THE MODEL BEHAVIOUR
1688 Words
The hot water pelted against Nylah’s shoulders as she stood in the shower, arms braced against the tiled wall, eyes shut tight. She told herself she was just waking up her skin.
But she was preparing for war.
She knew today would demand more than good cheekbones and a confident walk. She had to wear her composure like a second skin. A mask. A weapon.
Modelling at The BLAKE ROYAL HOTEL wasn’t just another gig. It was the gig—the kind that looked great on portfolios and even better in whispers. A hush-hush campaign where the models weren’t just mannequins—they were brand seduction. Walking, smiling luxury. She’d be styled as a hostess, a timeless beauty behind concierge desks and champagne carts. The kind of woman who made foreign presidents decide to book an entire floor.
The pay? Ridiculous.
The exposure? Even better.
The catch?
Jason Smith worked there.
And unfortunately for her, the universe had a petty sense of humour.
She was already dressed when she sat down to do her makeup—black wide-leg trousers, sleek white blouse tucked in, a gold buckle belt hugging her waist. Not quite runway. Not quite business. But jaw-dropping enough to make someone regret ever replacing her.
Her hair was flat-ironed, centre-parted, clean and straight like it never had a messy past.
By the time she arrived at The Blake Royal Hotel—its marble steps gleaming like they were polished with champagne—her stomach was a tight knot of nerves disguised as confidence.
She stepped inside.
And there he was.
Jason.
Smirking behind the front desk in his little charcoal suit like he didn’t ruin lives for a hobby.
He clocked her instantly. Of course he did. He was the kind of man who noticed himself reflected in every surface, so when someone as unforgettable as Nylah walked in, his ego snapped to attention.
“Well, well,” Jason drawled, leaning forward on the desk, arms folded like he had a right to look amused. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”
Nylah didn’t blink.
“Trust me, the feeling’s mutual.”
He grinned wider. That arrogant, smug twist of his lips that once made her knees weak and now made her fantasise about throwing him into a fish pond.
“Still modelling, huh?” he asked, scanning her from head to toe with that fake-casual air. “That’s cute. You always did have the face.”
She tilted her head, biting back a smirk.
“And you always had the charm of a wet sock, Jason. Nice to know some things haven’t changed.”
That wiped the smile off his face. Briefly. But Jason, narcissist that he was, never stayed down long.
He straightened and waved a dismissive hand.
“Well, you’ll be happy to know I’m doing great. Promotions are happening soon. And Alicia and I—remember her? Your best friend—we’re still going strong. Took her to Mauritius last month.”
That hit her like a cold slap, but she didn’t flinch.
Instead, she smiled sweetly.
“Good for you. Hope you remembered to pack the emotional maturity you didn’t have when you were screwing her behind my back.”
He blinked. Stammered.
But Nylah was already walking past him, her heels clicking against the marble floor like a victory march.
Let him stew in it.
***
The boardroom was on the eleventh floor—private, quiet, and stiflingly modern. Models milled around inside, all glossy and perfect and fake-smiling through layers of competitive energy.
Nylah stepped in, shoulders back, chin high.
And then—like the universe hadn’t tortured her enough—Alicia turned around.
Of course she was here.
Of course.
The traitor wore a tight off-shoulder black midi dress that screamed “book me or regret it,” her hair in effortless waves, skin glowing like she drank gold for breakfast.
Her smile widened the moment she saw Nylah. Venom in gloss form.
She leaned over to one of the models and said something.
They all turned.
Laughed.
A slow, rehearsed chorus of cruelty.
Nylah stood in the doorway, every nerve ending on fire.
But her face?
Unbothered. A statue. A queen.
She walked past them like their opinions came with price tags she couldn’t afford to care about, and sat in an empty chair near the window.
Back straight. Eyes forward. One hand curled loosely around her purse like she wasn’t seconds away from throwing it at someone’s head.
Alicia called out sweetly, loud enough for the whole room to hear:
“Didn’t think you’d be here, Nylah. I thought this campaign wanted reliable faces.”
Nylah smiled without looking back.
“And yet here you are, Alicia. Proving once again that loyalty has no place in your resume.”
A few girls choked on their giggles. Alicia scowled, but Nylah didn’t give her the oxygen of a second glance.
She pulled out her phone and opened her emails just to have something to stare at, heart pounding, breath steady, mouth dry.
Then she paused.
One email stood out.
From: The Blake Royal Executive Office
Subject: Final Selection to Be Attended By Hotel Owner – Mr. Zavian Blake
Her breath stopped.
What the hell…
Zavian owns the hotel? Like, the one I met yesterday? The one I was on a date with?
And he’d be there?
Today?
Suddenly, the war she thought she came prepared for… just escalated.
***
Absolutely. Here's Chapter Four, told from Zavian’s point of view, set inside his ultra-luxurious world—rich with power, sarcasm, dark humour, and a swirl of frustration over the woman who's unexpectedly gotten under his skin. His thoughts, surroundings, and dialogue are woven into the sharp, billionaire-paced rhythm of his day.
***
From the seventieth-story glass cage he called an office, Zavian Blake stared down at the city like he owned it.
Because he did.
Cape Town pulsed beneath him—steel, stone, and seduction laid out like a living chessboard. His gaze landed on a familiar spot, down near the corner of Bree and Loop. The restaurant. That damn restaurant.
Where it all started.
Where one blind date—meant to be nothing more than a polite “thank you” to a pair of meddling, desperate parents—had turned into a week’s worth of distraction.
He hadn’t wanted to see her again.
He hadn’t meant to want anything from her at all.
And yet here he was, arms folded over his chest, ignoring a mountain of contracts and upcoming trial notes, thinking about Nylah like a man who didn’t have empires to run.
Zavian’s jaw flexed.
She was... different.
Most women in his world came armed with flirtation, greed, and Google search history about his net worth. But Nylah had looked him dead in the eye, called him out on his bullshit, and walked away like she hadn’t just upended something cold and coiled inside him.
She didn’t flirt. She didn’t beg. She didn’t care.
That, in itself, was rare.
But what haunted him was the feeling. The tug. Like she was a riddle he hadn’t solved. And Zavian Blake hated unsolved things.
He dragged a hand through his perfectly combed dark hair and exhaled sharply.
“Useless,” he muttered to the glass. “You're losing your edge over a woman who probably listens to sad playlists in the shower.”
And he didn’t even get her damn number.
Because you didn’t want it, he reminded himself. You sat through dinner out of pity for her mother, not because you gave a damn about her.
Right?
Right.
Still... the image of her—those sculpted cheekbones, the quiet steel in her eyes—lingered like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
Knock knock.
Zavian turned.
“Come in.”
The door opened, and his assistant, Kieran, entered with his usual over-efficiency and a face that said “I have a to-do list longer than your ex’s apology texts.”
“All models have arrived, sir,” Kieran said crisply. “The media team and PR reps are on the eleventh floor. The creative director’s ready to start final selection. They’re expecting you.”
Zavian raised an eyebrow.
“Expecting me to do what, exactly?”
Kieran blinked.
“Be terrifying. Approve faces. Look expensive.”
Zavian smirked.
“Sounds exhausting.”
Kieran didn’t laugh. Zavian liked that about him. He didn’t hire assistants who giggled.
“Anything else?” Zavian asked, already bored.
Kieran cleared his throat.
“Yes, sir. The marketing board suggested you be... more visible in the campaign. Apparently, the ‘human touch’ converts better with investors.”
Zavian stared at him.
“Tell them the human touch is what got us global expansion. They can keep their soft-focus i********: suggestions to themselves.”
Kieran nodded, half a smile twitching before disappearing again.
“Understood.”
Zavian waved him off.
“Go. I’ll be down in five.”
When Kieran left, Zavian stood in the quiet again, the sun slicing through his floor-to-ceiling windows like judgment.
He turned away from the view, scooped up his iPad, and checked his watch.
9:13 AM.
He could have used this time to review that oil conglomerate acquisition. Or prep for the billion-dollar arbitration case he had in Paris next month.
Instead?
He was heading to watch models compete to be the face of his hotel.
Women are a waste of time. He told himself for the fiftieth time that morning.
And yet here he was—buttoning the front of his charcoal suit jacket, checking his cufflinks, adjusting his watch strap.
Preparing for war.
***
The elevator chimed as it hit the eleventh floor. Sleek. Silent. Swift. Just like him.
The boardroom was already buzzing. Voices, laughter, cameras, air-kisses. The scent of expensive perfume clung to the walls like tension. Zavian stepped out, a storm in tailored Armani.
He moved through the corridor, unaware.
Unaware that the woman he’d spent all morning trying not to think about...
Was sitting just beyond that door.
About to burn through every ounce of restraint he had left.
- Writer
