Chapter 8 - Zara
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, trying to calm the butterflies in my stomach. Abram's smoldering gaze flashes through my mind, sending a shiver down my spine. What am I doing? It's too soon to feel this way about him. I smooth down my red dress, second-guessing my decision to see him again.
"You're just getting to know him," I whisper to myself. "Don't get attached."
But even as I say the words, I can't ignore the flutter of excitement in my chest. There's something magnetic about him that draws me in despite my reservations. I shake my head, steeling my resolve. I won't sleep with him, not until I'm sure we have more than just physical chemistry.
I put on some heels, but something doesn’t feel right.
“God damn it,” I moan, shedding off the dress. I pick out another and slip into a slinky black dress that hugs my curves, the hem hitting mid-thigh. The neckline dips low, showing just enough cleavage to be enticing without crossing into trashy territory. I swipe on a deep red lipstick, the color bold against my tanned skin.
Now, I look hot.
"You've got this," I say with a smile, giving myself one last appraising look before heading out.
In the cab, I replay our conversations in my head. The easy banter as I selected paint swatches for his penthouse. His genuine apology after trying to win me over with expensive gifts.
"Please don't let this be a mistake," I whisper; it’s more prayer than a statement.
My heart flutters as the cab reaches its destination. I step out, and the moment I do, I see Abram outside, leaning against the brick wall with his hands in his pockets. Our eyes meet, and a slow smile spreads across his face, its warmth flooding me.
This definitely doesn’t feel like a mistake.
I wave at him and remember just then I have to pay for the cab. I dig into my purse and hear footsteps. I turn to see him now standing by my side, reaching for his wallet.
"I've got it," I insist stubbornly, handing cash to the driver before Abram can protest.
He raises an eyebrow but doesn't argue. "Shall we?" he asks, offering his arm.
I take it, relishing his warmth. “You look stunning, by the way,” he says. I turn to see his eyes sweeping over me, head to toe. Heat creeps into my cheeks. I smooth my little black dress, suddenly self-conscious but give him a playful wink. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”
In dark jeans and a tailored blazer over a charcoal t-shirt, he’s the picture of casual elegance. The sight of him makes my breath catch.
Abram takes my hand and leads me inside the dimly lit space, atmospheric indie music playing over the speakers. “Our table’s this way.”
“You come here often?” I ask, glancing around at the mix of intimate booths and high tables.
A wry smile. “Often enough. I like the ambiance.” He pauses, then adds, “And the company tonight, of course.”
Warmth floods me again, and I duck my head to hide my smile. Stay guarded.
As we approach our table, a few people call out greetings and stand mid-way through meals to greet him. He introduces me smoothly each time with a charming smile on his face, his hand never leaving the small of my back. Powerful, I realize. Well-connected.
"You seem to know everyone," I comment, trying to hide how overwhelmed I feel.
Abram chuckles. "Occupational hazard. Comes with the territory."
“And what territory is that again?” I ask curiously, wanting to understand the nature of his family business, but he probably doesn’t hear me over the din of the background because I don’t receive an answer.
He leads me to a private booth, and as we slide into our seats, I catch him looking at me, his gaze lingering a bit longer than necessary. My cheeks warm under his scrutiny.
Abram reaches across the table to take my hand. “Thank you for coming tonight, Zara.” His gaze holds mine, pale grey eyes gleaming in the low light. “I wasn’t sure you’d follow through on that, yes.”
“I almost didn’t.” The admission slips out before I can stop it. I clear my throat, my pulse racing. “I mean—I’m glad I did.”
Abram looks at me incredulously, his eyes crinkling, and he bursts into a deep laugh. “Well, one thing’s for sure. I never have to worry about what’s on your mind. Brutally honest, aren’t you?” He makes a motion like he is clutching his heart, and it’s so endearing that I feel myself begging to reach across and kiss him.
But I don’t.
Because that could lead to sex. And tonight, I want there to be no expectations or pressure. We order drinks and begin talking about everything and anything under the sun.
As I launch into the story of my first apartment makeover in college, I feel my nerves start to settle. Abram listens intently, asking thoughtful questions. Before I know it, we're laughing like old friends.
"…and that's how I ended up with a living room full of rubber ducks," I finish, grinning.
Abram throws his head back, laughing. "I would have paid good money to see that."
Our eyes meet, and for a moment, the rest of the restaurant fades away. There's something in his gaze—hunger, maybe? Or is it just my imagination?
The waiter appears, breaking the spell. As Abram orders wine, I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart.
This feels so natural, so right. But a small voice in my head whispers a warning: Don't get in too deep, too fast.
I push the thought away as Abram turns back to me, his smile making my stomach flutter.
"Now," he says, leaning in conspiratorially. "Tell me more about what you did with those rubber ducks…"
***
A week later, Abram texts me out of the blue: “Are you free this afternoon? I have a surprise for you.”
Despite my reservations, curiosity gets the better of me. “What kind of surprise?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”
I huff a laugh. “Alright, I’ll bite. What time?”
“I’ll pick you up at 2.”
“I can meet you there.” The last thing I need is for Abram to know where I live. Not yet anyway.
“As you wish.” His reply comes a beat too late.
I wonder if I’ve offended him. Unable to think whether I did, I suggest otherwise. “Actually, I’ll be at the gallery. If it’s on the way, you can pick me up.”
He never responds. I get worried, unable to focus on work the whole morning, wondering if he’d show. I convince myself he’s upset with me but when he pulls up outside my building at 1:45 pm sharp and calls me to come outside, he’s all smiles.
It confuses the hell out of me. Radio silence, and now this. But perhaps he was busy and simply forgot to text back, or he thought he already did. Not wanting to make a scene, I give him a wave and smile instead as I walk over to him.
“Hop in,” he says, leaning over to open the passenger door. “The surprise awaits.”
“This better not be some grand gesture,” I warn, feeling relieved we’re okay as I slide into the leather seat. His cologne envelops me, sandalwood and spice. I fight not to breathe it in too deeply.
Abram slips on a pair of sunglasses, lips twitching. “Don’t worry. I learned my lesson.”
The drive passes quickly, Abram keeping the destination a secret despite my probing questions. Finally, he pulls up outside a sprawling building I don’t recognize. “We’re here.”
“Where’s here?” I peer out the window at a banner fluttering in the wind. “Oh—there’s an art exhibition on!”
“I hoped you’d like it.” Abram grins at my excitement. “Shall we go in?”
“Yes, please.” I try to tamp down my enthusiasm, but it’s difficult.
We wander through the galleries, discussing the pieces. Abram has an eye for color and composition I wouldn’t have expected. He points out subtle details I miss, drawing connections between the artworks that make me think in a new light.
More than once, I catch him watching me from the corner of his eye. A flush rises in my cheeks at the heat in his gaze. It’s too soon, I remind myself. But the flutter in my chest refuses to be quelled.
***
The walk through the park is pleasant, the air crisp and the path dappled with early evening sunlight beaming through overarching trees. Abram reaches for my hand as we stroll, his fingers entwining with mine. I don’t pull away.
“Did you enjoy the play?” he asks.
“Very much. Thank you for bringing me.”
“I’m glad. I thought of you as soon as I heard about it.” His thumb strokes the back of my hand, sending a tingle up my arm. “What did you like best?”
I describe a few of my favorite scenes, the conversation flowing as easily as our steps. But I can’t ignore the heat building where our hands touch or the way Abram’s gaze drops to my mouth when I speak.
There’s no denying the chemistry between us. Even so, I hesitate to move too fast. We’ve been dating for over three weeks now, but something seems amiss. At times, he calls me back days later. Sometimes, he forgets to reply to my texts. Just moments earlier, he told me we’d have to cancel tomorrow’s breakfast date and cut dinner tonight because he forgot he had to be somewhere.
Something’s going on with him. I want to know the man he is when we’re not together, not the one who stays silent for days at a time with no explanation.
“Can I ask you something?” I say. “You seem to disappear sometimes. Go quiet. I understand we have to cut short our plans for the evening and that you can’t make it tomorrow morning, but I was just wondering…” I trail off, unsure how to phrase the question.
Abram’s jaw tightens. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.” His tone is clipped, closed. But then he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Family business. That’s all.”
“Oh.” I try to hide my disappointment at the vague response. “I understand.”
Except I don’t, not really. Abram remains an enigma in many ways, and while the mystery intrigues me, I crave more honesty between us—a deeper connection.
If this is to become more serious, he’ll need to open up. The question is whether he’s capable of doing so. I glance at Abram, at the shuttered expression on his face, and realize it might take a while, to figure this one out.
***
The next morning, I scroll through news articles over my coffee, half awake, when a headline stops me cold.
"Notorious businessman Abram Zolotov Spotted With New Flame?"
My heart skips, then hammers as I tap the article. A high-resolution photo loads—a glitzy gala, dazzling lights, and there he is: Abram, looking every bit the part of a polished, devastatingly handsome man—his dark hair slicked back, wearing a custom-tailored suit that screams playboy, hand resting possessively on the waist of a woman.
Not just any woman—a stunning brunette, statuesque in a skin-tight, red satin gown, her lips painted the same sinful shade. I blink, leaning closer to the screen. My stomach tightens, but I keep reading.
"Abram Zolotov attends a charity gala with rumored lover, Tatiana Petrovna."
Tatiana Petrovna? Lover?
I feel the blood drain from my face. I scroll down, skimming the article, focusing on each word. The article reads like gossip designed to hurt, to provoke a reaction. But it is based on some truth. The pictures don’t lie.
“The two were inseparable all evening, seen laughing and whispering in each other’s ears. Sources close to the family claim this might be Abram’s long-time secret romance finally stepping into the spotlight.”
My jaw clenches, and I take a few deep breaths. This isn’t the time to fall apart.
The coffee turns bitter in my throat. Abram, who told me he had to cancel dinner last night because ‘something came up’, has his arm draped around some bombshell like she’s the center of his universe. In public.
The last paragraph hits like a punch: “Petrovna, the enigmatic heiress, has been linked to Abram in the past, with insiders speculating their romance has been rekindled after a quiet breakup.”
Quiet breakup? My mind spins, a wave of nausea rising. All the nights he went silent. The unexplained absences. The dismissive charm when I asked about his whereabouts. And now this— her , Tatiana, effortlessly fitting into his world while I’m left to piece things together.
But I stop. This isn’t about her. This is about him.
I scroll through the articles, finding as much news as I can about this gala. On every tabloid, Abram’s photo is splattered across their stories.
And the worst part? He was at the gala with his family. There’s a photo of him and his brothers Vladimir, Denis, and Mark laughing into the camera. There’s another with him and Tatiana with his sister, Lara . She’s stunning, with those dark kohl eyes and silky black hair.
This woman, she’s close with his family.
I bite the inside of my cheek, willing myself to stay calm. Of course, a man like Abram has layers of secrets. But what stings isn’t that he’s seen with her—it's that he’s never let me into his world the way he clearly has with her.
But he’s introduced Tatiana to his family, and as for me? He never even told me how many siblings he has. I think of his sister, Lara. How her name rhymes with mine, Zara. He could have mentioned that—in a small quip, if nothing else.
I set the phone down, my expression hardening. This is my reality check, a reminder of who Abram is. He’s charming, yes. He’s intense, yes. But he’s also distant, now made even more evident from all these secrets he has hidden away from me.
I feel betrayed. Hurt. Angered. I told him some of my darkest secrets. How lonely I was when my parents died, how horrid my aunt and uncle were, how unloved I’ve been.
And he couldn’t even mention he had a sister? But of course, Tatiana Petrovna attends galas with him and his family.
When my phone buzzes, I don’t need to check the caller ID to know who it is. I ignore the call, my fingers steady as I sip my coffee, feeling the heat burn a little more fiercely down my throat. Let him call. Let him explain. I already know the truth and there’s nothing he can say to convince me otherwise.
Over the following days, Abram continues to call and text, wanting to explain. But what is there to say? I’ve seen the reality now, behind the charm and mystery. Abram is like all the rest: unwilling or incapable of real intimacy, yet more than happy to string a woman along when it suits him.
I block his number and delete his messages. It’s not impulsive, it’s self preservation. As difficult as it is to walk away, I know this is the only way to protect myself. I deserve someone who doesn’t keep me in the dark. Who doesn’t hide behind excuses and charm.
I should have just left things professional. Now, Karma’s showing me she’s a bitch. Break the rules? The unchartered territory simply bites back.