Camren Oneshots & Imagines

Sugar (I)

Camila sighed as she ran her fingertips over the diamonds that sat around her neck. Today was the day, and to be honest, she was nervous. She was also Camila Cabello, which meant she wasn't allowed to be nervous. She gave herself a moment to feel, then took a deep breath, stared at herself in the mirror to force that side to her melted away, and left the room with her world-famous smile plastered across her face.

"Miss Cabello, I was wondering if we could-" a man scurried along beside her, a tablet clutched in his hands. 

She was quick to dismiss him with a wave. "Whatever it is, you'll have to take it up with my assistant."

"But I-"

Before he could continue, she pushed through a set of black doors and stepped out into the room where the magic would happen.

"Camila!" The familiar voice of her manager, Mr Gold, called out, immediately bringing the attention of everybody in the room onto her. Well, almost everybody. A woman in the back of the room remained hunched over her camera, seemingly oblivious to the star's presence. After blatantly staring at her for a good five seconds, Camila rolled her eyes with a scoff and turned to the one who'd called her. Perching herself in a tall canvas chair, she allowed a group of men and women to crowd around her, applying last-minute touch-ups to her hair and makeup before the shoot.

In the mirror, she noticed the woman from earlier, now aware of her existence, snapping photos of her reflection. Smirking slightly, she ensured that her expression held firm. The last thing she needed was a stranger taking photos of a less-than-put-together Camila. The world would lose its mind at the revelation that she, too, was human.

She was an expert in seeming present while her mind was elsewhere, so it felt like just seconds before Mr Gold's hand came into view, signalling that she was done in the chair. She took it gently, allowing him to help her down from her seat and up onto a small stage at the front of the room, dressed like a museum for the photoshoot. Moments later, the man she despised most made his way onto the stage, smiling toothily as he reached out for her waist. He moved to press his lips to hers, but she held up her hand to block him, claiming it was just to preserve her lipstick. She didn't feel bad. She knew she'd only prolonged the inevitable; the photographers would definitely want a shot of Hollywood's newest couple locking lips, sealing the image of their perfect romance. It was unavoidable but, for now, she was able to pretend like it didn't have to happen. She could pretend that he was just another model in just another shoot, handsy like they always are, and nothing more. Not a prospective sugar daddy gone wrong at the hands of public relations. Certainly not her husband to be, she ruminated as she adjusted the positioning of the weighted ring on her finger. The ring was huge—blocky and square and not the style she'd go for, but the diamond shimmered in the sun and gleamed under studio lights, so she supposed it did its job of showing the world that she had been claimed, that she was owned.

The photographers first directed them into a position that had Camila's back pressed harshly into the square edge of a glass display case, one leg hooked over her fiance's waist as he stood between her legs, further pushing her against the pedestal behind her. She was to hold his shoulder delicately, but with a passionate strength, to show off that ring and look over his shoulder with an intimidating look, but not glare. She smouldered, narrowing her eyes ever so slightly to accentuate the winged eyeliner she'd been given, and stared into the camera as though she were about to commit adultery with it. The thought made her smirk to suppress a childish giggle, which only caused the cameras to flash more rapidly. She made sure to give them all equal attention, like children, or fans begging for her time, before moving into another position.

All of it was well-rehearsed spontaneity. Each twitch of her muscles, each millimetre's difference, was calculated. Every tiny movement she made was a means of turning her physical form into a visually- and emotionally-appealing image. It was an art, and all he had to do was stand with her feet at shoulder-width, his hands alternating between being stuffed into his pockets and holding her. His steely blue eyes and stubbly beard did all the work for him.