DISTRACTION IN DIOR
1769 Words
The thick mahogany doors opened with a soft groan.
Zavian Blake stepped into the boardroom like a man who already owned the room—and everyone in it knew it. Conversations halted. Postures straightened. A few models practically threw their necks out trying to appear taller, poutier, shinier. The room adjusted to him, like gravity responding to its sun.
But Zavian wasn’t paying attention to any of them.
Because his eyes—
His predator-sharp, courtroom-trained, detail-devouring eyes—
Locked onto her.
Nylah.
Sitting dead centre of the room in a black silk blouse tucked into high-waisted pants, her long legs crossed, her face stoic—but her eyes… distant. Detached.
He stopped.
Actually stopped walking. One foot slightly ahead of the other, body frozen mid-stride.
What the actual hell?
It took everything in him not to mutter a curse.
His jaw ticked. She hadn’t noticed him yet. She was looking at the marketing rep at the front, tuning out the whispering from the other girls across the room—one of whom he vaguely recognised from a previous campaign. Brittany or Bridget? Whatever. Didn’t matter.
What mattered was the invisible slap he just received, seeing Nylah there—his distraction—now sitting in his boardroom, about to audition to be the face of his multimillion-rand hotel empire.
What kind of twisted-ass coincidence was this?
A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Fate had jokes. Bitter, dark, expensive jokes.
She turned then.
Eyes lifted, sweeping the room lazily, then paused. Her body stiffened. Her gaze locked on him. Blinked once.
Twice.
Then narrowed—just enough to say: Oh, it’s you. f**k my life.
And just like that, he knew she hadn’t expected him either.
The surprise in her expression—quickly masked—was too sharp to miss. But Zavian had built billion-rand companies by reading people before they read him. And Nylah was still the same woman who had pretended she wasn’t curious about him over grilled calamari the night before.
Only now?
She looked like a snack and a threat.
His voice broke the silence like warm whiskey poured over ice.
“Well,” he said dryly, “this is an unexpected pleasure.” Not caring about the people around.
The girls nearest to him giggled. One of them, the plastic-looking one in a too-tight maroon dress, licked her teeth and leaned forward like an i********: tutorial on thirst.
Nylah didn’t blink.
She just gave him a tight smile.
“I see you’re haunting my career path now too.” Nylah also did not feel ashamed to reply.
Zavian’s brow twitched with amusement. Oh, she was still spicy.
“No haunting,” he replied smoothly. “I own the place. It’s a very different dynamic.”
More giggles.
But his gaze never left hers. And Nylah? She didn’t flinch. Her legs uncrossed and re-crossed in the most infuriatingly distracting movement he’d seen all week.
Focus, he told himself.
She’s a model. This is business. You’re a professional. You have court cases, oil barons, politicians with mistresses to cover up. You don’t have time for—
His brain shut off the moment she raised an eyebrow.
“Should I be flattered or fired?” she asked, eyes sharp as glass.
He tilted his head, one hand sliding casually into his pocket.
“Depends,” he said. “Are you here to model or to cause another week of insomnia?”
Gasps. Murmurs. The other models exchanged glances like they’d just been booted from a dating show.
Nylah’s lips twitched—something between a smile and a warning.
But she didn’t respond.
Didn’t need to.
The tension between them was already crackling like power lines in a storm.
Zavian forced himself to look away. To turn toward his marketing director, who had started sweating profusely somewhere around the “week of insomnia” comment.
“Proceed,” he ordered simply, voice crisp, cool, efficient.
But his mind?
His mind was in flames.
Because Nylah Jacobs—complicated, jaded, off-limits Nylah—was about to parade through his world.
And Zavian suddenly wasn’t sure if he wanted her to walk away untouched…
…or burn it all down with him.
***
Of course he had to be the one walking through the damn doors like a Calvin Klein ad dipped in sin.
Zavian Blake.
Her blind date.
Her accidental almost-obsession.
Her boss?
Nylah blinked twice, hoping it was a hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation and the recycled air of luxury boardrooms, but no—there he stood in tailored black-on-black, looking like wealth and wicked intentions.
Of all the overpriced hotels in Cape Town, this one had to be his.
Her stomach did a traitorous flip. Not the butterflies kind—no, this was more like a rollercoaster straight to hell. Why the hell didn’t he mention he owned the damn hotel?
And why did her face suddenly feel like it was on fire?
She swallowed, rolled her shoulders back, crossed her legs again with extra precision, and told herself to channel the version of her who didn’t give a single f**k.
She gave him a polite smile, the kind she reserved for annoying exes and creepy photographers.
But of course, he opened his mouth.
“Well… this is an unexpected pleasure.”
Don’t roll your eyes. Don’t roll your eyes—okay, just a little.
She fought the smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth and shot back,
“I see you’re haunting my career path now too.”
The other girls giggled. Nylah didn’t look at them. Snakes in heels, the lot of them. Especially Alicia, who sat just three chairs over, straightening her spine and flashing her bleached teeth like this was some damn reality show and the final rose depended on it.
Nylah didn’t even have to look to know Alicia was burning with jealousy. She could smell it. Like scorched plastic and desperation.
“Depends,” Zavian murmured, “Are you here to model or to cause another week of insomnia?”
And that did it.
The entire room exhaled in one dramatic gasp.
Nylah stayed stone-faced, even though her body was now hosting a full-blown civil war: her brain screamed Danger, her gut whispered Run, and her skin? Her traitorous skin warmed at the memory of Zavian’s voice from last night.
She didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. The less attention she gave him, the more power she kept. This wasn’t about him. This was her gig.
This was supposed to be her comeback.
Still, she felt Alicia’s stare like a knife trying to slice through her spine.
Alicia… She could barely breathe through the rage.
What. The actual. Hell.
Zavian had never said more than three words to her in the entire six months she’d been eye-f*****g him from across the reception area when she visits her boyfriend Jason. She’d worn the tightest skirts. Pouted in every elevator mirror. Lingered at his hotel to be seen by him.
Nothing. Zavian hardly even spent his time at the hotel.
And now Nylah—Nylah of all people—was chatting him up like they were old lovers in a French film?
Her hand gripped her phone so hard she swore she cracked the case.
She needed answers. How did they know each other? When? Why was he looking at her like that?
And more importantly—how the hell was she going to destroy Nylah this time?
Because make no mistake, she would.
***
The room was buzzing. The models were told to line up, one by one, and approach the camera for individual test shots. They were being evaluated on poise, brand synergy, “presence”—whatever the hell that meant—and their ability to hold eye contact like they were seducing a five-star general into booking a penthouse.
Nylah stood last in line. Of course. Always the final girl in a horror film of pretty women and fake smiles.
One by one, the models strutted forward. Alicia went two spots before Nylah, hips swinging like she had a mission.
As she stepped up, she turned her head—fake surprise on her lips—and called out:
“Oh Nylah, babe, do try not to trip in those. They’re a bit above your usual budget, aren’t they?”
The room laughed.
Nylah smiled sweetly.
“Aw, thanks Alicia. I’d compliment your walk but… you’re trying too hard. Again.”
More gasps. Alicia’s smile cracked like an old plate.
And then, finally—it was her turn.
Nylah stepped in front of the camera.
Shoulders up. Chin tilted. Expression poised somewhere between sultry confidence and don’t test me.
She looked to the left.
Right.
And then—**right into Zavian’s eyes**.
He was standing in the back of the room now, arms folded, jaw tight, unreadable.
Their eyes locked.
Something silent passed between them. Heavy. Unspoken.
And just like that, she knew: he was watching her differently.
Not like a potential employee.
Like a threat to his self-control.
***
Later that Evening — Alicia & Jason
The hotel foyer smelled of luxury and hand sanitizer. Jason stood near the fountain, his blazer slung over his arm, checking his reflection in the marble column.
“Hey, babe,” Alicia purred, strutting toward him like she was born to walk in stilettos and lies.
Jason smiled and leaned down to kiss her cheek.
“Hey, how was the gig?”
She sighed dramatically and looped her arm through his.
“Fine. But… you’ll never guess what happened earlier.”
Jason raised a brow.
“What?”
“Nylah.”
His smile dropped.
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish,” Alicia said, twirling a strand of hair. “She’s trying to be all… sophisticated now. But you can totally tell she has a thing for Zavian.”
Jason scoffed.
“Zavian? My big boss Zavian?”
Alicia nodded, eyes gleaming with mischief.
“Yeah. I overheard them flirting. It was kinda gross. She’s clearly chasing his money now.”
Jason frowned, jealousy tightening his jaw.
“She always thought she was too good for me.”
Alicia leaned in.
“Well, she’s not too good for Zavian’s rejection. He barely looked her way after the audition. She probably won’t get the gig.”
Jason smirked.
“Good. She doesn’t deserve it.”
The two of them walked off together, smug and shallow—completely unaware that they were no longer the main characters in Nylah’s story.
She was about to rise—and they were about to fall hard.
- Writer
