In a house that gleams with wealth but echoes with silence, Aisha Carter lives on her own terms - bold, sassy, untouchable. But the moment her father arranged her marriage to Naveen Malhotra, heir to a global empire, her freedom came with a price.
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AC
"She lives a life she didn't choose and it hurts like brand new shoes." -Sade
The camera flash was a silent, stuttering heartbeat in the dim studio. Each burst of light froze a moment of manufactured perfection, painting the air with the scent of ozone and my own relentless ambition.
From my chair behind the monitor, I watched the images bloom on the screen-a digital slideshow of power and poise I had sculpted from silk and sheer will. This was my world, Carter Studio, a kingdom of organized chaos built in a converted downtown loft, a universe away from the sterile silence of the penthouse I was supposed to call home.
"Beautiful, Talia! Hold it-yes, chin down, eyes up-perfect!" the photographer crooned, his voice a smooth river over the pulsing R&B beat.
But my focus was on the lines, the light, the story. My eyes, sharp and critical behind a flick of liquid liner, caught on one frame-the moment Talia crouched, a predator in glitter-dusted kitten heels. The lamé of her dress, a molten silver I'd designed and stitched with my own sleep-deprived hands, caught the light. One hand rested on her thigh, her chin tilted not in submission, but in quiet, breathtaking defiance.
"That's the one," I said, my voice cutting through the rhythmic chaos. I tapped the screen, the gold-painted nail on my index finger clicking against the glass. The light kissed her skin like a blessing, turning it to liquid gold. "She looks... expensive."
Ezra, materialized at my shoulder. He hummed, a low, approving sound. "Mm-hmm. A vision. You really did it again, babe. But I mean," he added, his tone dripping with theatrical awe as he gestured to the screen, "we expect nothing less from the genius of Aisha Carter."
I snorted, a decidedly un-ladylike sound that would have made my father wince. "Stop tryna kiss my ass. It's not a good look on you."
Then, clapping my hands once-the sound a sharp period at the end of the sentence-I called out to the room, "Alright, that's a wrap! Amazing job, everyone. We'll pick it up again next week."
The spell shattered. The room exhaled in a chorus of chatter, clattering equipment, and the rustle of models slipping out of six-figure garments and into oversized hoodies. The transformation was always jarring-from goddesses back to girls.
Ezra stretched beside me, a long, dramatic arc of his limbs. He was my best friend and the heart of this operation with his little curls and flamboyant style. Right now he wore a silk cami under a deconstructed blazer and tailored trousers that hugged his frame.
"You know what would make this day perfect? Margaritas. Three of them. One for you, one for me, and one for my other hand."
I allowed a real smile to touch my lips as I gathered my sketches-fluttering pages of bold lines and frantic notes that were the true blueprints of my world. "You just want an excuse to flirt with that bartender at El Cielo again."
