Amaya
"Don't look at me like that. I'm not trying to fall in love with him."
Hannah snorted from where she sat cross-legged on my hotel bed, peeling the foil off a tiny chocolate. "Please. No one falls in love with Christian Knight. They fall in lust, get their feelings hurt, and walk away with an NDA and a very expensive pair of shoes."
She tossed the chocolate into her mouth and narrowed her eyes at me. "But seriously, if you weren't the one engaged to him, I'd throw myself at that man so fast. Rumor has it he's packing, and honestly? I could use that."
I choked on my tea.
She grinned, utterly unbothered. "I'm just saying. Tall, dark, emotionally unavailable, and built like an Armani ad? That's god-tier dick energy."
"Ew. You need help."
"I need five minutes alone with Christian Knight. But thanks for asking."
I laughed in spite of myself, shaking my head.
In five minutes, the suite was buzzing with stylists and assistants moving around us. Garment bags lined one wall. Steam and hairspray lingered in the air, curling with the golden afternoon sunlight that spilled through the window.
Outside, spring was starting to settle over New York — pale sun, cool breeze, and the kind of sky that made you feel expensive just for existing beneath it.
I sat by the window while the stylist pinned the last detail into my hair, a vintage crystal comb above my left ear.
"All set," she murmured, stepping back. "You look beautiful, Ms. Devreaux."
I caught my reflection in the mirror and gave her a faint smile. "Thank you, Christine."
I did look beautiful. I always look beautiful.
---
The rooftop was already staged when we arrived. A scene built for fantasy.
Everything was white and cream and gold. Roses climbed the banisters. A string quartet tuned softly in the background, while stylists scurried out of sight with bobby pins and brushes.
Christian was already there.
In black, of course. Always black. A crisp suit, the top button of his shirt undone, like even formality had to obey him.
He glanced up when I stepped out of the elevator but didn't say a word.
We hadn't spoken since the gala in Miami two weeks ago, the one where we stood side by side in matching monochrome while a senator's wife told us we looked like "old money reborn."
He hadn't looked at me that night — not really. Not that I cared. But I did catch his eyes staring at my ass on the way back. Asshole.
---
"Let's get warmth," the photographer called out. "Walk together. Amaya, your hand on his arm. Christian, look at her like you mean it."
I did as directed. My hand slid onto his arm; his touched my waist. We turned. Tilted. Smiled on cue.
In one frame, I looked up just as he glanced down.
And for a moment — one second too long — everything paused.
His fingers shifted slightly on my waist. Just enough pressure to remind me they were there. And enough heat to make me feel it.
Not indecent.
But it made something tighten beneath my skin.
I looked away first.
---
During the wardrobe change, I slipped inside, phone already in hand.
Two texts from Hannah:
> You two look disgustingly perfect.
I hope you touched his chest. For science. Also, I stepped out to see someone. Be back.
I laughed softly, typing back:
> I touched his arm. It was… something.
She replied instantly:
> I bet. That man looks like he was born to be bad decisions in black and white.
I didn't answer right away.
Because she wasn't wrong.
It wasn't just how he looked — it was the stillness. The quiet power. The way he touched without hesitation, but never with carelessness. Never messy. Never flirtatious.
Just deliberate.
------
Christian
I forgot the photographer's direction the moment she stepped onto the rooftop in that second dress.
Amaya didn't perform elegance.
She just moved, and the world noticed.
Hair swept up. A few loose strands framed her face. She moved like she didn't care whether people stared — but she always knew they would.
She stopped beside me, and I caught the scent of her perfume — something floral. Of course. And something else. Expensive. Clean. And it smelled so fucking good.
"You're staring," she said without looking at me.
"You're the one in the dress," I replied.
She raised an eyebrow slightly.
The camera clicked.
---
Later, we changed again. This time into evening wear for the final shots. Her dress was black velvet, sculpted, sleeveless. It hugged her body like it belonged there.
I knew I looked too long. But as always, she pretended not to notice.
We sat at a table staged for two. Fake wine in real glasses, bistro lights strung overhead.
We didn't speak.
The camera caught everything.
At one point, I reached for her hand. Her fingers tensed — barely — then relaxed beneath mine.
Three clicks.
She pulled away like nothing had happened.
But I noticed.
---
After the shoot, I left first.
She stayed behind with the stylists. And the loud friend, the one with the sharp mouth and the long legs.
I took the car alone and headed to a rooftop bar uptown.
Miles and Jordan were already two drinks in.
Miles — the always overdressed venture bro who made women forget what they were mad about. And Jordan — quieter, observant, the one who noticed more than he ever said. Married now. Still dangerous.
"Congratulations," Miles said as soon as I sat. "You look like a man slowly being led to the altar."
"I thought it was a contract," Jordan added, deadpan.
"Even contracts have fine print."
They both looked at me.
I didn't rise to it.
Miles sipped his drink. "So, what's she like? I've seen her, man. She's pretty as fuck. It's sad she's marrying a grumpy asshole like you."
"She's like the rest of them," I said.
Jordan tilted his glass toward me. "But you keep looking at her."
"I'm engaged," I said, deadpan. "To her."
"And what about Ava?"
I shrugged, casual. "It's a contract. What I do on the side isn't breaking anything."
Jordan's jaw tightened slightly, but I didn't care.
------
Amaya
Back at the hotel, I pulled pins from my hair while Hannah lay draped across the couch in a silk robe, her feet in the air, glass of wine in hand.
"You didn't tell me what he smelled like," she said, absolutely shameless.
I laughed, reaching for a makeup wipe. "I didn't notice."
"Liar."
"Fine," I said, wiping highlighter from my cheek. "Sandalwood. Mandarin. Clean linen."
She clinked her glass against the air. "Cheers to restrained horniness."
I looked at her in the mirror. "It's not like that."
"I know," she said. Then softer, "But it could be. If he wasn't… Christian Knight."
I didn't respond.
And then, as if she needed to make it worse:
"You deserve a good fuck, Maya. And actual love. You've been buried in work. And to think you only show up at the office once or twice a month. I honestly don't know how you spend your days, but I know for sure you're not getting laid. That man looks like he'd ruin your life, and I mean that as a compliment."
I threw a towel at her. "Fuck you, Hannah."
She grinned. "I'm just saying. If he asks…"
I rolled my eyes, laughing, but my fingers paused where they brushed the base of my throat.
Because my skin still remembered his hand at my waist.
And I didn't know what to do with that.