The screeching of an unknown car tore through my room just as I was giving my eyelids the final touch. I wasn't exactly thrilled about tonight, but damn it—I had to look my best. Life as a celebrity's daughter is basically a contract with perfection. One wrong move and Mom's name would be dragged through the mud, stomped on, and trended with hashtags. The thought made me shiver.
"Miss Zikora, someone's here to meet you!" Sarah yelled through the door.
"Send him up."
"Yes, ma'am."
A glance at my watch—3:50. Perfect. I slicked on lip balm, slid my eight-hundred-thousand-dollar customized Chinese bracelet (last year's sweet sixteen gift from Dad) onto my wrist, and heard my door fly open.
Bernard. Young, handsome, and annoyingly confident. I turned back to my mirror immediately—God forbid I give him the satisfaction of catching me checking him out.
"Hello!"
"You're here," I said flatly, eyes on my reflection.
"Yeah. Your room's… wow. Looks like a hotel."
"Thanks."
"You're not ready yet? Typical. Women. Never on time." He sighed dramatically.
I shot him a death glare. He raised his hands like a criminal caught in the act. Good. I motioned for him to follow me, locked my door, and we headed out.
His car? A Lamborghini. Not bad, Bernard. Not bad at all. He even held the door open for me. Cute.
Okay, let's not skip the fashion. I wore a tartan mini flared skirt, an off-shoulder pinstriped crop top, and knee-high tartan boots. My hair? Flawless. My vibe? Untouchable.
Bernard? He rocked a knee-length fur coat over a plain blue tee, baggy black jeans, and fur slippers. Not my taste, but it worked.
"You look drop-dead gorgeous," he said.
"Thanks. You're… not bad yourself."
The ride was thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of him staring at me like I was the Mona Lisa. My skin crawled. If I didn't need to maintain my perfect-girl image, I would've punched him just to stop the staring. Thankfully, we pulled up at RSVP, a Manhattan-style restaurant with international dishes, a patio, and a poolside bar.
Inside, Bernard grabbed menus while I claimed the perfect table.
"Waiting for me?" he teased.
"No."
"You're too formal, Zikora."
"I'm not."
The waitress dropped our food with a smile. "Your orders!"
"Thanks," we both said. Then she turned to me, all starry-eyed.
"Can I take a picture with you, ma'am?"
"Sure."
Click, click. She left practically levitating. I smirked.
Mom would lose her mind if she knew I was here—she swears RSVP isn't "top-notch." Her words, not mine. I started on my burger like the princess I am, scrolling through my phone.
"Let's visit the pool after this," Bernard said, way too excited.
"No."
"Please."
"No."
"I'll die if you don't."
"Fine."
"Thanks! You're gorgeous, by the way."
"Thanks. You too."
He scratched his head nervously. "Can I… be your boyfriend?"
I choked on my drink and laughed. Loudly. Cute, but no. I don't do the relationship thing—not now. Maybe when I'm eighteen. Maybe.
"So that's a no?" His voice cracked.
"I'll think about it."
"Really?"
"No."
We changed into swimwear for the poolside. I slid into a bikini; he looked like he'd just won the lottery.
"You've got a killer body."
"Pretty girls always do."
Of course, the paparazzi showed up. Bloggers, content creators, random clout chasers—snapping shots like vultures.
"Zimba!" I snapped at my big adopted brother/personal bodyguard. "Ask the guards to get them out. Please."
"Yes, sissy!"
My perfect evening—ruined. Again.
---
Hi guys!
How y'all doing?
Not fair you're not asking of me lately 😏
Bernard's trying, I'll give him that… but do we like him?
So, what's the ship?
👉 Team A: #BerZi (Bernard + Zikora)
👉 Team B: #Freora (Fred + Zikora)
Drop your pick in the comments 👇
Love y'all 😘 Stay tuned for Chapter 5.
Your favorite teen authoress 🔰📑
Oziomajasmine 💝💝