6. Chapter 4
X iomara
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, vibrating once, twice — the screen lighting up with an unknown number.
I stare at it, heart pounding. Who would dare call me directly? My number is buried under layers of security. Only family and close friends can reach me.
Fingers trembling, I swipe to answer.
“Hello?”
“Mara.”
The voice is low, smooth, unmistakably male — and unmistakably him.
“Zasha?” I whisper, breath catching.
“Yes,” he says, voice clipped but polite. “I wanted to speak with you privately.”
My stomach flips over.
“How did you get my number?”
A pause.
“Through your father,” he says calmly. “Can you meet me for dinner?”
My throat goes dry. Dinner? With him?
“Tonight,” he adds, as if the world simply rearranges itself on his schedule.
I pull in a shaky breath, trying to sound composed.
“I… yes. Of course.”
“Good,” Zasha says. “I’ll pick you up in two hours.”
The line goes dead before I can say another word.
I look at my time and lower the phone, my heart hammering wildly in my chest.
Dinner. With Zasha Petrov.
Not a strategy meeting, not a family negotiation — but him and me. Alone.
I sprint to my closet.
Two hours and a pile of discarded clothes later, I’m standing at the front entrance, nerves crackling beneath my skin.
I chose a simple peach silk dress — understated, elegant, falling just below the knee — with delicate straps and a soft neckline. Nothing flashy, but when I caught my reflection in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. Soft waves spill down my shoulders, lips tinted a natural rose.
Within seconds, his headlights sweep across the driveway, and my chest tightens. I take one last deep breath as the sleek black car rolls to a stop.
Zasha steps out.
He’s in a tailored dark suit, crisp white shirt open at the collar, no tie — his presence commanding even without the armor of his reputation. His eyes flick briefly over me as I approach, a flash of something unreadable crossing his face.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod, hoping I don’t look as breathless as I feel.
He opens the car door himself — not a driver, not a guard. Just him. I slide in, heart racing, barely noticing the smooth leather or the quiet hum of the engine.
The drive is silent, but not awkward. It’s electric.
We pull up outside a five-star restaurant tucked into the side of a luxury hotel — one of those places that doesn’t need a sign because everyone who matters already knows it’s there.
Inside, the ma?tre d’ leads us to a private alcove — dim lighting, rich velvet curtains, a secluded table set for two. No security details, no hovering staff. Just us.
Zasha pulls out my chair with a quiet, assured grace, and we sit.
I clear my throat lightly.
“So… this is unexpected.”
He tilts his head slightly.
“I thought it was important to speak. Without our families.”
His voice is smooth and professional; however, his eyes are sharp and watchful, and he doesn’t miss a thing.
The waiter arrives, placing menus in front of us.
“Have you planned for us to have anything in particular?” I ask, knowing that someone like him would have everything planed to the last detail.
Zasha glances at me. “Order whatever you’d like.”
I scan the options quickly, suppressing a grin.
“The seafood boil platter, please.”
The waiter blinks in surprise but nods.
Zasha lifts a brow.
“Ambitious.”
I smile sweetly.
“I’m hungrier than I look.”
When the dish arrives — a glorious pile of crab legs, shrimp, mussels, and corn dripping with spiced butter — I waste no time rolling up my sleeves. I place the napkin on my lap and don the transparent glove that comes with the meal.
Zasha watches silently as I snap a crab leg with practiced ease, sauce dripping down my covered fingers.
“You’re full of surprises,” he murmurs, amusement flickering at the edge of his mouth.
I glance up, licking butter from my thumb.
“You expected me to pick at a salad?”
“I expected you to pretend to,” he says smoothly.
I laugh softly, warmth bubbling in my chest.
“You have a lot to learn about me, Mr Petrov.”
He leans back slightly, his gaze lingering on my face longer than necessary.
“I’m starting to realize that.”
As the night unfolds, the stiffness melts away.
We talk — first about practical things: the terms of the marriage, the alliance, the timelines. But gradually, unexpectedly, the conversation shifts.
I tell him about studying international relations, about wanting to work in diplomacy, about feeling suffocated as Thiago Delgado’s daughter, always a symbol but never truly seen for me.
“A princess in a luxury glass cage,” I murmur, breaking open another crab claw. “That’s all I’ve ever been.”
For a long moment, Zasha says nothing.
Then, quietly:
“You deserve more than that.”
The words hit me harder than I expect.
I glance up, heart fluttering, catching the faintest softening in his eyes — a crack in the armor.
By the time we leave, the night has turned cool, the city humming softly around us.
Outside, I wrap my arms lightly around myself, feeling the weight of everything unsaid hanging between us.
Zasha takes off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulder, his expression unreadable, his sharp profile cut in silver by the streetlights.
His masculine scent drifts from his jacket to my nostrils, and I have to remind myself not to purr like a satisfied cat.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “For tonight.”
He nods once, his eyes steady on mine.
For a beat, we just stand there — neither of us moving, neither of us speaking. The air between us is tight, charged, and I feel the back of my neck prickle with the sheer intensity of his gaze.
And then — without warning — he steps closer.
His hand lifts, rough fingers brushing lightly along my jaw, his thumb grazing the corner of my mouth in a touch that steals the breath straight from my lungs.
I don’t move. I can’t.
His eyes hold mine for one long, suspended moment — and then he kisses me.
It’s not slow. It’s not delicate.
It’s fierce, hungry, all heat and power, crashing through the careful distance we’ve kept all night. My fingers clutch at his jacket before I can stop myself, my body swaying into his, heart racing so fast I can’t think.
When we break apart, I’m gasping quietly, blinking up at him, dazed.
Zasha’s breath is rough, his jaw tightening as he takes a small step back.
By the time we slide into the car, my skin is still tingling.
Zasha pulls out from the curb in smooth, controlled silence, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting lightly on his lap.
Neither of us speaks.
The silence isn’t awkward — it’s heavy, charged, almost fragile, like if I say the wrong thing, it’ll shatter whatever just passed between us.
Then my phone vibrates in my small purse.
I blink, pulling it out — and my stomach sinks.
Cristóbal.
I quickly press ignore, slipping the phone facedown on my lap. I’ll call him back later.
But not even ten seconds pass before it buzzes again.
Cristóbal. Again.
I chew my lip, glancing sideways at Zasha, who hasn’t so much as flicked an eye in my direction — but somehow, I know he’s aware of every shift in my breathing.
The phone buzzes a third time, insistent.
I sigh softly and swipe to answer.
“Cristóbal,” I murmur.
“Finally!” His voice comes through sharp, agitated, the familiar sharp Spanish bite I’ve known since childhood. “Where the hell have you been, Xiomara? I’ve been trying to reach you all evening,” He rants. “Did you see my messages?”
“I’ve been busy,” I say quietly, glancing nervously at Zasha. “I’ll call you back.”
“Busy with what?” Cristóbal demands, his tone laced with suspicion. “You’ve been avoiding me for days now and—”
“Cristóbal,” I interrupt, firmer now, “I said I’ll call you back.”
He lets out an annoyed exhale, muttering something under his breath before I finally hang up and slide the phone back into my purse.
Silence fills the car again — but now it’s different. Tighter.
I can feel it in the way Zasha’s jaw shifts slightly, the faintest flicker of tension in his shoulders, the way his grip on the steering wheel subtly tightens.
Neither of us says a word.
I stare out the window, my heart sinking as the electricity from earlier fades into something more brittle.
I don’t know what Zasha’s thinking—if he’s annoyed, suspicious, or simply shutting himself off again—but I know the air between us has shifted.
The rest of the ride is quiet. A sharp, stretched silence, like a thread pulled too tight.
When we finally reach my family’s estate, Zasha pulls up smoothly, parking without a word. For a moment, we both sit there, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down hard.
“Thank you for tonight,” I whisper softly, glancing at him.
His eyes flick toward me, unreadable. He gives a faint nod, but says nothing more. I gather my things, slipping out of the car into the cool night air, heart heavy.
As I walk toward the front steps, I feel his gaze follow me, but I don’t look back.