DISTRACTION IN A SUIT
1774 Words
The production room buzzed with energy. Stylists scurried around with curling irons, steamers hissed from the racks, makeup artists dabbed and blended under studio lights. Everyone had something in their hands — clips, powders, swatches, coffee — and everyone was talking.
Except Nylah.
She stood in front of the mirror in her second outfit, a sleek wine-red gown that clung to her like it had been sewn onto her skin. Her hair had been swept into a low bun with soft curls framing her face. She looked calm. Composed.
But inside?
Chaos.
She was tired. Not from the shoot — she could pose through pain, smile through tension. She was tired of the mind games.
Of wondering if Zavian would show.
Of pretending she didn’t care.
She hadn’t seen or heard from him in five days.
Five.
Which was exactly how long she’d spent convincing herself that his absence was good. That it gave her room to breathe. That she didn’t need his intense stares and unwelcome heat throwing off her focus.
So when the side door creaked open and someone whispered, “He’s here,” her breath caught before she could stop it.
She didn’t turn. Didn’t want to give herself away. But her heart beat like it was trying to warn her — danger approaching.
“Zavian Blake just walked in,” whispered a stylist to another, practically vibrating. “Did you see that suit? Who wears navy and black like that and makes it illegal?”
The air in the room shifted. It always did when he entered. Zavian didn’t walk into spaces. He owned them.
And when Nylah finally looked up in the mirror, there he was.
Standing just beyond the set lights, hands in his pockets, that signature half-scowl on his face like he was already unimpressed by the whole setup.
God help her.
He was too put together. Too sharp. That tailored navy suit with the dark silk shirt beneath it looked like sin had been tailored into fabric.
Her throat dried. Her pulse betrayed her again.
Why was he here?
Their deal was for public image — not photo shoots. Not this.
But Zavian wasn’t looking at anyone else. Not the photographers, not the models or crew.
He was watching her.
His gaze moved down her figure slowly, carefully, like he was mentally undoing every thread of that gown. Then back up, settling on her eyes with a smirk that said he knew exactly what he was doing to her.
Nylah turned away.
The photographer waved her back onto the set, gesturing for her to take her position.
And she did — with grace, with elegance — pretending that her skin wasn’t burning under Zavian’s gaze like it had something to confess.
But he didn’t move.
He stayed there through the next round of photos. Through the outfit change. Through the lunch break.
And each time she looked up, he was watching.
Unapologetically.
When she finally got five minutes alone behind the curtain wall near wardrobe, Zavian appeared like a shadow stepping into her light.
“Nice dress,” he said, low and cool.
“I didn’t pick it,” she replied, reaching for her water bottle to keep her hands busy. “And what are you doing here?”
“Keeping up appearances,” he said with zero shame. “We’re supposed to be dating, remember?”
She scoffed.
“Funny. You didn’t seem to remember that all week.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“You wanted space. I gave you space.”
“You don’t get to pretend you care when you show up five days late in a suit designed to ruin lives.”
He leaned in just a little, close enough that her breath stalled.
“Who says I’m pretending?”
Silence. Sharp. Shocking.
Then he pulled back, watching her face like he was searching for something. Before she could speak, he added,
“You look… good today.”
Good?
Her heart fluttered for half a second — traitorous, foolish thing — before she collected herself.
“You’re annoying,” she muttered.
“And you’re distracting,” he said, giving her one last glance before walking away.
She stared after him, heat crawling up her spine. She hated the way his words lingered. Hated how he was suddenly the one setting the pace again. Hated even more that his presence made her want to be seen.
This wasn’t part of the plan.
She was supposed to pretend.
But every time he looked at her like that — like she was something rare he wanted but couldn’t touch — her armour cracked a little more.
And behind the studio lights, Alicia and Jason watched everything unfold.
From the way Zavian’s eyes followed Nylah to the subtle smile on his lips when she turned away. Alicia’s hand curled into a fist around her tablet.
“He likes her,” she spat under her breath.
Jason’s jaw tensed.
“Then we make him regret it.”
***
The day had been going well — too well.
The shoot had wrapped successfully, Nylah’s poses had captivated the entire creative team, and her final look — a sleek black satin dress with gold embellishments — had earned nods of approval from everyone on set.
Even the crew whispered about how “Nylah Daniels was born for this.”
She had no idea that the dagger was already halfway in her back.
.
While Nylah was still on the bright-lit set being photographed, Alicia moved like a shadow behind the curtain that divided the changing area. No one noticed her. That’s how she operated best — unseen, unnoticed, calculating.
Nylah’s bag was exactly where she expected — under the vanity chair in her private booth.
She knelt down, hands steady, no hesitation. Unzipped. Slid the phone out.
A few taps later, she disabled the screen lock.
Too easy.
She stepped back into the hallway, brushing past a stylist without drawing attention, and slipped into the stairwell where Jason was waiting.
He took the phone from her with a grin too wide for the narrow space they were standing in.
“She’ll never recover from this,” Alicia whispered.
Jason smirked, already typing:
“Jason… I need to tell you the truth. I’m only with Zavian for the campaign. I still want you. I never stopped. I had to get close to him to be seen. I want you back. Please don’t hate me.”
He read it aloud with pride in his voice.
Alicia clapped once, softly.
“Perfect.”
He hit send, then deleted the message from Nylah’s side of the conversation. Tossed the phone to Alicia.
“Put it back where you found it.”
Five minutes later, Nylah’s phone was lying exactly where it had been. Untouched. Innocent.
And the trap had already been set.
***
The reception area was quiet when Nylah walked through it. The shoot had drained her — mentally, emotionally. She wanted to go home, shower, eat something comforting, maybe call her mom just to hear a normal voice.
She didn’t even see Jason standing by the elevators.
Until he stepped directly in her path.
“Nylah,” he sneered. “We need to talk.”
She blinked.
“Move.”
But Jason wasn’t here for negotiation.
“Oh, so you don’t talk to people you use anymore?”
She froze. Slowly turned back to him.
“What?”
“You’re unbelievable,” he laughed, bitter and loud. “Using your fake relationship with my boss just to climb your way into this campaign? Damn. I knew you were cold, but this? This is low even for you. Or what, do you miss me? You want to make me jealous with my boss?”
People nearby turned. Heads swivelled. Whispers began.
Nylah clenched her jaw.
“Jason, what the hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb, Nylah.” His voice rose. “Don’t stand there in your model-act like you don’t remember texting me that you wanted me back. That you were using Zavian!”
Her breath caught.
“What text—?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he cut her off. “Let me help refresh your memory.”
He pulled out his phone, turned the screen toward her — then toward the people gathering. A screenshot.
A fake message. Her name and number at the top.
She stared at it, blinking. Once. Twice. The words blurred.
Jason spun to face the staff now peeking from the corner offices.
“You all think she got here because of talent? Please. She slept her way into the lead! I have proof! This is the truth!”
Click.
The sound of his thumb tapping “post.”
And just like that, the screenshot was on his socials — along with a caption dripping with scorn.
“Here’s what using people for clout looks like.”
The feed exploded. The comments poured in.
“Wow, what a snake.”
“So THAT’S how she landed it…”
“Girl, you’re shameless.”
“Poor Alicia. She deserves better.”
Nylah stood frozen in the middle of the reception, lips parted slightly, skin cold.
She couldn’t even breathe, let alone speak.
Her heart was hammering in her chest so hard, she swore it would bruise her ribs. She wanted to scream. To cry. To rip the phone from Jason’s hands and throw it against the wall. To tell them the truth.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she did what she had taught herself to do since she was sixteen and the world started finding reasons to hate her.
She smiled.
A brittle, fragile thing — like broken glass glued into a grin.
She blinked at Jason, nodded once, and whispered,
“You really think this makes you look good?”
He scoffed.
“This makes me look honest. Something you’ve never been.”
People were still whispering. Still staring. Still commenting.
Nylah picked up her tote bag and walked out with grace in her spine, her head high, her body betraying none of the rage and heartbreak clawing inside her.
Behind her, Jason and Alicia shared a smug look — mission accomplished.
But they didn’t notice Kieran, Zavian’s assistant, watching everything from the mezzanine above.
He didn’t say anything.
He just pulled out his phone and dialled one number.
Zavian.
“It’s Kieran. You need to get back here. Now.”
.
Alicia got into Jason’s car. She laughed, her tongue pressed behind her teeth in cruel delight as she refreshed the video.
It was already going viral.
Exactly as planned.
***
- Writer
