The Fire Between Us
623 Words
The next morning, Savage Mode was alive with tension.
The new collection was nearing its first major preview, and chaos buzzed through the design floor. Models rehearsed, stylists argued, and interns rushed like they were being chased. Stress hung in the air like expensive perfume.
Amara kept her head down, working faster than ever. She pinned, stitched, and adjusted with quiet precision. But beneath her calm, her thoughts were a storm.
Jason’s face, his voice, his nearness they haunted her like a song stuck in her head.
But even more than that, she could feel the whispers now. People were watching her.
Judging her.
“Rumor has it,” Becca muttered just loud enough as she passed, “the boss has a thing for African spice.”
Amara froze, needle paused in her hand.
She wanted to turn, to respond, to remind Becca who she was a woman from Lagos who didn’t need anyone’s approval to breathe. But she didn’t.
She exhaled slowly, ignoring the comment and returning to her sketch like it meant nothing.
But it did mean something.
The gossip was spreading. And soon it wouldn’t just be whispers.
Later that afternoon, Claire approached her with a clipboard.
“Jason wants to see you. Top floor. Now.”
Amara blinked. “Me?”
Claire gave a small nod. “Just you.”
The ride to the top floor felt like climbing into a different world. The elevator doors opened into silence and marble and glass. Jason’s office was more like an art gallery than a workspace spotless, modern, and far too intimidating.
He stood by the tall window overlooking London, back turned.
“Come in,” he said without looking.
Amara stepped inside, heart pounding against her ribs.
He finally turned. His eyes, intense as ever, locked onto hers.
“I’ve reviewed your designs,” he said, tapping a file on his desk. “You have something… raw. Unfiltered. Bold.”
“Thank you,” she said carefully.
“I want you on the preview team,” he continued. “You’ll be working directly under me. Late nights. High pressure.”
Her stomach flipped. “Are you sure?”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “I don’t make suggestions, Amara. I make decisions.”
He moved from behind the desk, closing the distance between them.
The room felt smaller. The air heavier.
“Unless,” he said softly, “you’re uncomfortable working that closely with me.”
Amara didn’t flinch. “I can handle it.”
Jason’s eyes searched hers. For something. Doubt? Hesitation?
Whatever it was, he didn’t find it.
“Good,” he said. “You start tonight.”
And just like that, the line between personal and professional blurred even more.
That night, the office was nearly empty when they worked side by side. Papers scattered. Mood boards on the wall. Fabric samples everywhere. Coffee on the table. Music low in the background.
For hours, they barely spoke. But the silence between them was louder than any words.
At one point, Jason leaned over her shoulder, studying a neckline she’d drawn. His voice brushed against her skin.
“This,” he murmured, “is bold… but elegant. That’s what makes it dangerous.”
Amara turned slightly, and their faces were inches apart.
Her breath caught. So did his.
They didn’t speak. Didn’t move. But electricity crackled in the space between them unsaid words, unspoken desires, forbidden tension.
Jason’s eyes fell to her lips for just a second. Then he pulled back.
“This can’t happen,” he said, his voice raw.
Amara looked down, then back up. “I know.”
But even as they went back to work, neither of them could escape the truth:
It already had.
- Writer
