PLAYING THE PART
536 Words
The Whitmore Hotel’s ballroom glittered with gold filigree, crystal chandeliers, and the hum of Manhattan’s upper crust. Ciara’s heels clicked softly against the marble as Jubril led her toward the center of the room.
Every head turned. Conversations paused.
She felt the heat of a dozen appraising stares sliding over her borrowed gown, her perfectly coiffed hair, the way her hand rested on Jubril’s arm as though it belonged there.
The plan was simple—smile, charm, let the tabloids eat it up. But simplicity was a lie. The moment Jubril’s hand settled over hers, grounding and deliberate, the script blurred.
“Relax,” he murmured without breaking stride.
“I am relaxed,” she said through a tight smile.
“You’re holding the wine glass like it’s a weapon.”
“I’m holding it like insurance.”
His lips curved just slightly, and she hated—hated—the way that tiny smile warmed her from the inside out.
They were stopped by a pair of well-dressed women in diamond chokers who clearly had nothing better to do than dissect Ciara with their eyes.
“Jubril,” one of them cooed, her tone rich with curiosity. “And who is this?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Ciara Daniels. My girlfriend.”
The word slid into the air like honey over silk. He said it without irony, without a hint of the contractual nature of their arrangement. And he looked at her as though it were true.
Ciara summoned the kind of smile she’d used in board meetings when a client underestimated her. “It’s lovely to meet you,” she said, her voice smooth but her pulse a riot beneath the surface.
The women exchanged knowing glances before drifting away, whispers trailing behind them like perfume.
Jubril guided her toward the champagne tower. “You handled that well,” he said quietly.
“I’ve been dealing with nosy people my whole life,” she replied. “You just gave them more fuel.”
“That’s the point,” he said, pouring her a glass. “The more convincing we are, the sooner our families leave us alone.”
She took the glass but didn’t drink, watching him as he scanned the room like a man who owned it. It wasn’t the dominance that unnerved her—it was the way he made her feel like she belonged here, in this glittering, ruthless world.
And that was dangerous.
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Later in the evening, during a slow waltz that neither had planned for, Jubril’s hand settled at the small of her back, firm and certain. Ciara’s instinct was to keep the required distance, but the music—and the heat of him—pulled her closer.
“You’re a better dancer than I expected,” she said, if only to distract herself from the fact that she could feel the steady beat of his heart against her.
“I’m good at anything I decide to master,” he said. “Right now, that’s making this look real.”
She almost laughed—almost—until his thumb traced the curve of her waist, and suddenly the line between acting and feeling wasn’t just blurred.
It was gone.
- Writer
