21. Beauty and The Beast
My footsteps echo in the narrow hallway outside the lockers, the overhead light flickering faintly above me. I press my phone tighter to my ear.
The voice on the other end is clipped, and low. "How's it going?"
I exhale slowly, and reply "According to what we discussed."
"What have you done?" the voice demands, firmer now.
I glance at the locker door in front of me—silver, dented, and still somehow trying to reflect strength in a peeling sticker that reads-"Suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion."
but what if that suffering lasts all my life?
I clear my throat. "Self-defence classes, and a photoshoot that has been arranged."
Another pause, but then the voice is sharper this time. "You better have more than that by next Monday."
And then - click.
Gone
"The worst part about being lied to is knowing you weren't worth the truth." Another sticker reads.
Real cute for someone who lies all the time to people and to the voice over the phone.
Are they worth the truth?
Ever since our ballet group won the final showcase, my inbox has been spammed. Brand deals, collab offers, interviews, invites to events. I should be used to it by now. I should just skim and delete. But this one makes my stomach twist.
"Joint Photoshoot Offer – Amara Fontaine and Xavier Hayes | Theme: Beauty and the Beast"
Beauty and the Beast?
How very subtle. Somehow, I wasn't sure who was supposed to be who anymore.
Out of everyone, why him? Why would he agree to something like this?
Chemistry? Sure, If you include the part where I threw a chocolate pastry on his shirt, put glitter in his gloves, then punch him twice and even headbutt him.
Oh and not to mention the 'lady' and 'gentleman' part.
Oh and the 'strong arms' incident.
Oh right, and where he called me an attention seeker for wearing a cute dress.
Am I forgetting something?
──────????°? ? ?°?? ??──────
Flashes of light, soft music playing in the background, stylists darting between racks of designer fabric and camera gear. It should feel overwhelming, but it doesn't. Not until I see the dress-
Hanging on a mannequin in the middle of the styling room.
A white gown.
It was soft, glowing, moonlight white, with layers of organza that ripple like water every time someone passes by.
The bodice is structured, corseted with intricate embroidery that looks like vines and roses growing out of stardust. Tiny pearls are stitched into the fabric—scattered like fallen stars, subtle but impossibly elegant.
The neckline dips into an off-shoulder cut, wrapping my collarbones. The sleeves are sheer, barely-there, with tiny pearl buttons at the wrists—old-world charm but somehow modern.
The skirt flows down in layer after layer and it pools around my feet.
They pin my hair up—half-twisted, the rest falling in soft waves, a few strands escaping on purpose. Tiny pearl pins are tucked into the back of my hair.
I've worn a lot of beautiful things in my life. Leotards, tutus and dresses
But this? The gown is too perfect, but there's this itch in the back of my mind. I smooth my hands down the fabric, and glance at the designer fiddling with a pin near my elbow.
"Why is the dress white instead of yellow?" I ask casually, trying not to sound too curious.
"Oh, that's because Mr. Hayes asked for it." she replies, not even looking up.
"He did what...?"
"Mhmm," she hums, stepping back and tilting her head to inspect the silhouette. "He said yellow was too plain. He wanted white and said it would suit you more."
I freeze, suddenly aware of how fast my heart is beating. He changed a centuries-old fairytale costume design just like that?
That's suspicious.
When does he care about color palettes and symbolism?
Xavier Hayes, what exactly are you playing at?
One of the assistants walks in with a velvet box cradled in both hands. "Jewelry for the shoot." she says, offering it to the stylist.
The box opens with a quiet click. And for a second, no one says anything.
Inside it was a choker. Thin white satin ribbon, soft against the skin, with a single pearl hanging from a delicate silver clasp at the center. It's not flashy, but elegant.
I was given matching pearl studs. The stylist fastens the choker around my neck, her fingers gentle.
"It's custom," she murmurs, stepping back to admire it. "Made specifically for this shoot. Mr. Hayes was very particular about the details."
First the dress. Now the jewelry. Custom. Particular.
Suspicious doesn't even begin to cover this anymore.
I glance at the mirror again, taking in the full image.
White dress. A pearl choker that suddenly feels heavier than it looks.
I sit carefully on the cushioned chair, back straight, trying not to wrinkle the layers of tulle flowing around my legs. I lift my hand to adjust one of the pearl-drop earrings—fiddling, mostly, trying to calm the nerves buzzing under my skin.
The studio lights above dim just a little, and I catch the faintest shift in energy.
I don't need to turn around.
I feel him enter.
He's in a black tailored suit. The jacket is sleek, minimal, open at the front with a deep charcoal waistcoat underneath. The lapels are matte, no shine. His sleeves are rolled slightly, revealing ink that tattoos up his forearms. The shirt beneath is dark, collar undone-
And then there's the rose.
A single white rose tucked into his left pocket.
His hair—messy, pushed back like he ran a hand through it a few minutes ago and didn't bother fixing it. He should get a haircut.
It suits him.
I glance up as he approaches, hands in his pockets, jaw set like he's already regretting this.
I open my mouth, but before I can say anything, the assistant from earlier suddenly appears between us, practically bouncing. "Oh! Ms. Fontaine—your shoes."
Shoes?
My gaze drops to the pristine white box she's holding out. It's sleek, elegant, tied with a silver satin ribbon, like a gift.
She places it gently in my lap and disappears just as quickly.
I lift the lid—and my breath catches.
Heels.
Glassy-white, delicate stilettos with satin ankle straps and tiny, pearl-encrusted roses at the back of the heel.
He takes the box from my lap - making sure he doesn't touch me- without a word, lowers himself onto one knee in front of me, and looks up.
"May I?" he asks, voice low but steady.
My jaw drops as he got on his knees, and I don't answer.
A beat passes before he says quietly, "Come on, is this really the first time you've seen me on my knees for you, Amara?" He raises a brow, waiting.
Right, I remember. He did get on his knees and cleaned my tiny scratch.
"No," I admit quietly, voice a little more breathless than I'd like. "Not the first time."
Why is he not smirking?
He lifts one of the heels from the box carefully and slides it onto my foot with surprising ease. His touch is gentle, precise, like he's done this before, like he knows how to do this.
Then his fingers move to the strap.
"You're oddly good at this," I murmur, trying to sound teasing—anything to make it feel less intense. "What, is this some secret hobby of yours? Dressing girls up and kneeling for them?"
He pauses.
And for the first time—he doesn't reply with a comeback. Doesn't throw a smirk. Doesn't even glance up.
Instead, he exhales sharply through his nose, looks away, and runs a hand through his hair like he's trying to push the thought.
He then turns back to me and fastens the straps slowly, tightening it, his thumb brushing the curve of my ankle as he secures the clasp.
Then the second heel—same careful hands, same quiet attention.
He doesn't speak. Doesn't look up.
And for a moment, I forget where we are. Forget the lights, the stylists, the camera crew. All I can feel is the weight of the moment—his hands, the heels, the space between us tightening with every breath.
"Alright, we're ready for you two!"
The photographer's voice cuts through the silence, crisp and loud across the studio.
I blink, pulled back to reality.
Xavier stands, smooth and unhurried, like he was never on his knees to begin with. His fingers brush his jacket into place, and then he glances at me once before walking away.
I rise slowly, gathering the layers of white tulle in my hands. The dress swishes softly as I follow him to the backdrop—moonlight, velvet curtains, and roses scattered around.
The set looks... magical.
At the center stands a massive arched window frame, draped in heavy navy velvet that puddles on the floor. Behind it, soft golden light filters through, casting a warm glow across the space. The floor is marble white with subtle cracks and a vintage armchair sits to the side.
But it's the rose that catches my eye.
Encased in a tall glass jar, standing on a pedestal right in the middle of the set.
One single rose. Crimson. Perfect. Its petals curled and heavy, as if frozen.
Just like in the movie.
A white ribbon is tied around the base of the jar.
Symbolic much?
A man steps forward with a camera slung around his neck, his shirt rolled at the sleeves and hair tied back.
"I'm Matteo," he says with a warm smile. "I'll be directing the shoot today. First of all, you both look incredible and I know you've seen the mail, but I want to explain what we're really doing here."
He gestures to the set. "It's not just Beauty and the Beast. It's contrast. Grace and grit. Soft and sharp."
I glance at Xavier. He hasn't moved. He is still.
Matteo continues, "You're not just dancing around each other—you pull and push. It's not romantic right away, it's slow."
"Let's start with something simple," Matteo says, stepping back behind the camera. "Amara, I want you standing and Xavier seated. Don't look at each other yet."
Right, just stand next to a man who said 'May I?' a few minutes ago.
I move to my mark, the soft tulle of my dress trailing behind. I stand beside the armchair where Xavier now sits—his elbows resting on the armrests, long legs slightly spread, hands relaxed but firm.
He doesn't look at me and I don't look at him.
Click.
"Perfect," Matteo calls ."Now stand—face to face," Matteo instructs from behind the camera. "His hands on her waist. Face close. Just there. Her hands resting on his chest."
I hear him. I do.
But I don't move. Not yet.
Because my heart is hammering too loud, and Xavier is already standing in front of me—too close, too still, his hands hovering near my waist like he's waiting for permission. Like he knows what this moment is.
I lift my hands slowly, letting them rest on his chest. I can feel his heartbeat—steady, annoyingly calm. Like none of this affects him.
I look up right into his eyes. "What's with the white dress?" I ask, quietly. Not playful. Not accusatory. Just... curious.
He blinks, like he wasn't expecting the question here, now, with my hands on him and Matteo's voice still echoing somewhere in the background.
His hands settle on my waist.
I glance down at his hands briefly, noticing how much large they are compared to mine. They could probably crush a brick, yet here they are, holding me with surprising gentleness.
"You could've gone with the original," I say, looking at him now. "Yellow, but you didn't."
The studio noise fades, the soft music, the camera clicks—everything dims around us.
He doesn't look away. I thought he wont answer but- His voice is quiet when he finally answers. "I didn't want you to look like anyone else."
His hands are still on my waist, steady and warm through layers of tulle and silk. My fingers stay pressed against his chest, but I'm barely aware of the pose anymore.
"Also," he says, voice lower now, like it's not meant for the room to hear, "white reminds me of something."
What are you doing, Xavier Hayes?
THEORIESSSS about the phone call and whose pov is it??