This is the sequel to Heart Ain't a Brain. If you haven't, read that first!
They say don't fall in love, it's a mistake.
The trajectory of one's life can change in the blink of an eye. So what happens when a series of tragic events changes the cour...
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Raelle
Cause it's hard enough you got to treat me like this Lonely enough to let you treat me like this Do you really love me Or just wanna love me down
Shirt by SZA pulsed through the loft, its sultry beats weaving seamlessly into the air, setting the perfect mood for the boutique's photoshoot. The atmosphere was thick with creativity and purpose, a slow-burning electricity that sent tingles up my spine.
This was it—the moment where my vision, the countless sleepless nights, and all the painstaking effort I had poured into this process would finally come to life.
Pulling this shoot together at the last minute had been nothing short of a miracle. With her relentless hustle and a few well-placed connections from her days bartending at a popular club in downtown Atlanta a few years ago, Dreka had worked her magic. She secured me a photographer and nine models, with Mari completing the lineup as my tenth. It was nothing short of divine timing.
Mari, Chris, and I had just touched down in Atlanta last night, exhaustion clinging to our bones, yet here we were—hitting the ground running before the sun had even fully risen. Chris was somewhere, still lost in sleep, while Amarie and I had been up before dawn, curating every last detail to perfection.
By the grace of God, I had managed to find the perfect loft on Airbnb—an absolute gem that felt like it had been made for this moment. The space was everything I had envisioned and more—exposed brick walls that whispered of raw authenticity, floor-to-ceiling windows that drank in the golden afternoon light and spilled it generously over every surface, casting a warm, ethereal glow.
The energy inside was intoxicating, a heady mix of anticipation, ambition, and the faint floral notes of setting spray lingering in the air. The models had started filing in a few hours ago, each one bringing a unique essence to the space. Women of all shapes, sizes, and backgrounds moved fluidly throughout the loft—some adjusting their outfits, others checking their reflections in the standing mirrors, sharing soft laughter and whispered encouragement.
They were eager, professional, and most importantly, understood the assignment. This wasn't just about looking good in the clothes; it was about embodying them, breathing life into the pieces I had chosen in a way that made them more than just fabric and stitching.
We had already shot the loungewear collection—silk robes that clung delicately to soft curves, ribbed knit bodysuits that accentuated every dip and rise, oversized pullovers that felt like second skin. Now, we were stepping into the more formal pieces—the structured blazers that sculpted the body like they were made for the wearer, satin gowns that cascaded like liquid gold, two-piece sets that blended elegance with an edgy modernity. Every piece was an extension of me, of my vision, of what I wanted this brand to stand for.
Amarie was up now for her final shots and had been killing it all day. She was currently standing in front of the camera, completely in her element, wearing one of the standout pieces from my nude line—a beige bodycon tube dress that molded to her frame like it had been poured onto her. The color was a seamless match to her golden brown skin, and paired with the delicate lace-up heeled sandals that wrapped around her legs, she looked like something out of a dream—effortless, sultry, powerful.
