THE ILLUSION OF PERFECTION 7

Tayo’s performance the second night was even more grueling. He had survived the staged jet shoot, a photoshoot near a swimming pool he couldn't use, and two separate choreographed "spontaneous" encounters. 

Exhaustion was an understatement; he was simply numb. His body ached beneath the restrictive designer clothes, and his mind was a void from the effort of maintaining his flawless façade for twelve solid hours.

When the hired SUV pulled up infront of his building that evening, Tayo felt drained. Practically peeling himself out of the leather seat, he waved the driver off and managing to hold himself together by the sheer, desperate willpower that fueled his brand, he headed for the main entrance doors. 

He craved his bed, the only reasonable furniture in his flat, and was eager to shed his public skin. He was walking slowly, eyes fixed on the pavement, his fingers working mechanically to loosen his necktie when he heard it.

“Tayo?”

The voice was soft, warm, and entirely real. It caught him completely off guard.

He stopped mid-stride and turned. Standing a few feet away, holding a small bag of groceries and a sketchbook tucked under her arm, was a figure he would recognize even in his dreams.

It was Nadia. 

She looked vibrant and different. Her paint-splattered shirt was gone, replaced by a simple, form-fitting dress that stole the air from his lungs. His gaze traced upward, finally settling on her face which held that same quiet, calm focus he still found unsettling.

CONTINUE