MEANWHILE, THE SNAKE COIL
1248 Words
Meanwhile: The Snakes Coil
Alicia was livid.
She stood behind the curtains, arms crossed so tight her fake nails dug into her palms. Jason leaned against the makeup counter beside her, chewing gum like it offended him.
“She’s flirting with him,” Alicia hissed.
“She’s modelling, babe.”
“Are you still in love with her? She’s undressing him with her eyes!”
Jason rolled his eyes.
“He doesn’t care about her. He’s just being polite. You’re the one who looks like a Vogue cover.”
Alicia wasn’t convinced.
“He hasn’t even looked at me all day.”
Jason shrugged.
“Then give him a reason to.”
Alicia’s brow arched.
“Like what?”
Jason gave her a wicked little smile.
“You remember Nylah’s old i********:? The one she deleted after you two stopped being friends?”
Alicia’s mouth parted.
“No.”
“Oh, yes. The one with her little videos. The one with that caption, ‘loyalty is overrated’.”
Alicia’s eyes narrowed.
“You think it’s still floating around?”
Jason pulled out his phone.
“Already checked. Screenshots live forever.”
Alicia leaned in, heart racing with twisted excitement.
“If she wants to play this game,” she said softly, “then let’s give the world a little reminder of who she really is.”
Jason grinned.
“Let the sabotage begin.”
.
The shoot had wrapped.
Nylah stood under the vanity lights, the lingering scent of hairspray and luxury perfume clinging to her skin. Her makeup was half wiped off, her gold cape now just a memory tossed over a chair, and her phone vibrated furiously in her handbag.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
She pulled it out, confused by the barrage of notifications.
Instagram tags. w******p messages. X pings. Even t****k?
Her stomach dipped.
Her pulse spiked.
She unlocked her screen—and her heart nearly stopped.
There it was.
A video.
An old one.
From a time she had buried. Before therapy, before healing, before she learned how to breathe without anger.
It was from her wild phase—late nights, loud music, cheap thrills and blurred morals. She had just broken up with Jason Alicia now claimed as her boyfriend. She was in a leather jacket, tipsy, saying words she didn’t even remember anymore.
Her voice slurred slightly in the clip,
“Loyalty? Loyalty’s overrated, babe. Everyone lies eventually.”
Her eyeliner was smudged. Her expression smug. And behind her? Two shirtless men laughing in the background.
The comments were already catching fire.
“Isn’t she the girl Zavian’s campaign is promoting?”
“This is the hotel’s new face? Yikes.”
“Professional? More like problematic.”
“I can’t unsee this.”
Nylah’s throat went dry.
Someone had saved this? Someone had posted this?
She blinked, as if trying to wake herself up—but the panic didn’t fade.
She paced outside the dressing room, calling her old friend Lelo.
“Did you see it?” she asked.
“Babe. The entire internet saw it.”
Nylah’s knees nearly buckled.
“Someone’s coming for you,” Lelo whispered. “This feels… strategic.”
She didn’t have to guess twice.
Alicia.
It was Alicia. No doubt.
And if Alicia posted this… Jason helped her.
She felt her hands tremble, but clenched them into fists.
She wasn’t going to break.
Not over a recycled version of herself she no longer knew. Not over two people who thrived off pain.
Not. This. Time.
Meanwhile The Vipers Celebrate,
Alicia tossed her hair and leaned into Jason’s side as they scrolled through the comment section together in the parking lot.
“Oh, would you look at that,” she said sweetly. “Public opinion is shifting.”
Jason snorted.
“It’s not just shifting. It’s collapsing. That little ‘queen’ moment of hers? Over.”
Alicia smiled like a cat full on cream.
“Think Zavian’s still so interested?”
Jason kissed her cheek lazily.
“Let’s see how fast he drops her now.”
They laughed.
But they didn’t know Zavian had already seen it—and that he was not the kind of man to be swayed by internet noise.
Or petty snakes.
***
The office was quiet.
Too quiet.
Zavian stood behind his glass desk, city lights burning through the window like dying stars. He hadn’t said a word in ten minutes. His assistant, Kieran, had dropped the phone on his desk like it was cursed—screen already loaded with that video.
Zavian had watched it once.
Then again.
Then one more time just to be sure.
He stared at the image of Nylah on screen. Smudged eyeliner. Slurred words. Laughter in the background. Chaos. Emotion. Heat. Anger. Realness.
She wasn’t a polished pearl in that video.
She was fire. Unfiltered.
Raw.
Flawed.
He exhaled deeply, leaning back in his chair.
“Sir?” Kieran finally broke the silence. “HR is asking whether to pull her from the campaign. This could… damage the hotel’s image. The board might—
Zavian held up one hand, palm firm.
“Tell HR to sit down and shut up.”
Kieran blinked.
Zavian rose slowly, his jaw sharp, his expression unreadable.
He didn’t care about the past. Hell, he was the past. His life was a string of scandal and sealed records. If people dug into his own history, they’d find headlines much darker than a drunk party clip.
But Nylah?
She wasn’t like the others.
She didn’t try to impress him.
She didn’t flinch under his gaze.
She didn’t chase.
And that video?
It didn’t threaten him.
It intrigued him.
She had demons. Maybe even darker than his. But it wasn’t the video that bothered him—it was that someone had planted it now. Purposefully. Someone wanted her out.
A rival?
No.
He knew snakes when he smelled them.
It had Alicia written all over it.
That girl had desperation in her perfume and fake kindness stitched into every word. Always smiling, always calculating.
He walked over to the bar cart and poured himself a glass of aged whisky, dark and smoky. One sip, and he stared out the window again, this time not at the city—but at his own reflection.
“She’s not your problem,” he muttered to himself.
But he didn’t believe it.
He could’ve walked away. Should have.
But when had Zavian Blake ever done what was right?
He reached for the tablet Kieran left behind. Her portfolio still sat on the screen.
Nylah Daniels. 24. Cape Town. Freelance Model.
That photo. The one where she wasn’t even trying to be sexy—she was just existing.
That was the problem. She existed too loudly in his mind.
Another sip of whisky.
Then he tapped the screen and told Kieran, “Tell HR the campaign doesn’t change. If anyone wants to question it, they can come to my office and grow a pair.”
Kieran hesitated, then nodded.
“And Miss Daniels?”
Zavian smirked.
“I want her in my office. Tomorrow. Alone. No cameras. No snakes. Just her.”
“And what should I tell her it’s about?”
Zavian’s voice dropped to a velvet murmur.
“Let’s just say… damage control.”
He turned away from Kieran before he saw the look on the poor man’s face. Because Zavian already knew—
Whatever came next wouldn’t be professional.
It would be personal.
And dangerously so.
- Writer
