THE SLIP
401 Words
The rooftop charity auction was the kind of event Ciara used to avoid—glossy, ostentatious, crawling with people who could buy an entire street just to demolish it for a view.
But tonight, she wasn’t just attending. She was on display.
Jubril’s hand was a steady weight at the small of her back as they moved through the crowd. His touch was part of the performance, she reminded herself. Except lately, she wasn’t sure where the act ended.
“Remember,” he murmured as they approached a cluster of executives and socialites, “we’re here to look united.”
She glanced up at him, lips curling. “Oh, I’m the picture of unity.”
The first few conversations went smoothly—smiles, laughs, subtle glances that told onlookers they were a couple perfectly in sync. But then a woman in a red satin dress with far too much history in her gaze appeared at Jubril’s elbow.
“Jubril,” the woman purred. “It’s been ages.”
Ciara didn’t miss the way her manicured fingers lingered on his arm—or the deliberate way the woman’s eyes flicked to her as if to measure her competition.
Something sharp and territorial flared in Ciara’s chest before she could stop it.
She slid her arm around Jubril’s waist—not just resting it there, but pulling herself flush against him. Her other hand landed on his chest, fingers splayed like a silent claim.
“Hi,” she said to the woman, her tone sugary sweet. “I’m Ciara. His girlfriend.”
The woman’s smile faltered just enough to be satisfying. “Of course,” she murmured before excusing herself.
When she was gone, Jubril’s hand tightened at Ciara’s hip, his mouth lowering just enough for his breath to stir her hair. “That,” he said quietly, “was not in the rulebook.”
“Neither was her touching you,” Ciara replied without thinking.
Their eyes met, and the heat there made the rooftop air feel heavier. Around them, the city glittered, champagne flowed, and the music swelled—yet the only thing Ciara could focus on was the way Jubril was looking at her now.
Like the game had just changed.
They didn’t kiss. Not here. Not yet. But the weight of the almost-kiss hung between them all night, like a fuse burning slow and hot toward an inevitable explosion.
- Writer
