Chapter 7 - Abram
It’s late at night, but unable to sleep, I find myself scrolling through Zara's Instagram feed, studying each post intently. Her contagious smile lights up photos from her trip to Santorini last summer. The pastel sunsets make her honey-brown eyes sparkle. She looks so carefree, feet dangling over the cliffside, wind whipping through her blonde hair. I imagine myself beside her, making her laugh.
Her love of art and travel shines through—museums in Paris, galleries in London, ancient temples in Bali. In each photo, she’s got this carefree laugh, true uninhibited joy and I long to see this side of her. Through our work together, I find she never truly let herself be free, our professional relationship hovering at the edges of her real self.
Zara's Pinterest boards are a treasure trove of inspiration. She pins recipes for chocolate souffles, her favorite. Flowers—lots of lilies. Travel destinations top her wanderlust list—Hawaii, Thailand, Morocco. I devour every detail. Her essence embeds itself in my mind.
My phone buzzes. I ignore it, too engrossed in my task.
"Boss, the shipment's arrived," my associate's voice crackles through the intercom.
"Not now," I growl, silencing the device.
"Hmm, another post about Hawaii," I murmur, tracing the curve of her smile with my finger. "You really want to go there, don't you, Zara?"
She wants adventure? I’ll give her adventure.
I reach for my phone and pull up my concierge's number.
"Two first-class tickets to Honolulu. Open-ended return," I command. "And have a bouquet of stargazer lilies sent to this gallery address every day for a week. Make sure the receiver knows it’s from me and have the tickets sent tonight itself."
"Yes, Mr. Zolotov. Who would it be addressed to?"
“Ms. Zara Lyons.”
“Noted, Sir. Anything else.”
I pause, considering. "No. That will be all."
I end the call, satisfaction coursing through me. I told her I’m not done yet, and I’m the kind of man who means what he says. Now, the question is, will these gestures be enough to show Zara just how interested I am in her? Enough to let her open the gates for me?
***
The next morning, I’m awakened most unceremoniously by the loud ringing of my phone.
“What the—” I groan. It’s 7 AM. I’m about to silence the call when I see the name flash across the screen.
Zara.
I immediately sit up, a grin on my face. So, she received my gifts . At least she’s calling me after saying she wants nothing to do with me. It looks like my plan worked.
Without wasting a second, I pick up the call.
“Zara?” I ask, my voice rumbling from sleep.
“Did I wake you?” Her sweet, melodious tone lingers in through the call.
“Yes,” I say. I’m about to tell her I don’t mind , when her tone changes.
“Good!” she almost shrieks. I widen my eyes at that voice, amused by her reaction. “Because I’m not okay with whatever this is you think you’re doing!”
“So you didn’t like my gifts?” I ask, curious to know what it is she does like.
“They were…” Zara hesitates, and I can almost picture her biting her lip. “Inappropriate.” Is the response she finally settles on, her voice soft but firm.
My lips curl into a smirk. “Inappropriate? I thought you liked lilies?”
“Of course, I like lilies!” she says, high-pitched and clearly frustrated again. “But that doesn’t mean you can just invade my personal space like that. And what the hell were you thinking? Tickets to Hawaii?”
Ah, the fire in her. It’s what draws me to her more than anything else. “I just wanted to show you a good time, Zara. Is it a crime to want to make you happy?”
“I will NOT go to Hawaii with you,” she says. I can almost see her shaking her head, the blonde strands ruffling around her shoulders. I smile, the image filling me with longing.
“So? Go with a friend,” I suggest. I simply want to make her happy, and if it’s a friend she wants to go along with, then that’s fine by me.
“Abram Zolotov!” she huffs into the phone.
“Using my full name now, are we?” I grin.
“Oh, you—” she sputters. “Look. I don’t want these tickets. I’ll have them sent back to your place. And please, no more flowers or gifts. You can’t just buy me, Abram.”
"Not at all," I reply, holding my ground. "I simply wanted to give you something you'd enjoy."
Zara scoffs. "Well, don’t. I have to go now. Things are busy here, with the auction happening this weekend. You need to stop this. Now."
I frown. Before I can say another word, she ends the call, leaving me utterly confused. From my experience with women, I thought showering them with gifts usually worked.
Clearly, I was wrong. Despite the circumstances, I find myself smiling at her fiery response. Clearly, Zara is not like other women. It’s a refreshing realization, and I find myself drawn even deeper into her depths. This is the Zara I've been longing to see—passionate, independent, unwilling to be swayed by material things.
Clearly, it’s going to take a lot more work on my part to woo her into my arms.
If gifts don’t work, perhaps showing her I care about her in every manner possible might. And so, I begin to plan my next move.
***
One evening that weekend, I stride into the gallery’s auction room. The room falls silent as I enter, assessing this virtual newcomer, all eyes drawn to me. But I only have eyes for one person.
Zara stands at the podium, looking breathtaking in a form-fitting black dress and blazer that hugs her curves just right. Our gazes lock, and I see a mixture of surprise and apprehension in her eyes, but it’s so fleeting that I wonder if I imagined it in the first place. When her eyes meet mine again, she flicks over me with a polite, thin smile on her face, as though I’m any other potential buyer in the crowd.
The auction begins at three hundred thousand. "Five hundred thousand," someone calls out.
Gasps ripple through the crowd. Zara smiles as though she knew this would happen. "Five hundred thousand to the gentleman in the front. Do I hear six hundred thousand?"
I raise my paddle. “Six hundred thousand.”
Her smile wavers just a bit, but she puts it back on.
“Seven hundred thousand,” the gentleman in the front bellows to the room.
“Eight hundred,” I keep my paddle in the air.
A hushed silence falls over the room. “Eight hundred,” Zara’s voice cracks. No one responds. “Sold,” she says, her voice almost strained. The gavel falls.
I smile and bring my paddle back down.
As the next piece is presented, I raise my paddle again. "One million."
More gasps. Zara stands strong, but I notice her need to grip the podium. "One million dollars. Going once, going twice… sold."
With each subsequent piece, I increase my bids, fighting against the rest. Two million. Three million. Four. The crowd's reactions grow more intense with each outrageous sum.
Zara's professional facade begins to crack. Her cheeks flush, and I can see the internal struggle playing out on her face. She's torn between her duty to the auction and her desire to put me in my place.
As I bid on the final piece, our eyes meet once more. In that moment, I know I've succeeded in getting under her skin. The question is, what will she do about it?
The gavel falls for the final time, and I can't help but smirk as I watch Zara's composure crumble. Her eyes, wide with disbelief, dart between me and the auction ledger.
"Thirty million dollars," she announces, her voice barely above a whisper. "The auction is… closed."
The crowd erupts into a frenzy of excited chatter. I rise from my seat, buttoning my jacket as I make my way toward the stage. People try to stop me, get in a word, and find out who I am, but I ignore all attempts at conversation.
There’s only one person I need to speak with. She’s still on stage, talking to a few people, but from how her chest heaves, I can see her mind is engrossed elsewhere. Her fury, it seems, can’t be contained. I’m about to break into a jog toward her when Zara's colleague, Alex, intercepts me.
"Mr. Zolotov," he says, extending his hand. "An impressive showing tonight. Shall we discuss the logistics?"
I nod, my eyes still fixed on Zara.
"Of course," I reply smoothly. "I assume a wire transfer will be acceptable?"
Alex nods eagerly. "Absolutely. If you'll follow me, we can sort out the paperwork."
As we move toward a private room, I catch sight of Zara again. The fire in her eyes sends a thrill through me. I've rattled her cage, but hopefully, she’ll see I’m only trying to support her career.
In the office, Alex fumbles with the contracts. "This is… unprecedented," he stammers. "We've never had a single buyer purchase an entire auction before."
I lean back in my chair, exuding casual confidence. "There's a first time for everything."
The moment I’m done signing the papers, I hear the click of heels approaching. A door from one of the offices flies open, and there she is—my fierce, beautiful Zara, radiating anger and indignation.
I can't help but grin.
“Hello,” I say, smiling at her.
The fury in Zara's eyes is intoxicating. She storms toward me, her elegant dress swishing angrily around her legs.
"You," she hisses, jabbing a finger at my chest. "Outside. Now."
I rise smoothly, buttoning my jacket. "If you'll excuse us, Alex," I say, never taking my eyes off Zara. "It seems we have some matters to discuss."
The cool night air hits us as we exit the venue. Zara whirls on me, her cheeks flushed, tendrils of hair escaping from her elegant updo. She has never looked more beautiful.
"What the hell was that?" she demands. "Why did you feel the need to throw your weight around like some… some arrogant oligarch?"
I raise an eyebrow, amused. "Is that how you see me, Zara? An oligarch?"
"How else am I supposed to see you?" she snaps, her voice unwavering. "You waltz in and buy out an entire auction like it's nothing. Do you have any idea how that makes me look?"
Her words hit me like a splash of cold water. I've miscalculated. In my eagerness to impress her, I've only managed to insult her professional pride.
"Zara," I say softly, "I apologize if my actions offended you. That was never my intention."
She scoffs, unimpressed. “Intentions mean nothing if your actions show something else entirely. So tell me, what exactly were you trying to prove?”
“All I wanted to do was support your career," I offer her the truth.
"Support? By buying out the entire auction?" she shakes her head in disbelief. "That’s not support. That’s a power play. Throwing money around doesn’t make you admirable or supportive. It’s obnoxious. Especially to me."
Suddenly, I see how wrong I’ve been. Lavish gifts and money won’t win over someone like Zara. She isn’t someone who can be bought, and the realization is both humbling and strangely reassuring. If she chooses to be with me, it will be because of who I am, not what I have.
"I didn’t mean to undermine you," I say gently. "I thought I was supporting the cause."
She crosses her arms, standing firm. “Art is my life, Abram. It’s meant to be shared, not bought and locked away. You took that opportunity from others who were genuinely interested in showcasing those pieces. Don’t you see how your actions undermined everything I worked for?”
I sigh. She’s right, of course. I allowed my obsessive interest in her to override good sense.
"You're right," I admit quietly. "I handled things poorly. I’ll make it right. I’ll donate the pieces and ensure they’re seen by the public. It’s wrong to keep them locked away when they should belong to the world."
Her gaze softens, but only slightly. She’s not fully convinced yet. I can see the wheels turning in her brilliant mind. She's reassessing me, and I find myself holding my breath.
“Don’t do me any favors,” she says at last, her voice steel. “Do it because it’s the right thing to do, not because you think it will earn you points with me.”
I nod, chastened. She’s stronger than I thought—smarter too. I admire her even more for standing her ground.
“Good,” she says after a pause, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “Now, what exactly were you trying to achieve with this little stunt?”
"What I wanted to get," I say softly, fiercely, "is you."
She stares at me, her lips parted, her breath coming quick. I can see the war behind her eyes, the push and pull of attraction and resistance. I let the moment stretch, let the tension build.
I step closer.
She doesn’t flinch. If anything, she straightens, meeting my gaze head-on. “And you think buying out an entire auction would get you that?”
I smile at her sharpness. “No, but I had to try something.”
“Try something else next time,” she counters, her eyes glinting with challenge. “Money doesn’t impress me, Abram. Don’t forget that.”
The tension between us builds, electric. She’s testing me, pushing to see how far I’ll go. I decide to push back.
"Have dinner with me."
Her laugh is sharp and disbelieving and she widens her eyes incredulously, placing her hands on her hips. "You cannot be serious."
"I've never been more serious in my life." I step closer, crowding her space. She doesn't back down. "One dinner. That's all I'm asking."
"And if I say no? Will you buy out my next auction, too?"
I smile. "Don't tempt me."
She shakes her head, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “You’re impossible.”
“Just one dinner,” I challenge, extending my hand. “That’s all I’m asking.”
Her eyes flick to my hand, but don’t take it. She’s weighing her options, her mind always two steps ahead. “One dinner,” she says at last, her voice steady, “but after that, we go back to our separate lives.”
I nod. She’s still in control, and I respect that.
***
The drive to the restaurant is charged with simmering tension, an electric undercurrent that hums beneath my skin. Zara sits beside me, her posture stiff, her gaze fixed determinedly out the window. She's trying so hard to maintain her composure, to cling to her anger, but I can see the cracks forming. The way her fingers twitch in her lap, the way her breath catches when I shift too close.
She's not as immune to me as she'd like to believe.
We arrive at the restaurant, a small, intimate place I chose specifically for this moment. The lighting is low, the tables secluded, the atmosphere ripe with possibility. I guide her to our table with a hand at the small of her back, feeling the way she tenses and then, almost imperceptibly, relaxes into my touch.
"This is not what I expected," she says as we sit, her eyes roaming over the elegant décor and the flickering candles.
"I'm full of surprises," I reply, signaling the waiter for wine. "You'll learn that about me."
She arches a brow. "Awfully presumptuous of you to assume there will be more opportunities for me to learn anything about you."
I lean forward, holding her gaze. "I'm a patient man, Zara. I have a feeling you'll come around."
"I know what I want," I say simply. "And I'm not afraid to go after it."
She scoffs, but there's a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her lips.
The wine arrives, a rich, deep red. I watch as Zara takes a sip and her lips lightly stain with the color. It's strangely erotic, and I feel a surge of heat, of want.
Over dinner, I steer the conversation to topics I know Zara is passionate about from studying her social media—obscure art, classical literature, and avant-garde cinema. Her initial wariness fades as she expounds eloquently on her favorite films and analyzes symbolism in Renaissance paintings. I listen intently, asking thoughtful questions, impressing her with my knowledge.
"I'm pleasantly surprised," she admits after a lengthy discourse on German Expressionism. "I didn't take you for a cinephile."
"I appreciate the finer things," I reply. "Art, culture, beauty…" My eyes linger on her meaningfully.
I see her trying to maintain her composure in the way she keeps her hand on her glass, to keep it from shaking, in all probability. "Is that what drew you to those paintings?" she challenges, taking a sip before putting down the glass. "A love of beauty?"
"Among other things," I murmur.
Her lips part slightly at my indirect admission. Our gazes lock, an undercurrent of attraction simmering below the surface. And then, she averts her gaze.
"Why me?" she asks suddenly, setting down her glass. "Why go to all this trouble?"
I consider her question, weighing my words. "Because you're different," I say at last. "You're not swayed by money or power. You have a strength, an integrity, that I admire. And," I add, my voice dropping lower, "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't incredibly attracted to you."
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn't look away. "Attraction isn't enough. Not for me."
"I know." I reach across the table, brushing my fingers over her hand. “But what I don’t know is what actually interests you in a man.”
She frowns, as though taken aback. “No one’s ever asked me that before.”
“But you must have dated men before?” I inquire, curious to know what idiots she’s been around with. Had she been my woman, I’d want to be the man she desires, just to make sure she doesn’t slip away.
“I haven’t really dated that much,” she sighs. “I haven’t been into casual relationships much.”
“Oh?”
She takes a sip of her wine. “There was a guy in freshman year I thought I was in love with. Just one . Found out he cheated on me. After that, I decided, never again.”
My eyes widen, incredulous. “Cheated on YOU? Impossible!” I can’t help but blurt out.
She looks up, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. I nod encouragingly, and she carries on. “For a while,” she tries to keep her voice from trembling. “I thought I wasn’t good enough. Even while we were together, he’d point out every flaw. Sometimes, I wasn’t thin enough. Other times, I wasn’t fun enough. And when he cheated, I thought it was because I wasn’t good enough. It took me months to learn how to function like a normal person again, to remember who I was before I met him.”
My heart clenches at the vulnerability in her voice, the pain etched in her features. How could someone like Zara, so brilliant and beautiful, ever doubt her worth?
"Zara," I say softly, my fingers tightening around hers. "You are more than enough. You are extraordinary. Any man who fails to see that is a fool, unworthy of you."
She blinks back tears with a determination in her soul that stops them from falling. A myriad of emotions dance in those brown depths—longing, fear, desire. And something else, something deeper she hasn’t shared yet.
"I don't know what you see in me," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I see strength. Beauty that transcends the physical. A woman who makes me better,” I say softly. “With you, I feel my mind opening up, Zara.”
She looks up at me, her eyes glued to mine, a spark of curiosity in her expression, as though she’s trying to read what lies beneath my words. Then, after a long pause, she tilts her head just slightly. “That’s sweet, Abram,” she says softly, but I can hear the skepticism laced in her tone. She’s heard words like these before—empty compliments meant to flatter. But I won’t go around changing her mind with words alone, that much I already know.
I nod and lean forward, pouring her some more wine. “You never answered my question, you know?”
Her brows furrow. “Your question?”
“What it is you’re looking for in a man.”
Her eyes shift away, and she twirls a strand of blonde hair between her fingers, as if considering her answer. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter, thoughtful. “Since my parents died, I’ve had to be in charge of myself. I always wondered what it would be like to be in a loving family. To have someone care for you, and for you to care for them.”
She pauses, biting her lower lip, holding back. “I guess I want a man, not a man-child. Someone who supports me but offers that quiet strength that allows me to shut off for a while. Someone who…” Her voice trails off, and she shakes her head as though dismissing the thought.
I instinctively lean forward, feeling an urgency to understand the part of herself she’s trying to conceal. “Someone who what, Zara?”
Her chest rises and falls as she takes a deep breath. “Someone I can trust. Someone who takes control,” she whispers, her voice trembling just slightly.
Her confession hits me like a lightning bolt. Trust. Control. There’s a vulnerability in her admission, but the strength it takes to voice her needs is undeniable. I can feel my pulse quicken at her words, the air between us sparking with a sudden intensity.
Without thinking, I reach out, gently lifting her chin so that her eyes meet mine again. “Tell me more,” I say quietly, my voice steady, though inside I’m anything but calm. “About this control you want a man to take.”
Right now, she and I both know what I’m asking of her.
She draws in a sharp breath, her chest rising and falling with the weight of unspoken desires.
"I want…" she begins, her voice barely audible over the soft murmur of conversations around us. "I want someone who rips off my clothes when I come home, who throws me on the bed, pins my hands above my head, and pounds me so hard that my brain shuts off. Someone who ravishes me, makes me feel desired in ways that have nothing to do with power. I want… I need…”
Her words hang between us, and in that moment, I see her for who she truly is—a woman craving passion, surrender, and excitement. She wants someone to take the lead, god damn it, and it shocks me that no one has for her— until now.
I lean in closer, my lips just a breath away from hers. "You want to be able to surrender," I finish her sentence, my voice low and husky. "To trust someone enough to let go completely. To find pleasure in relinquishing control."
Her eyes widen at my understanding, a mix of surprise and longing swirling in their depths. Without warning, I lean in, my lips grazing against hers. Zara gasps against my mouth, her body tensing for a moment before melting into me, her lips parting for me.
My heart hammers so hard it could break my ribs. My entire spine has shivers going down it as I lean even further in, biting into her lower lip. She moans, her hands reaching for my face. A glass falls off the table and shatters, but neither of us cares.
All that matters is Zara. My hand cups her cheek, thumb gently caressing her skin as I deepen the kiss.
When we finally break apart, Zara's eyes are wide, her chest heaving. "Abram," she whispers, a mix of desire and confusion in her voice.
"Tell me you don't want this," I challenge softly, my forehead resting against hers.
She swallows hard, her internal struggle evident. "I… I can't."
I claim her lips again, pouring all my pent-up longing into the kiss. This time, Zara responds with equal fervor, her fingers tangling in my hair.
When we separate, breathless and flushed, I can see the moment Zara's resolve crumbles. "Okay," she says, her voice barely audible. "Let's… let's give this a try."
A thrill of victory courses through me, but it's tempered by a nagging sense of unease. As I look into Zara's eyes, I see a flicker of something—fear? Doubt?—that makes me wonder what it is she’s afraid of.
It makes me want to make her more comfortable.
"We'll take it slow," I assure her, even as my mind races with the potential complications of our newfound relationship. The dangers that lurk in my world, the secrets I keep about being in the Bratva—how long can I shield her from them?
I have no answers. All I know is that this feels right, and I’ll do everything in my power to keep her happy.