Bewitched

13

MUMTAZ

The morning sun gleamed off the cobblestone streets of Milan, making everything feel like it had been plucked from a postcard. My Saint Laurent pumps clicked as I navigated through the narrow alleyways, the sound sharp and rhythmic, reflecting the urgency I felt. A Valentino blazer hung effortlessly over my shoulders, my black knee-length pencil skirt hugging my waist in a way that screamed sophistication. I wasn't just walking to work—I was walking through a dream, and today, that dream was about to become reality.

In my hands, I held the Holy Grail—a Schiaparelli dress that was set to star in a major shoot later today. A delicate masterpiece of couture, draped in a protective garment bag, it carried the weight of my career on its gilded threads. The actress for today's shoot had rejected fifteen dresses, each one more luxurious than the last, until she laid her eyes on this one. The dress wasn't even out yet—the collection hadn't debuted, and it had taken blood, sweat, and tears to acquire it. A lesser person would have given up, but not me. No, I was determined to prove myself, to show Milan that Mumtaz wasn't just some girl from Nigeria—she was a force to be reckoned with.

I adjusted my glasses—ones I never actually wore unless I had to read something, but they completed my look today. They gave me a certain air of authority, a touch of Monica Bellucci's elegance from the 1995 Dolce & Gabbana spring show. God, I was in love with this moment.

But then, in the middle of my bliss, my mind drifted back to Mr. Whiskers, the kitten that Muntassir had gifted me. I sighed, thinking of the pictures Muntassir kept sending—Mr. Whiskers curled up on the couch, Mr. Whiskers chasing a toy, Mr. Whiskers wearing a ridiculous little bowtie. No matter how much I tried to distance myself from Muntassir, every time I saw that kitten, my heart softened. He was relentless—every night, FaceTime calls I ignored, messages I left unread, but still, he wouldn't budge. It was as if my being in Milan, my dream city, made no difference to him.

I shook my head. I couldn't afford to think about him right now. I had bigger things to handle. I had a dress to deliver.

Arriving at the office, I handed over the Schiaparelli masterpiece to my supervisor, who gave me an approving nod. Mission accomplished—for now. Before heading to the shoot location, I decided to take a quick detour to the break room. I needed to breathe. Sasha and Piper were already there, chatting away, their eyes lighting up when they saw me walk in.

"Mumtaz, you look like a vision," Sasha said, her eyes scanning my outfit. "Valentino blazer, Saint Laurent pumps—wow. You're giving serious boss vibes today."Piper grinned, leaning back against the counter. "Monica Bellucci much? Seriously, this is a look."

I couldn't help but beam at that. "That's exactly what I was going for," I said, twirling a little for emphasis. "The Dolce & Gabbana 1995 spring show? Iconic."

They both laughed, but then Piper gave me a knowing look. "So, what's the latest with Prince Charming? Has he finally left you alone?"

I groaned, rolling my eyes as I reached for my cup of coffee. "Can we please not call him that? He's more of a nuisance than anything else. And no, he hasn't left me alone. He calls every night. Every. Single. Night."

Sasha raised an eyebrow. "And you still plan to break off the engagement once you're back in Nigeria?"

"Of course," I said with a firm nod. "This whole thing was just to get my family off my back so I could come to Milan for this internship. The second I step foot back home, it's over. No way I'm giving up all of this," I gestured around dramatically, "just to go play housewife."