TEMPTATION IN DIOR
1238 Words
Zavian
He’d seen beautiful women. Hell, he’d represented them in court, hired them for campaigns, dismissed them after late-night drinks in velvet-lit bars.
But none of them had ever disarmed him like this.
Nylah Daniels.
She stepped into the centre of that boardroom like she owned every damn heartbeat in it. Her eyes met his—not for validation, not for approval—but with intention. A challenge. A dare.
And that was the problem.
Zavian didn’t like being challenged.
He didn’t like having his breath catch mid-chest, or having his control slip for a second too long. He didn’t like staring at a woman and forgetting what the hell he was supposed to be focusing on.
But watching her now—he couldn’t not look.
The camera loved her. Her face shifted with a precision that wasn’t trained—it was innate. One second soft, the next sultry, then icy, and then vulnerable—so quick he almost missed it.
But he didn’t miss anything.
And when she locked eyes with him?
Something low and dangerous curled in his stomach.
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t dare.
Because in that moment, something unspoken passed between them. Something sharp. Personal. Forbidden.
And he hated how much he wanted to slice it open and taste what was inside.
His assistant leaned toward him and whispered,
“She’s got the look.”
Zavian didn’t answer.
Because it wasn’t just the look.
It was the presence. The fire. The bite beneath her beauty.
She’d walked into his boardroom wearing heels, a smirk, and trauma wrapped in perfume—and instead of running the other way, like any smart man would, Zavian wanted to unwrap her piece by piece and see what made her burn.
He gritted his teeth and looked away.
He was not going to touch that.
He had rules. Discipline. A billion-rand empire to manage. Court cases that could make or break powerful lives. Campaigns to run. Staff to manage. Models to not sleep with.
He was not going to break that for a woman who looked at him like she already knew his demons.
He wasn’t here for drama. Or tension. Or the feeling currently tightening his throat.
But then—just when he thought he had his thoughts in a straight line—he heard her laugh.
It wasn’t directed at him. Someone had said something behind her. It was casual. Brief.
But it slipped through the cracks in his armour like a hot blade.
Zavian turned back, jaw clenched, eyes narrowing on her like she was a chess move he hadn’t accounted for.
He was going to need to make a decision. Fast.
And not just about her.
About himself.
Because if she got the campaign—and she should get the campaign—then he would have to see her. Every day. In fittings. On sets. Across long conference tables. In hallways. Possibly even in his dreams again.
Zavian Blake did not mix business with pleasure.
But maybe this wasn’t pleasure.
Maybe this was danger. With lipstick.
He watched her walk away when the shoot was done. Her hips moved like she didn’t owe gravity a damn thing.
His thoughts? Not safe.
His resolve? Already burning.
And just before she disappeared behind the doors, Nylah turned slightly and glanced over her shoulder at him—just once.
He didn’t flinch. But his pulse slammed.
Game on.
***
The door shut behind him with a soft click, sealing him back inside the fortress of glass, steel, and silence.
He stood for a long moment.
Not moving.
Not breathing.
Just thinking.
His hands braced against the edge of his obsidian desk, knuckles taut, as he stared blankly across his office at the skyline of Cape Town. From the 70th floor, the city looked tame—calm even. Like it could be tamed.
But the storm brewing in his chest? Uncharted.
Her voice still lingered in the room like a scent he couldn’t scrub off. That slight lift in her tone. The way she didn’t flinch when she saw him. The nerve of her to hold eye contact and smirk like he wasn’t the most powerful man in that building.
Nylah Daniels.
He’d almost said her name aloud. That would’ve made it real. Dangerous.
But then again… Danger had always been his shadow.
Zavian dropped into his chair. A slow, calculated move, but inside, every part of him was vibrating like a live wire. He loosened his tie with a single tug, leaned back, and drummed his fingers on the sleek desk.
What the hell was she doing here?
No—scratch that.
What the hell was she doing to him?
Because he shouldn’t still be thinking about the way she looked in that fitted black dress or how her lips curled when she didn’t smile. He shouldn’t be entertaining thoughts of what her laugh would sound like up close—without the noise of cameras and critics and snakes in stilettos.
And yet…
He reached for the intercom and pressed the button.
“Kieran,” he said, voice low, calm, decisive. “My office. Now.”
His assistant entered within minutes—young, eager, clipboard in hand, tailored to the teeth. Zavian didn’t bother to look up at first. He simply held out his hand.
“Portfolios,” he said.
Kieran blinked.
“The—?”
“All of them.”
There was a short silence. Then a shuffle of folders being passed into his hands. Zavian opened the first one with the same cold focus he used when reviewing murder case files or billion-rand merger contracts.
Face after face.
Look after look.
All… forgettable.
Until he got to hers.
There she was. Full colour. Staring back at him like she knew he’d come looking.
Zavian's thumb hovered over her name.
Nylah Daniels. 24. Local. Freelance. Degree in Communications. Former face for Luxe skincare. Catwalk trained. Special features: “unshakable presence.”
He snorted at that.
Unshakable presence? Please.
She was a bloody earthquake.
“Her,” he said finally, tapping her portfolio with one sharp finger.
“Sir?” Kieran looked up, brows twitching. “You mean Miss Daniels?”
“I don’t care who HR prefers second, third, or whatever quota they’re trying to tick off. She gets the campaign. That’s not a request. That’s a directive.”
“But sir—”
Zavian’s voice dipped, silken but steel.
“Is there confusion, Kieran?”
Malik swallowed.
“No, sir.”
“Good.”
Zavian flipped the page and saw her contact number.
For a split second, he considered it.
His hand hovered.
All he had to do was pick up the phone. Dial. Say something slick. Professional. Maybe ask her to come up to the 70th floor. One-on-one. Just to “discuss campaign logistics.”
Hell, he could make it sound business casual even if he was losing his damn mind inside.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he dropped her file, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes briefly—jaw clenched.
She’s a distraction.
She’s bad news.
She’s fire with a flammable past and a pair of eyes that read too deep.
Still, his mind whispered.
Call her.
Call her, and let the chaos begin.
But Zavian Blake didn’t do chaos.
He commanded it.
And for now—just for today—he’d let this desire simmer in its cage.
Barely.
- Writer
