Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Zara
This was such a bad idea.
Yet for some stupid reason, I followed him anyway.
The bar was warm when we stepped inside, a wave of heat that hit my frozen skin, making me shiver. A few scattered patrons were nursing drinks at the far end, not paying us any attention.
Lorenzo.
I rolled the name around in my head. It didn’t fit. It sounded like something out of a romance novel, all dark and velvety and too much. And he looked it, too—tall, broad-shouldered, with that sharp jaw and those eyes that never stopped moving. A suit that probably cost more than my entire salary.
And he kept looking at me.
Not in the way guys at bars usually looked—not the quick, hungry scan that made me feel like a piece of meat. No, this was deeper. Like he was memorizing every part of me, cataloging it, filing it away for later.
It made my skin prickle.
It also made my stomach flip, and I loathed myself for feeling it.
Lorenzo led me past the main bar area, past the booths, to a corner with high-top tables. He pulled out a stool for me and gestured for me to sit before sliding onto the stool across from me.
“Order whatever you want. If it’s not on there, the chef can make it,” he said, sliding a leather-bound menu across the table.
I blinked. “Anything?”
“Anything.”
I opened the menu full of small plates and artisan this and handcrafted that, things I couldn’t pronounce. And prices that made my eyes water. On the last page of the menu was a section labeled Classics.
Classic Burger. Hand-pressed Angus beef, aged cheddar, caramelized onions. $18.
My mouth watered.
“Can I get a burger?” I asked, looking up. “And fries?”
“Of course.”
“And…” I hesitated. “Maybe a milkshake? Like a chocolate one?”
A flicker of amusement crossed his face.
“Anything you want,” he said again.
Then he raised his hand, and a man in a crisp black apron appeared beside our table. Mid-thirties, clean-shaven, with a name tag that read Manager.
“Yes, Mr. Falcone?”
“Can we please get a burger, medium-rare,” Lorenzo said without looking at the manager. “Fries. And a chocolate shake.”
“Of course, sir. Anything else?”
“That’s all for now.” He finally turned his gaze to the man. “Make it quick, Chris. She’s hungry.”
Chris nodded without question. “Got it, boss.”
And he walked away.
Boss.
The word hung in the air between us.
I stared at Lorenzo. “Wait…you own this place?”
He didn’t deny it. Just watched me with those dark, unreadable eyes. “I do.”
I shook my head, trying to process it. “You do mean ‘own it’ as in managed it, right?”
“No, I own it,” he confirmed. “Bought it six years ago and renovated it. It’s mine.”
The way he said the word mine caused my nerves to light up, intimidation pulsed inside me along with a strange, fluttery feeling in my chest that I couldn’t name.
“So you’re… rich.” The word came out flat.
“Comfortable.”
“Must be nice.” I laughed, but it came out hollow. “I have negative $7 in my bank account.”
He fought to school his features and replied. “Then I’m glad you’re eating here tonight.”
His sincerity burned my cheeks. I stared down, tearing at the napkin. “Yeah. Me too. I guess.”
Silence stretched between us. Not awkward, exactly, but charged.
Like the air before a storm. I looked up and caught him staring again.
But this time it was not at me; he was staring into me.
Like he was peeling back layers I didn’t even know I had.
His gaze traced my face: my eyes, my lips, the curve of my jaw.
I swallowed. “Why are you doing this?”
He tilted his head. “Doing what?”
“This.” I gestured vaguely at the table, the bar, the whole situation. “Buying me dinner. Letting me sit here. You don’t know me. I’m nobody. I’m literally a homeless girl who was just crying on your street corner.”
For a second, the ache in my chest caught up with me.
Maybe I deserved all this mess. After years of clinging to a lost cause of a relationship, I’d finally been spat out, suitcase in hand, onto icy pavement.
It was easier to pretend I was fine, like this was some rom-com stumble, but everything felt raw and exposed.
“You’re not nobody,” he replied, words were quiet, yet firm.
“You—” I faltered. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know that your name is Zara,” he said, it like it was the only thing that mattered. “That’s enough for now.”
This was insane.
This whole situation was insane.
A hot, rich stranger following me out of a bar, wiping tears off my face, dragging me back inside, ordering me food, looking at me like I was something precious.
I should have been scared. I should have been running.
But I wasn’t. If anything, I was more curious now than before.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “Let’s say I believe you. That you’re just… being nice. Why?”
He leaned back on his stool like a predator settling in to wait. “Because I wanted to.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re weird.”
That pulled a throaty laugh out of him. “Am I?”
“Annoying, too.”
“So I’ve been told,” he said with a smirk, pulling at his lips.
A laugh bubbled up in my throat in response. I bit it back, but the corner of my mouth twitched.
His eyes dropped to my lips, and the hunger in them sharpened.
The tension between us snapped taut, electric. I felt it in my chest, my stomach, the space between my thighs. A heat that had nothing to do with the bar’s warmth.
Stop it, I told myself. You’re vulnerable. You just got dumped. You don’t know this man.
But my body didn’t listen.
We sat there passing the time with awkward glances, small talk between sips of his whisky, until the food finally arrived.
The milkshake arrived first in a tall cocktail glass with whipped cream and a cherry on top. The burger followed, piled high with cheese and onions, the fries golden and steaming.
I stared at the food as if it were a gift from the gods.
“Eat,” Lorenzo said. “Before it gets cold.”
I didn’t need to be told twice.
I grabbed the burger and took a massive bite. Flavor exploded across my tongue, and I moaned before I could stop myself.
When I looked up again, Lorenzo was watching me with a dark look of satisfaction.
Like he’d just fed me from his own hand.
I took another bite, slower this time. Trying to ignore the way his gaze made my skin tingle.
“So,” I said around a mouthful of fries, “what’s your story? Why does a rich bar owner pick up strays on a Thursday night?”
He was quiet for a moment. Then, softly: “You caught my attention.”
I nearly choked on a fry. “I—what?”
“There’s something about you.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.
His words crashed into me, heavy and relentless.
I set down the burger, my appetite suddenly gone. “You can’t just—” I shook my head. “This isn’t a movie. You can’t just sweep in and save me.”
“Who said I wanted to save you?”
The question hung in the air, dark and dangerous.
I felt heat creep up my neck. “What do you want, then?”
His eyes met mine — unblinking. Unrelenting.
“I want you,” he whispered, almost as if he didn’t mean for me to hear the words.
I reached for my milkshake mostly because I needed something to ground me.
The cold sweetness coated my tongue while I tried to process whatever the hell this conversation had become.
Across from me, his gaze followed the movement of my mouth around the straw, slowly enough to make heat crawl up my neck.
Then, casually—as though he wasn’t about to completely derail my sanity—he said, “Marry me.”
For a second, I honestly thought I’d misheard him. Then I laughed, because there was no other reasonable response.
“I’m sorry…What?”
“Marry me.”
“Okay,” I said, shaking my head. “You’re definitely insane.”
“I’m serious.”
The amusement died in my throat almost immediately. He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t joking. He looked completely calm, completely composed, like he hadn’t just proposed marriage to a stranger over burgers and fries.
“You’re serious,” I said, my voice smaller than I intended.
“Deadly.” He leaned forward, forearms resting on the table.
The movement was deliberate, like a predator scenting the air before striking.
“Let me lay it out plainly. My father wants me married. He thinks a wife will settle me, tame the beast he’s spent thirty-seven years failing to control.
” A bitter smile ghosted his lips. “I need a wife. You need shelter, money, a chance to rebuild your life.”
I leaned back against the chair, stung by the accuracy of his words and still recovering from the shock of it all. “Why would you even ask me that?”
Something shifted in his expression then. The teasing disappeared, leaving behind something colder. He looked away briefly, jaw tightening before his eyes returned to mine.
“Don’t look so frightened, principessa.” The endearment rolled off his tongue like velvet and venom. “I’m offering you a solution. One year. You move into my penthouse. You wear my ring. You play the devoted wife at family dinners, charity galas, and the occasional business function.”
“And in return?”
A faint smirk touched his mouth, gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
“Everything you need. My penthouse, a monthly allowance, you’d have every need tended to.
After one year, if you wish…” His voice lingered on the word if, stretching it like taffy, dark amusement flickering in his eyes.
“…you can leave. Walk away with enough money to start over wherever you want. No strings. No expectations.”
I blinked at him, trying to catch up.
It sounded too tempting, too unreal. Men like Lorenzo Falcone promised danger, not clean deals.
“No expectations?” I repeated, skepticism bleeding through.
He tilted his head, studying me. “You’ll share my bed.”
My heart slammed against my ribs at the sheer audacity of this man.
“If you want to,” he added, and the way he said it—slow, deliberate, his gaze dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second before meeting my eyes again—making heat curl low in my belly. “I won’t force you. I don’t take what isn’t offered. But I would be lying if I said I didn’t want you there.”
“And if I don’t want to?” I forced out.
“Then you sleep in the guest room, and I sleep in mine. The arrangement stands. You’re not a whore, Zara. You’d be my…partner.” He leaned back, spreading his hands. “But I think you will want to. Eventually.”
I hated how my body reacted. The ache between my thighs. The way my nipples tightened beneath my shirt as if responding to his voice alone.
“You’re arrogant,” I whispered.
“I’m honest.”
Still, I shook my head. “You can’t just offer people money to marry you.”
“Sure, I can.”
I stared at him, trying to figure out whether he was manipulative, just brutally honest, or both. But his gaze never left mine. “You wouldn’t have to worry about anything anymore.”
That almost broke me.
Because no one had ever said something like that to me before.
Not my father, not Nathan, no one.
I hated how badly I wanted to believe him.
“Are you sure you’re okay? You probably need some mental help…or something”
His eyes followed me immediately.
“Zara—”
“No,” I shook my head quickly, grabbing the handle of my suitcase before I could second-guess myself. “No, this is actually insane. I should go.”
“Zara.”
The way he said my name nearly stopped me where I stood.
“This was…” I laughed nervously, adjusting my grip on the suitcase. “Honestly, this was probably the weirdest night of my life.”
His gaze remained fixed on me. “It doesn’t have to be the last.”
The words wrapped around my chest — too intense, too much. I needed distance from him before I completely lost my mind. So I stepped backward toward the exit, heart pounding hard enough to hurt.
“This is not happening right now,” I whispered again, more to myself than to him.
Then I turned, grabbed my things tighter, and walked out of The Gilded Cage, trying very hard not to think about the fact that I could practically feel his gaze on my back.