Chapter 3 - Abram
I pace impatiently in my living room, glancing at the antique clock on the mantel every few seconds. Zara is due to arrive any minute for our design consultation. I've been looking forward to this all week. She might expect this to be our last meeting, the house almost all done, according to her.
But in truth, I simply want to prolong her visits, to have an excuse to keep her coming back as long as possible. I find my days more exciting when I have her company to look forward to.
In preparation to keep her around a little longer, I had my staff rearrange several corners. I step back, surveying the living room with a critical eye. The new chaise lounge fits perfectly in the alcove by the window, bathed in soft afternoon light. The space it previously took is now an empty corner begging for attention—perhaps an antique writing desk or a decorative pedestal. My fingers twitch, already imagining Zara's delicate hands arranging new pieces around my home.
The doorbell chimes, and my heart leaps. Right on time.
I take a deep breath, smoothing my hair and straightening my tie before striding to the door. I open it to find Zara standing there, lovely as ever, in a light blue sundress, her blonde hair swept back in a low bun with strands falling gently around her cheek.
I drink in the sight of her. “Zara, thank you for coming in,” I step aside, letting her through. Her sundress flutters as she steps inside, a flash of creamy skin above her knee making my breath catch.
"Of course, although I thought we had finalized all the details during our last meeting. I apologize for the inconvenience I caused you by not being more thorough," she replies with a polite smile as she passes by me. Always so professional and proper, goddamnit.
"I hope you don't mind; I've made a few changes since your last visit, and none of this is your fault," I say casually, averting my gaze from her legs and gesturing to the room. "I'd love your opinion on some additional pieces."
Zara's eyes widen slightly as she takes in the new format, her eyes trailing the new position of the chaise lounge, before retracing back to the now empty corner. "Oh! It looks lovely. Very… spacious."
I smile, moving closer. "I find myself with more space than I know what to do with these days. Perhaps you could help me fill it?"
She meets my gaze, a confident acceptance of the challenge evident in her eyes. "Of course, that's what I'm here for. Shall we discuss the areas you'd like to focus on?"
"Please, sit," I say, guiding her to the chair with a light touch on her lower back. "I have some ideas I'd love to run by you."
As Zara settles in, I take a seat across from her, leaning forward intently. My pulse quickens at her proximity, the scent of her perfume teasing my senses. Soon, I think. Soon, she'll see this is where she belongs.
I show her the first of the new spaces, a window seat overlooking the gardens. "I thought perhaps some new throw pillows to tie in the colors from outside," I suggest. “Can we get them custom-made to go with some new curtains?”
Zara nods thoughtfully, her eyes already analyzing the area. "Yes, I can see that working well. Perhaps in a botanical print, to really bring the outside in."
We continue on this way, moving from topic to topic as she offers her thoughts and ideas. I watch her closely, entranced by the way she lights up when discussing design, the melodic lilt of her voice, and the elegant gestures of her long fingers. She is a vision.
I pepper in questions, trying to draw her out. "Have you always had a passion for creating beautiful spaces?" I ask at one point.
"Oh yes, for as long as I can remember," Zara responds but then pauses. "But I don't want to bore you with the details. Shall we move on to the next thing on our list?"
I want to tell her that nothing about her could ever bore me, that I'm desperate to know everything about her. But I simply nod and reply, "Of course."
As she passes me some reference images, our arms brush, and a jolt of electricity zings through me at the contact. I wonder if she feels it, too. I long to reach out and caress her porcelain skin, to pull her against me and claim her pink rosebud lips with my own. The yearning is acute, almost painful.
But I control myself. I am a master at the long game, and I will not rush this seduction. Slowly but surely, I will break through Zara's polite reserve. I will make her mine, thoroughly and completely. It's only a matter of time.
***
Zara's visits become a regular occurrence, each one both sweetly anticipated and agonizing in its brevity. Like an addict, I find myself craving her presence, concocting increasingly flimsy pretexts to summon her—curtains an inch too short, squeaky doors. Trivial issues that could be easily remedied, but I pounce on them as opportunities.
"Ah, Zara, I'm so glad you could make it," I greet her warmly as she arrives yet again at my behest. My eyes drink her in hungrily—the blonde silken hair, the graceful lines of her throat, her lush, kissable mouth. "I'm afraid I need your expert opinion on reupholstering the ottoman in my study. And I was thinking I’d like to change the door to the living room to a fluted one."
She smiles, guileless and sunny. "Lead the way.”
Once inside, we sit and pour over fabric choices. “I want to suggest something, but I’m afraid you might not like it,” she says, looking at me with her eyes all squinted, playful, teasing, inviting.
“Tell me,” I urge, sitting back against my seat.
“Tweed,” she says, wincing.
“Tweed?” I raise my brows incredulously. “Like, granny tweed?”
“Well, not exactly,” she sings. “Your room is hyper-masculine. But we can use darker tones of tweed—brown and white, or black and gray. Still masculine in colors, but it could add a touch of softness to the room. Here,” she says, leaning forward with a sample book in hand, pointing at a small flutter of fabric. “Something like this.”
I lean forward and touch the fabric, gently letting the idea seep into my mind. Now that she points it out, I get it. “Let’s go with it,” I declare.
“Really?” she asks, her eyes widening with excitement.
I nod, not wishing to state the simple fact that, at this point, she could sell me neon pink, and I’d take it. Anything to keep her happy.
“You’ve got a good eye, you know?” is what I choose to go with instead. It’s the bare truth, and she deserves to hear it. “You see spaces in ways others don’t. You make the unexpected just click.”
“Thank you.” She bows her head slightly in a gracious movement.
I lean back, crossing my legs casually as I study Zara. “What made you choose interior design as a career?”
Her posture relaxes slightly, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Oh, well… I've always been drawn to beautiful spaces. Even as a child, I was constantly rearranging my room."
"Is that so?" I prompt, genuinely intrigued. "Tell me more."
Zara's eyes light up, her hands moving animatedly as she speaks. "It's the way a well-designed space can affect mood, you know? The right colors, textures, lighting… it can transform not just a room but the people in it. I’ve often found families can be happier, if they choose to change how their home is built at the moment. I know it sounds silly, but—"
“It doesn’t,” I say, hating how she’s cutting down the impact of her own theory. “Human psychology is dependent on the environment. I’ve often said so myself.”
She nods gently, her eyes locking with mine. Not wanting to break away from the fact that she’s finally opening up to me, I push my luck further. “What about your work at the gallery? How does that tie in?"
"The gallery!" she exclaims, her whole demeanor shifting. "It's my passion project. I've always believed art shouldn't be confined to sterile white walls. Our exhibits integrate pieces into livable spaces, showing how art can enhance daily life and spark imagination."
As Zara continues, her enthusiasm is infectious. I find myself leaning closer, captivated by the way her eyes sparkle, the flush in her cheeks. She speaks of color theory and spatial dynamics with the fervor of a true artist.
"You know," I interject softly, "I'd love to see your work sometime. Perhaps a private tour of the gallery?"
Zara pauses, seeming to remember herself. "Oh, I… that's very kind of you, Abram. We do offer guided tours by appointment."
And with that, she shuts down again. But I now know the way into her soul…art.
***
Later that evening, I find myself pacing my study, her scent still lingering in the air from the chair she sat in. I pick up my phone, scrolling to her number. My thumb hovers over the call button, hesitating. What excuse can I use this time?
I press dial before I can talk myself out of it.
"Zara? It's Abram," I say when she answers, my voice low. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."
"Not at all," she replies, a hint of surprise in her tone. "Is everything alright?"
I chuckle softly. "Yes, I just… I was thinking about that sculpture you mentioned. The one with the intertwining metal ribbons. I can't seem to get it out of my mind."
"Oh! The Moebius piece?" Her voice brightens, and I can picture her smile.
"That's the one. I wanted to put in the order and was wondering if you might come by tomorrow to discuss placement options. I think it would look stunning in the foyer."
There's a pause, and I hold my breath, waiting.
"I suppose I could stop by after work," she says finally. "If that's convenient for you?"
I smile, victorious. "Perfect. I'll see you then, Zara."
As I end the call, I can't help but feel a thrill of anticipation. Tomorrow can't come soon enough.
***
The next afternoon, Zara steps inside, her eyes widening as she takes in the foyer. "You've made some changes since yesterday," she observes, her gaze lingering on the now-empty walls.
I smile, pleased she's noticed. "I have indeed. Your influence, I'm afraid. You've awakened my inner art enthusiast. I had those pieces moved to the bar. I’d need some advice to acquire new ones for these walls, and I’m afraid you’re the only one who can help.”
A faint blush colors her cheeks. "I'm flattered, Abram. Shall we discuss the Moebius piece for now?"
"Of course," I reply, guiding her toward the living room. "But first, may I offer you a drink?”
“Oh.” She checks her watch in a nervous tick. I know she said she’d be coming after work, and so I decide that, for today, I only need to give her an excuse.
“I have an excellent Bordeaux I’d hate to open and let go unfinished," I insist. “I promise, it’s a real delight, and you’d be doing me a favor.”
I see her eyes light up at the mention of a Bordeaux, making a mental note that she likes it. “Very well,” she accedes.
As we settle onto the plush sofa, wine glasses in hand, I find myself leaning in closer, captivated by the way her eyes light up as she speaks about art. Our conversation flows effortlessly, touching on everything from Renaissance masters to contemporary sculptures.
"You know," I say, refilling her glass, "I never thought I'd find someone who could make talking about art so very exciting. But you, Zara… you bring it to life."
She laughs, the sound like music to my ears. "I'm glad we have common ground there. It’s good for my business,” she jokes.
Suddenly, the front door swings open, and a familiar voice calls out. "Abram? Are you home?"
I freeze, my body tensing. Vladimir. What the hell is he doing here?
My brother rounds the corner, stopping short when he sees us. His eyes narrow, darting between Zara and me, taking in our proximity on the couch.
"Oh," he says, his tone laden with surprise and something else I can't quite place. "I didn't realize you had company."
I clear my throat, carefully setting my wine glass on the coffee table. "Vladimir, this is Zara. She's helping me with some art acquisitions for the house and is the wonderful decorator working behind the scenes."
Zara stands, smoothing her skirt. "It's nice to meet you," she says, extending her hand to Vladimir. "I was just leaving, actually."
I rise quickly, fighting the urge to pull her back. "Are you sure? We haven't finished discussing the Moebius piece."
She smiles apologetically, gathering her portfolio. "Another time, perhaps. I have an early meeting tomorrow."
I walk her to the door, and only when we reach do I realize my hand rests on her lower back. I immediately remove it, suddenly hyper-aware of Vladimir's gaze burning into me from behind. "Thank you for coming, Zara. I'll call you about the next piece."
"Of course," she replies, her voice soft. "Goodnight, Abram."
I watch her walk away and close the door behind her.
When I turn, Vladimir is leaning against a wall, arms crossed, an amused expression on his face, like he’s trying to hold back laughter.
"What's so funny?" I ask, my tone defensive as I make my way back to the living room. Vladimir follows, his footsteps echoing in the silence that settled after Zara's departure.
"Nothing, Brother," he replies casually, though the glint in his eyes tells me otherwise. "I just didn't know you were into so into art now."
I shoot him a warning look, trying to keep my tone light. "I’ve always liked art, Vladimir. I'm simply expanding my horizons."
He chuckles, shaking his head. "Expanding your horizons or expanding your interests in Zara?"
I freeze, the accusation hitting me like a physical blow. "What do you mean?"
Vladimir shrugs, his gaze piercing through me. "I mean, don't play dumb, Abram. I saw the way you were looking at her. The way you were hanging onto her every word."
My jaw tightens at his implication. Vladimir has always been too perceptive for his own good. "You're reading too much into it. Zara is a professional, and I respect her expertise."
"Uh-huh," Vladimir says, unconvinced. "Just be careful, Brother. You know how these things can get messy. Does she know what you do for… a living? I doubt she dreamt of someday romancing it up with a guy in the Bratva.”
I grit my teeth at his words, the reminder of my dangerous world clashing with the image of Zara's innocence in my mind. "She doesn't need to know that side of me," I answer sharply. “And besides, it’s strictly professional. Anything else is just fun and games. She is a beautiful woman. It’d be a waste not to have a little fun while we’re at it, isn’t it now?”
“If you say so,” Vladimir says after a pause. “But you know how these things go. You let someone in, and suddenly they're a liability."
I resist the urge to snap back a retort, knowing Vladimir means well, but his concerns are unwarranted. Zara is different. She's innocent, untainted by the darkness that surrounds me. And I intend to keep it that way.
"I appreciate your concern, Brother," I say, my voice calm but firm. "But there's nothing to worry about. This is business and harmless fun, nothing more."
Vladimir studies me for a moment before nodding, apparently satisfied with my answer. "All right, just be careful. I'll see myself out."
Vladimir leaves, and I find myself standing there, mentally berating myself for reducing her to harmless fun. But what other choice did I have? I haven’t been able to make sense of how I feel about her.
She’s the last person I think of before I sleep and the first I think to call when I wake. My days are brighter with her in them; my time flows faster when she’s near me. I feel like I’m one step closer to conquering a summit when she lets slip a small detail about her private life.
Zara is all I think of, to the point of obsession.
And that’s not something I can confess.