AFTERSHOCKS
670 Words
The ride back to her apartment was silent, but it wasn’t empty. The car seemed too small, the air too charged, every flicker of passing streetlight cutting across Jubril’s profile like a spotlight.
Ciara sat with her hands folded tightly in her lap, staring out the tinted window. But her reflection betrayed her—flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes still dazed. She could still taste him, and it made her furious. Furious with him. Furious with herself.
When the car slowed to a stop outside her building, she reached for the handle too quickly. “Thank you for the ride.”
“Ciara.”
Her name in his voice was a tether. She froze, hand hovering over the door.
He leaned forward, resting one forearm on the back of the seat. “We should talk about what just happened.”
Her laugh came out sharp. “Talk? About what? About how you broke your own rule?”
His jaw tightened. “You kissed me back.”
She snapped her gaze to him. “Don’t twist this into something it wasn’t.”
But her voice faltered on the last word, and they both heard it.
For a long moment, he just looked at her. His eyes were too steady, too knowing, as if he could see through every wall she tried to rebuild. And then, without a word, he leaned back.
“Goodnight, Ciara.”
The way he said it made her chest ache.
She pushed the door open and fled into the night.
---
Upstairs in her apartment, she pressed her back to the door and shut her eyes. Her heart wouldn’t slow. Her lips still burned. And worst of all, she wanted more.
This was supposed to be simple. A deal. A performance.
But tonight had cracked the script wide open.
The morning came far too quickly. Ciara slipped into her office at the bank with her usual coffee in hand, but nothing about the day felt normal. Every sip tasted wrong. Every task blurred.
Because every time she blinked, she saw Jubril’s face under that lamppost. The heat of his mouth. The rough murmur against her lips: I’m tired of pretending.
Her assistant poked her head in. “Morning, Ms. Daniels. There’s a delivery for you.”
Ciara frowned. “Delivery?”
A sleek black box tied with silver ribbon landed on her desk. No card. No note. Just the faintest whiff of cedar and something darker. Something that was him.
She didn’t need the note. She knew.
Her pulse betrayed her, skipping like a record. She shoved the box aside and forced herself to focus on the stack of client reports in front of her. But it sat there, heavy, humming with unspoken meaning.
---
Across town, Jubril was no less distracted. His morning meetings blurred together, his usually flawless arguments slipping once, twice—enough for his junior associates to exchange wary glances.
When his father called, Jubril expected another tirade about the family legacy. Instead, the old man’s voice came clipped and purposeful:
“The Winter Gala is in three nights. Bring Ciara. And make sure she dazzles.”
Jubril’s grip on the phone tightened. The gala wasn’t just another appearance—it was a crucible. Media, business partners, the city’s elite. A single misstep, a single crack in their performance, and the alliance would collapse.
And all Jubril could think about was the way Ciara had kissed him back. Not like a contract. Not like a performance. But like a woman standing on the edge of something she couldn’t deny.
That was the problem. He couldn’t deny it either.
---
That night, Ciara finally opened the box. Inside lay a silk gown in midnight blue, its fabric liquid under her fingertips. Elegant. Daring. Perfect for the Winter Gala.
And beneath it, a handwritten note.
Wear this. For them. Or for me. Your choice.
Her heart lurched.
Because for the first time since this ridiculous arrangement began, she wasn’t sure which answer scared her more.
- Writer
