Chapter 5 Mara
FIVE
MARA
Aweek in Florida, glued to my mom and Chase’s side, smiling for cameras at charity galas and yacht parties, and now I get a playdate. The doorbell chimes and instantly, my heart jumps. I smooth my palms over my skirt and push down the flutter of real excitement in my rib cage.
Zane gets to spend the afternoon at my penthouse with my mother and I. That was the reward Chase was talking about.
I exit my room, the guard in the hall straightening up as I appear. He doesn’t meet my eyes, but he falls into step a few paces behind as I head downstairs. The hum of conversation drifts from the foyer
I round the corner and see them—Mother standing with hands clasped in delighted hostess mode, and Zane shedding his camel coat.
He’s facing away from me, but he’s dressed to impress, as usual—slim-fit plaid trousers and a mustard-yellow turtleneck under a tailored overcoat.
The look is bold—a splash of sunshine color in this drab house—and so quintessentially Zane I could almost smile.
His chestnut hair is artfully tousled, and I catch the flash of rings on his fingers as he gestures animatedly about something, making my mother laugh.
Then, he turns and spots me on the stairs. “Mara!” he squeals—actually squeals—and I can’t help it, the corners of my mouth tug up in the first genuine grin I’ve felt in weeks. Zane practically skips across the foyer, arms open wide.
I don’t care who’s watching; I meet him the rest of the way and fall into his embrace.
He smells of bergamot and vanilla. A cozy, familiar scent that brings a rush of memories—sneaking into clubs with fake IDs, study sessions that devolved into gossip and wine, him holding my hair back that time I drank way too much at his cousin’s wedding.
God, I’ve missed him. A lump catches in my throat.
Zane hugs me fiercely, like he’s trying to silently say a thousand things at once. Careful, I remind myself. Still, I let my head rest on his shoulder for one precious second.
“Hey, Mars,” he whispers near my ear, and I squeeze him just a bit tighter in reply.
We step back and I catch a better look at him as his warm brown eyes sweep over me, assessing.
Out loud, he says, brightly, “Let me look at you! Ugh, Florida’s done wonders.
.. you are glowing, babe. Aren’t you just a bronzed goddess now?
Next time you’re going to be hanging out on yachts, you invite me. Got it?”
I snort softly. If by “glowing” he means I don’t look like I’ve been crying myself to sleep for weeks, I guess the sun did help mask that. He knows it, too; I see the subtle question in his eyes behind the teasing. Are you okay? they seem to ask.
My mom smiles at us—she’s in full performance mode, voice gentle as if everything is so pleasant and normal. “The trip was just lovely. It was so kind of Chase to invite us to his beach house. Mara had a wonderful time.”
My stomach clenches at the mention of Chase. I keep my face neutral, though I feel Zane’s hand brush mine for an instant, a tiny secret squeeze of reassurance. Or maybe a warning. I can’t gauge it yet.
“Oh, I bet,” Zane replies with an easy laugh. “Nothing like sand and sea to cure the winter blues, right Mars?”
“It’s good to see you,” I say, sincerely. My voice is quiet but steady. There’s a world of things I want to say, questions I want to ask, warnings I want to give him, but all of those are barricaded behind my teeth. Instead, I add lightly, “I’ve missed you, Zane.”
He beams at that, and I can tell the smile is at least partly real. “Missed you too. It’s been way too long since our last hangout.”
“All right, you two,” Mother says, ever the director of this little play. “Let’s move to the dining room. Lunch is ready.” She turns and leads us down the hall and around a corner.
Zane falls into step beside me, our arms brushing. Under his breath, barely audible, he murmurs, “Smile.” Immediately, he follows it with a louder, cheerful comment. “I’m starving, Mrs. Black. You always have the best chefs.”
The formal dining room could seat twenty, but today, it’s set for three at one end—an intimate arrangement that still feels ridiculously stiff.
A bouquet of white lilies centers the table, a tasteful touch that can’t quite mask the faint antiseptic smell that always lingers in this house. Or maybe that’s just in my head.
A member of the household staff stands by, ready to serve.
Mother takes the head of the table, gesturing for Zane and me to sit on either side of her.
Naturally, she’s keeping us in her line of sight.
I’m actually surprised she’s not sitting between us.
Perhaps she thinks I’m beyond needing such literal separation, or she trusts Zane enough.
The first course is already laid out—a delicate butternut squash soup steaming in fine china bowls. Comfort food for a cold day, though my appetite is nonexistent.
Zane doesn’t show any hesitation; he inhales dramatically. “Oh, that smells divine!” he says, placing his napkin on his lap, and flashing me a grin. “Remember that time we tried making ramen in your dorm kitchen and nearly set off the fire alarm?”
“I think that’s the last time I’ve seen you near a stove,” I reply lightly.
Mother watches our exchange with a relaxed smile, as if pleased to see me engaging normally. If only she knew how every cell in my body is coiled with tension.
Underneath the table, I dig my nails into my thigh to keep myself grounded and present.
I will not slip.
Not when I finally have a friend here. Not when a single misstep could cost me any future chance of seeing him or anyone again.
The staff member pours us each a glass of water and quietly exits, leaving the door partially open.
“So, Zane,” my mother begins conversationally, lifting her spoon. “How is school? You’re a senior this year.”
“Yes, Mrs. Black,” Zane answers after swallowing a spoonful of soup.
“Graduating this spring, if you can believe it. Time flies.” He glances at me.
“Mara and I used to talk about going to AGU together. Now, look at us, all grown up,” Zane gushes, launching into an animated recounting of a recent internship at some political PR firm.
He’s laying it on a bit thick, name-dropping a senator’s son he met, joking about the endless cocktail parties. It’s charming, and Mother eats it up, asking questions, nodding approvingly.
I manage to sip my soup, though it tastes like paste in my mouth. My mind keeps circling the real reason Zane might be here.
Was this truly Chase’s idea for PR?
Or did Zane wrangle this visit himself somehow?
He’s running through superficial topics so fluidly... maybe too fluidly. Performing, as always, like a sunbeam in human form. But I catch it, just fleetingly, the way his hand trembles, almost imperceptibly, when he lifts his water glass.
He’s nervous.
And Zane doesn’t get stage fright. Not unless the stakes are high.
“And how is your father doing, dear?” Mother asks, steering the conversation politely. I blink and tune back in.
“Dad’s great,” Zane says with a bright smile that’s almost convincing. “He asks about you both often—sends his congrats on the presidency.” He winks at me. “He’s angling for an invitation to the wedding of the century, of course.”
My throat tightens around a too-hasty sip of water. Wedding of the century. Right. The engagement. I lower my glass carefully, hoping my face hasn’t gone pale. Mother gives a thin, approving laugh. “Of course. We’ll have to see about that once plans are in motion.”
Zane’s eyes flick to my left hand. I’ve been absent-mindedly twisting the engagement ring with my thumb. It’s a huge, gaudy thing. Far flashier than my taste.
I drop my hand from the table. “The ring’s a bit much, isn’t it?” I say lightly, feigning a joking tone as I attempt to ease the tension that crept in. “Chase has never heard of subtlety.”
Mother gives me a warning glance for the hint of sarcasm, but Zane just cackles. “Please, subtlety is boring. You know I love a little extra bling.” He holds out his own hand, fingers spread to show off the assortment of silver and gold rings he wears.
I smirk, playing along. “All right, fair. Maybe you should marry him then. He’d adore your fashion sense.”
“Mara,” Mother chastises under her breath, but Zane just gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest.
“Oh, honey, he’s not my type. I prefer someone with a soul.”
A shocked snort-laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it, and Zane’s eyes widen.
For a beat, I worry he’s gone too far, but then Mother actually laughs as well, albeit tightly.
The subtext probably flew right over her head.
She likely thinks it was a generic joke about Zane preferring men.
But I caught the venom in that word—soul.
I feel the satisfying sting of the jab at Chase.
God, I love Zane.
Halfway through our entrées, Mother’s phone buzzes. She fishes it from her cardigan pocket, frowns apologetically, then says, “Excuse me, I have to take this. It’s Clark.” My father. She’s already rising, smoothing down her skirt. “I’ll just be a minute. You two keep enjoying lunch.”
My pulse spikes. She’s leaving the room. The door swings shut behind her with a soft click, and suddenly, impossibly, Zane and I are alone. Well, as alone as we can be with a camera staring down at us like an unblinking eye. The silence is deafening after the orchestrated small talk.
Zane sets down his fork. His facade slips the moment Mother is out of sight—his knee jiggles under the table, and the bright shine in his eyes dulls with worry. I open my mouth, not even sure what I intend to say.
Are you okay? Is this a trap?
He beats me to it.
“Don’t react. Just listen.”
I grip my fork tighter and bend my head slightly, pretending to inspect the greens on my plate.