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27
Faasla
A contract called love
“Hold my hand.” It wasn’t a request. Cameras flashed like lightning, voices crashing over each other, my name tangled with his in headlines that had already decided our story. I leaned closer, forcing a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Zyran Wilson didn’t look at me. His jaw was set, expression carved in stone for the world to admire. “Smile,” he murmured, low enough that only I could hear. “You look like you want to run.” “I do want to run.” His fingers tightened around mine. “Too late,” he said. “You started this.” The words hit harder than they should have. Started this. Right. Because one mistake… one stupid moment where I thought he was someone else… and suddenly I was standing here, dressed in a life that wasn’t mine, playing a role I didn’t audition for. “Just remember,” I whispered, tilting my head like I was leaning into him for the cameras, “this is fake.” That’s when he finally looked at me. And for a split second… something cracked. Not anger. Not annoyance. Something darker. Something that didn’t belong in a fake anything. “Is it?” he said quietly.*his eyes bore into mine* My breath hitched. Flash. Flash. Flash. To everyone else, we looked perfect. Untouchable. Meant to be. But his thumb brushed against my wrist—slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing the pulse there. And suddenly… This didn’t feel like a mistake anymore. It felt like the beginning of one. How it is guy's!!? “You’re not just reading this story… you’re shaping it with me. So tell me—what did you love? What didn’t hit? Votes and suggestions are always welcome 🤍”
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