Seated at his right side was his father, Egbert Graham, chair of the Graham Group. A man with great charisma, silver-haired, round-shaped glasses, looking poised in his black suit. He moved his head to the rhythm that was being played. Aima kept on admiring the scene. And for a moment, she wondered what it might feel like to live in such an elite world. Her phone suddenly buzzed, distracting her thoughts. “How's the occasion?” came Tilly, her sister's text. She replied with a thumbs-up emoji, “Still standing, for now.” “Have you had any food yet?” Aima stood for a while, attempting to remember if she had. “Umm…does coffee count?” “No. Go get a real meal, flower girl.” Aima smiled softly. In the middle of her smile, a low voice spoke near her shoulder. “Impressive,” it said. She turned and met eye to eye with Carl Graham himself. She froze. Her heart skipped a beat. Up close, he appeared taller than she expected, with pink lips and grey eyes, almost too perfect. “Mr Graham,” she mentioned, keeping her tone professional. “I hope the evening meets your expectations.” He glanced around the glittering scene, with a glass of wine in hand. “It exceeds them. It's…excellent.” She hopped with excitement in her mind. “Thank you,” she said with a wide smile. “That's my job” His eyes returned to her, and a slight trace of amusement appeared on his face. “You do it so well. You create beauty like magic.” Aima paused for a moment, feeling hesitant. Compliments from men like him were sugar-coated in her opinion. “That's what I'm paid for.” She eventually replied. “You seem…detached. Like someone watching her own creation from behind.” That observation sounded overly personal. Aima straightened–shielding behind professionalism. “My work demands just discipline Mr Graham, nothing more.” For a minute, silence descended. He examined her a moment longer, then nodded slightly, “I see. Well, discipline also built my empire. What's the name?” “Aima,” she said with a pause–“Deville.” “Aima Deville” he repeated it like he was trying it on his tongue. “I'll remember that.” He turned and walked away graciously. Aima exhaled slowly, adjusting a centrepiece that didn't even need adjustment. “Don't let him get under your skin.” She murmured to herself. For the first time, someone had really looked at her. Not just anyone, but the youngest billionaire of New York City. That contract she was eyeing was certainly in the pipeline. However, something felt different. Aima remained still for a moment, echoes of his voice still playing in her head–you seem detached. Her cheeks turned red. But that was her only way of surviving in rooms like this–full of people who measured worth by power, wealth, and pedigree.