Chapter 6 - Zara
The city streets blur past as I grip the steering wheel, my fingers steady. Abram's face flashes in my mind—those piercing grey eyes, that maddening smile. I clench my jaw, pushing the image away.
"It was a mistake," I mutter to myself. "A one-time thing."
"It was a mistake," I say aloud, though my voice is firm. "A one-time thing."
But even as I say it, his touch still lingers on my skin, his deep voice echoing in my ear. I’ve always had a clear rule: business and pleasure do not mix. And yet, with Abram, that line blurred. But one night doesn’t define me. I’m not someone who lets a fleeting moment take over.
I sigh heavily. " Focus, Zara. Your career is what matters. "
The guilt and desire war inside me until I pull into the gallery parking lot. But now, it’s back to business—no more thoughts of Abram.
I smooth down my skirt and check my reflection in the rearview mirror, making sure I look every bit the consummate professional. No one can know about last night. And it won’t happen again.
Inside, the familiar white walls and gleaming floors of the gallery greet me. I breathe in the scent of oil paints and wood polish, feeling myself relax. This is where I belong.
"Morning, Zara," calls Mia from the front desk. "The vintage Rothko arrived this morning. Want to take a look?"
"Absolutely," I reply with a smile. "Let's get it hung in the east wing."
As we carefully unpack the painting, I lose myself in analyzing the bold strokes and vivid colors. This is what I live for—the thrill of showcasing incredible art.
"I think this might be his best work yet," I muse, stepping back to take in the full effect.
Mia nods in agreement. "It's stunning. You have such an eye for these things, Zara. I remember how you got us all hunting for his earlier, unknown works. And now, they’re all the rage amongst the collectors.”
Her compliment bolsters me. This gallery is my life's work, the culmination of years of dedication and ambition. I won't let anything—or anyone—derail that. It was just a one-night thing, and it’s good I left before he woke. I smile, satisfaction blooming in my chest. This is my domain. My success. A reminder that one night of letting go doesn’t undo everything I’ve built. I walked away from Abram this morning because I know where my priorities lie.
I left before breakfast, and that’s exactly how it should be.
"Let's go over the guest list for Friday's viewing," I say, all business now. "I want to make sure we've covered all our bases."
As I dive into work, Abram fades to the back of my mind. Here, surrounded by beauty and possibility, I'm in control. This is who I am—driven, focused, unstoppable.
One night of weakness won't change that. It can't.
***
"Zara, come take a look at this," my colleague Alex calls out, wheeling in a large crate. "New Russian piece just arrived."
I make my way over, curiosity piqued. As Alex carefully removes the protective wrapping, my breath catches. The painting is a swirl of deep greys and silvers, reminiscent of a cold embrace. It reminds me of a haunting Moscow morning, not that I’ve ever been. But that is the power of art, of imagination.
Suddenly, I'm back in Abram's arms, his warm hands tracing my skin, his lips on my neck. He looked at me with such care, such gentleness unfamiliar to his usual cold exterior and when he caressed my curves with such delight…
"Zara? You okay?" Alex's voice snaps me back to reality.
I clear my throat, willing the heat in my cheeks to subside. "Fine, just… admiring the brushwork. Let's hang it over there." I gesture to a blank wall, desperate to regain my composure.
As Alex moves the painting, I take a deep breath. Get it together, Zara. Abram is old news.
"It's a striking piece," I manage, my voice steadier now. "The artist really captures the intensity of—”
The words die in my throat as the door swings open, and I instinctively turn, only to see him .
It’s Abram, standing in the doorway of my gallery with the sunlight framing his figure like he belongs here. I stand still, hands now clasped together firmly, looking as professional as I can. What is he doing here?
Considering how devastatingly handsome he looks, I meet his eyes head-on, so as to not be distracted by the rest of him.
"Zara," he says, his deep voice sending shivers down my spine as he takes purposeful strides toward me. "We need to talk."
I keep my face neutral, though it’s a struggle, acutely aware of Alex's curious gaze. "Mr. Zolotov," I reply, my tone clipped. "I wasn't expecting you. Do you have an appointment?"
Abram's lips curve into that infuriatingly sexy smirk. "I don't need one. You know why I'm here."
The tension crackles between us as he walks inches close to me, confidence oozing from every pore. I fight the urge to step back, to run. I won't give him the satisfaction.
"Actually, I don't," I say, lifting my chin defiantly. "This is my place of work, and you can't just barge in here unannounced."
His eyes narrow, the playfulness replaced by something darker, more intense. "You left without saying goodbye this morning. That was rude."
I stiffen at the accusation, memories of last night rushing back. But I won’t let them control me. "I thought we were clear. Last night was a mistake," I say evenly, keeping my voice low so Alex can’t overhear as I begin to walk away, Abram at my heels as I expected him to be. "It won’t happen again. Now, please leave before I call security. And you can’t go talking to me like this, not in front of my colleagues."
Abram walks closer now, so close our hands could almost touch. Even as the words leave my mouth, I can feel my resolve weakening beside the heat of his skin, beneath that look in his eyes. God help me, I want him. And from the look in his eyes, he knows it.
Abram's hand closes around my wrist, his touch electric. Before I can protest, he's pulling me toward the storage room, away from prying eyes. My heart pounds as he shuts the door behind us, trapping me in the small space with his imposing presence.
"What are you doing?" I whisper, my voice trembling despite my efforts to stay calm.
He leans in, his breath hot against my ear. "You said you didn’t want people to hear, Zara. And this seems a better place to tell you I’m not giving you an out just yet."
I shudder, torn between desire and indignation. "I'm not yours, Abram. Last night doesn't change anything."
His chuckle is low, dangerous. "Oh, but it does. You can't deny we share something ."
The way he says something, with his fingers trailing up my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake, ignites such impossible potential for the wildest of dreams. I try to step back, but there's nowhere to go. "This is inappropriate. My colleagues—"
"Let them wonder," he murmurs, his lips brushing my neck. "I want everyone to know you belong to me now."
I bristle at his arrogance, even as my body betrays me. "I don't belong to anyone."
Abram pulls back slightly, his intense gaze locked on mine. "Give us a chance. I can give you everything you've ever wanted."
His words are seductive, promising a world of pleasure. But beneath the charm, I sense a possessiveness that both thrills and terrifies me. I take a deep breath, steeling myself against the magnetic pull of his presence. My voice comes out stronger this time, fueled by a surge of indignation.
"What I want," I say, struggling to keep my voice steady, "is for you to leave. Now."
But even as I speak, I'm not sure if I truly want him to go. But words are all I have, to not fall weak, and I convince myself it’s the only way.
I have to be the firm one here, because he’s got no reservations. And so, I do the job for both of us.
"Listen carefully, Abram. What happened between us was a one-time thing. Nothing more."
His eyes narrow, a flicker of something dangerous passing through them. "You don't mean that."
"I do," I insist, lifting my chin defiantly and meeting his gaze head-on. He needs to take my word for it, for I don’t know how much longer I can keep up the nonchalant front. "My independence isn't up for negotiation. I won't let anyone—especially not you—dictate my choices."
Abram's jaw clenches, his hands coming to rest on either side of me, caging me in. "You're making a mistake, Zara. We could be incredible together."
I push against his chest, creating space between us. "The only mistake was letting you think you know what I want. This is my gallery, my life. You have no place here."
His lips curl into a smirk, undeterred by my words. "Is that so?" He leans in again, his voice a low rumble. "Then why are you trembling?"
I curse my body's betrayal, willing myself to stay strong. "Because I'm angry. You need to leave. Now."
Abram's hand cups my cheek, his touch both gentle and possessive. "I'm not giving up on us. You'll see—"
"There is no us," I interrupt, jerking away from his touch. "Get out, Abram. I won't ask again."
Our gazes lock in a silent battle of wills. The air between us crackles with tension, desire warring with determination. For a moment, I fear he might refuse, might try to overpower me with his sheer presence. But then, unexpectedly, he steps back.
"This isn't over," he says, his voice a promise and a threat. “I’ll be back.”
As he turns to leave, I'm left with a maelstrom of emotions—relief, disappointment, and an unsettling certainty that he's right. This is far from over.
I step out of the room and watch Abram's retreating form, his broad shoulders cutting an imposing figure as he strides out of the gallery. The door closes behind him with a soft click, but the air still thrums with his lingering presence.
"Damn him," I mutter, running a shaky hand through my hair. What the hell was he thinking, coming in here like this? No man has ever acted in such a sure, certain manner. No man has ever put up a fight for me.
No man should.
I turn away from the door, trying to regain my composure, but my reflection in a nearby mirror betrays me. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes bright with a mix of anger and something else I refuse to name.
"Get it together, Zara," I tell myself sternly.
But even as I try to focus on the tasks at hand, Abram's words echo in my mind. 'This isn't over.' The promise in his voice sends a shiver down my spine, and it’s not just steeped in anger.
There’s desire, too, though I fear to admit it.