Trapped With The Blind CEO

"I’m trying my best here, Amira. Don’t you get it, I’m trying."

Darren’s voice was tight, impatient, like she’d dragged him into a conversation he didn’t have time for. They stood in the corner of his apartment, the skyline behind them bleeding into dusk.

"Trying?" she repeated, crossing her arms. "You missed dinner again. You’ve been missing everything lately."

"Work is insane right now. You think I want to keep cancelling on you?"

She tilted her head. "I think you want the idea of me, not the reality."

His jaw tensed. The air between them felt crowded. "Why does every time we see each other have to turn into this?"

"Because you don’t see me," she said quietly.

He ran a hand through his perfectly combed hair, a move so practiced it felt staged. "This isn’t the time for this conversation. I was going to—" He stopped, glancing toward the door.

"Going to what?"

"Forget it," he muttered. He grabbed his jacket, shrugged it over his shoulders, and reached for the doorknob. "I’ll see you at the dinner tonight."

The click of the door was final. She stood there in the dim light, arms loose at her sides, and wondered if she’d just lost him or if she’d lost him months ago.

Three hours later, Amira was alone in the dressing room, staring at herself in the full-length mirror.

“Do you ever get tired of pretending?”

Amira asked the question to no one. Then she left the restroom. 

She sat in the dressing room, getting all glammed up for the night in a silver gown that hugged her figure. Her earrings sparkled like frost, her lips painted the kind of pink that made the tabloids call her timeless.

Behind her, a makeup artist fussed with a strand of hair that didn’t matter. A stylist straightened her sleeve like it would change the world. Everyone smiled like her life was perfect. Because it looked perfect.

And no one ever looked close enough to see past that.

"Miss Westwood, everything is set and they’re ready for you," someone called from outside.

She took one last glance at her reflection. She looked like the daughter of a billionaire. A walking brand. A Westwood. She smiled. Because that’s what she was supposed to do.

The ballroom was gold-lit and loud when she stepped out. Champagne glasses clinked, music floated, and the air buzzed with expensive perfume and expensive secrets. Everywhere she turned, someone smiled too widely or touched her too long.

“You look just like your mother.”

“Amira, you look divine.”

“Is that custom Dior?”

“Your father must be proud.”

She nodded. Said thank you. Laughed when she had to. Each word fell from her mouth as if pre-approved. She wasn’t sure if anyone in the room knew her favorite color, or if they’d care if they did. None of it touched her.

From across the room, she saw Darren.

He was dressed in charcoal gray. Elegant. Sharp. His tie was a shade too dark for her dress, but that was Darren — always almost perfect. He smiled at her like nothing had changed. Like they hadn’t argued a few hours ago.

Like he hadn’t left her alone in the room.

He raised his glass to her.

She smiled back. The kind of smile that was made of mirrors.

She also saw her step-brother Eli leaning against the bar, watching the gala unfold. They hadn’t spoken yet tonight, and judging by the way he avoided her gaze, they probably wouldn’t.

Her father made a toast twenty minutes later.

He stood on a marble platform with lights behind him, his voice warm, his words rehearsed.

“My daughter is the pride of my legacy,” he said. “Not just for her grace, but her strength. And one day, when I step away from this empire, it will be her hands I trust to hold it.”

People clapped. Some cheered. Amira clapped with everyone else.

Next to him stood Giselle, her stepmother. Every hair in place. Eyes sharp as glass. She looked at Amira the way a jeweler looks at a diamond — assessing, not admiring.

She didn’t clap for her stepdaughter. She didn’t need to.

Later, Amira slipped away from the crowd and into the side garden.

It was quiet there. Cooler. The night air kissed her bare shoulders as she sat by the fountain. She pulled a sketchbook from her clutch, tucked behind her phone and the lipstick she wasn’t wearing.

She flipped through it slowly. Designs. Dreams. A little world she’d built in secret. Nothing corporate. Nothing Westwood. Just lines and color and possibility.

No one ever asked about her work. They asked about her dress. Her face. Her future marriage.

She wanted to build something. Something that was hers. But she didn’t even know where to start.

She stayed in the garden too long.

She decided she’d had enough. She’d change into something simpler, leave without saying goodbye.

The dressing rooms were down a long hallway she rarely used. She turned the corner, heels clicking softly against marble. One of the doors stood slightly open. She pushed it without thinking.

And froze.

Darren.

Not alone.

Her best friend Camila sat perched on the edge of the couch, close enough for her knee to touch his. Darren’s jacket was on the floor, shirt collar undone. His hand rested on her thigh like it belonged there.

Amira didn’t move. She didn’t make a sound.

Then she heard it — Darren’s voice, low, laughing. “She’s too wrapped up in her fairy tale to notice anything. Always chasing some dream that doesn’t exist.”

Camila’s reply was softer, but sharp enough to cut. “She doesn’t know who she is without her father’s name. She’s easy to read. Easy to manage.”

Darren smirked. “And you’re a lot less work.”

"She’s… fine, Darren, but you’re never yourself around her," Camila said softly, tracing the edge of his collar.

"Yeah," he laughed under his breath. "With you, I don’t have to play perfectly. With her… It’s like dating a press release."

"You’ll tell her after tonight?" Camila murmured.

"Soon," Darren replied. "I just want the Westwood connections locked in first."

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Amira stepped back before they could see her. Walked down the hall. Her heels were silent. Her hands were steady at her sides.

The elevator arrived with a soft chime. She stepped in, her reflection looking back from the mirrored wall — the perfect daughter, the perfect dress, the perfect life.

She didn’t cry. Didn’t shake.

She just whispered, “Of course.”

The doors slid shut.