Collisions
551 Words
It had been just three days since Amara started at Savage Mode, and her life already felt like a fashion show laced with emotional landmines.
Everyone admired her designs even Becca, who once ignored her, now watched her like a quiet storm. But with every compliment came whispers. Stares. Tension that clung to the walls like perfume.
People noticed Jason’s interest.
And that made her a target.
That afternoon, while carrying a rack of sample dresses down the marble hallway, Amara was lost in thought replaying the way Jason had looked at her that morning in the meeting room. It wasn’t just interest. It was… something deeper. Like he was fighting himself.
She didn’t see the woman coming.
They collided hard.
Dresses spilled. Fabric flew across the hallway like colorful feathers.
“Watch where you’re going!” the woman snapped, brushing imaginary dust from her designer jacket.
“I’m so sorry,” Amara began, crouching to pick up the pieces.
Her eyes traveled upward from a sharp jawline to piercing hazel eyes and sleek caramel-blonde hair.
Then her stomach dropped.
Jason was walking toward them.
The woman’s expression shifted. She turned with a fake smile. “Jason,” she said sweetly. “Tell your staff to be more careful.”
Jason’s steps slowed. His face changed. Cold. Controlled.
“Sophia,” he said with a sigh. “You didn’t have to be rude.”
Sophia. Of course. The fiancée.
And of course she was perfect long legs, tailored heels, flawless makeup. Every inch the trophy woman from a rich, polished world Amara didn’t belong to.
But what made it worse?
Sophia was looking at her like she knew exactly what Amara was hiding or trying to deny.
Jason turned to Amara. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she said quickly, forcing a smile as she knelt to pick up a silk gown.
Sophia’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, you know her name. How… professional.”
A pause.
Jason said nothing.
Instead, he crouched beside Amara and handed her the last dress. His fingers brushed hers and the spark was instant, alive, dangerous.
Sophia noticed.
“I’ll wait for you in your office,” she snapped, turning away. Her heels echoed with every step like a warning bell.
When she was gone, Jason remained still beside Amara.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said.
“She doesn’t like me.”
“She doesn’t know you,” he replied quietly. “And maybe that’s for the best.”
Amara met his eyes. “Then why do I feel like I already know you too well?”
Jason’s jaw tightened. Something flickered in his expression. Guilt? Desire? Regret?
Whatever it was, it passed quickly.
“Get some rest,” he said, standing up. “Tomorrow will be intense.”
And then he was gone.
Again.
That night, back in her tiny flat in Shoreditch, Amara lay awake on her narrow mattress, staring at the cracked ceiling.
She had told herself not to feel this way.
Not to fall.
But how could she stop something that felt so real?
She remembered her mother’s voice back in Lagos:
“Don’t let the world take your heart before you’re ready to give it.”
Amara closed her eyes.
Too late.
Her heart was already gone.
- Writer
