Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Zara
I had practically run out of the bar.
My legs carried me down the street before my brain even has a chance to catch up. The cold air biting my cheeks, grounding me for a moment.
My whole body was buzzing. Not just from panic or adrenaline, but from something hotter, darker, humming under my skin.
Even now, I could still feel the way his gaze had settled on me, heavy and lingering, drinking me in like some forbidden fruit.
Every brush of winter air against my cheek reminded me of the warmth of his hand, the barely there touch that lingered at the edge of memory.
I had no clue where I was going.
I just knew I had to get away from him—from those dark, knowing eyes and that voice that made my stomach flip in ways I didn’t want to examine, my pulse skipping each time I replayed his words, each syllable rough and low like velvet scraping across bare skin.
“Marry me, Zara.”
The words reverberate in my skull, bouncing off the hollow spaces where logic used to live. Who the hell does that? Who sees a crying stranger at a bar, buys her dinner, and then proposes a fake marriage like he’s ordering a drink?
A crazy person.
A rich, powerful, dangerous, crazy person.
I fumbled for my phone as it buzzed in my pocket before Marcus’ name displayed across the screen.
“Hey,” I said, my voice shaky.
“Zara! I just landed. My flight got in early. I’ll be home in about an hour. You still alive?”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “Barely.”
“Uh oh. That bad?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here.”
“Copy that. Food run first? I’m starving.”
“Whatever. Just… hurry.”
I hung up and kept walking, my suitcase wheels clattering behind me like a tinny heartbeat. The city lights blur past—neon signs, headlights, the glow of apartment windows. Everyone else seems to have a place to go. A home. A person waiting for them.
I had a lumpy couch and a friend who was about to hear the most unbelievable story of his life.
I finally made it to Marcus’s walk-up apartment on the east side, and took the time waiting for him to brace myself against the door while I processed my night from hell.
In the span of a few hours, I was broken up with, made homeless, and then proposed to by a stranger.
You know what?
Screw Nathan.
We hadn’t grown apart. He’d grown away. Away from me, away from my neediness, away from the broken pieces that I kept trying to glue together with his attention.
I’d begged— I’m not proud of it, but I’d begged. “Please, Nathan. We can make it work. I love you.”
And he’d looked at me with those kind, pitying eyes and said, “I don’t think you even know what love is, Zara.”
That sentence had carved a hole in my chest that was still bleeding.
Because he was right.
I probably didn’t know what love was. I’d never known. I’d spent my whole life trying to prove I was worth staying for. And I’d failed every time.
Nathan was just the latest in a long line of people who’d decided I wasn’t enough.
So, here I was.
I had no savings. I had a marketing job that paid barely enough to cover my half of the rent when I had one. I had no family to fall back on—not really. My mom was gone, my siblings scattered across the country, all of us too busy surviving to actually be a family.
And I was alone.
Completely, utterly alone.
I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, the apartment door was clicking open and Marcus’ voice was filling the space.
“Zara? Are you alive?”
I sat up, rubbing my eyes. “Barely.”
The smell of greasy Chinese food filled the air as Marcus flopped down next to me on the couch. He was tall, perpetually put-together, the kind of friend who made you feel better just by existing.
“So,” he said, not looking up from his phone screen, “are you gonna tell me what’s going on with you, or do I have to drag it out of you like always?”
I groaned immediately. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“That bad?”
“That weird.”
His brow raised with interest. “Oh, I love weird. Continue.”
So I told him.
Not every detail. Definitely not the parts about the way Lorenzo touched me or how my pulse still jumped every time I remembered the look in his eyes.
But enough.
The breakup. The bar. The dangerously hot, rich, stranger who bought me dinner and looked at me with searing eyes.
And finally—
“The man proposed marriage.”
Marcus froze mid-bite.
“I’m sorry,” he said slowly. “The what?”
“Wait. Wait, wait, wait. He asked you to marry him? Like, for real?”
“For real.”
His mouth dropped open. “Okay, no, because I leave for one week and suddenly your life turns into a Netflix thriller?”
“Thank you,” I muttered sarcastically.
“Are you considering it?”
I opened my mouth to reply. Then close it again.
Because that was the terrifying part, wasn’t it?
The fact that some tiny, reckless piece of me had actually considered it for half a second.
Marcus saw the hesitation immediately and points his fork at me accusingly. “Oh my God. You are.”
“I’m not!” I protested weakly.
“You hesitated!”
“I’m overwhelmed!”
“You’re into it.”
“I’m having a mental breakdown,” I shot back.
“That too.”
I laughed despite myself, shaking my head as I rest back against the couch cushions.
“It’s insane,” I said more quietly. “Like… objectively insane.”
Marcus studied me carefully, his teasing softening around the edges. “But?”
I stared down into my wine glass. “But nobody’s ever looked at me like that before.”
The words poured out before I could stop them. And Marcus went still.
I hated how vulnerable the confession felt.
“He was intense,” I whispered. “Like…too intense. It scared me—but probably not as much as it should have.”
Marcus nudged my knee gently with his. “Baby, from what you’ve shared, your entire dating history is emotionally unavailable men and red flags.”
“That’s not true.”
“You once dated a guy who owned three swords.”
“In my defense, I didn’t know that until date four.”
“You stayed until date seven.”
“He was charming!”
Marcus snorted loudly.
The tension in my chest loosened a little after that.
Thankfully, he didn’t push the Lorenzo conversation further because honestly, if I talk about it any longer, I thought my brain might actually explode.
“I don’t want to think about him anymore tonight,” I muttered, finishing the last sip of wine. “My nervous system physically cannot handle it.”
Marcus stretched dramatically across the couch. “Fine. We’re switching topics. Let me tell you about the gorgeous British bartender who almost convinced me to miss my flight home.”
I laughed, appreciating the diversion. “There it is.”
“Oh, it gets worse,” he said gleefully. “This man had cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and an accent that nearly made me commit immigration fraud.”
For the next hour, Marcus filled the apartment with chaotic stories from his trip—terrible hotel hookups, overpriced coffee, getting lost in London at two in the morning, and a near emotional breakdown over customs.
And me? I laughed harder than I had in days. Like really laughed. The kind that loosens something tight in my chest.
And for a little while, I almost forgot about Lorenzo Falcone and his dangerous eyes and impossible proposal.
Almost.
Eventually, the clock crept past midnight, and Marcus groaned as he stood from the couch.
“I have jet lag and emotionally supportive exhaustion,” he announced. “So I’m going to bed.”
“You’re so old.”
“I’m beautiful and tired,” he quipped.
He pointed at me as he shuffled toward his room. “And you are not allowed to spiral anymore tonight.”
“No promises.”
“Zara.”
I held up my hands innocently. “Fine. Minimal spiraling.”
“That’s all I ask.”
I held his gaze. “And Marcus? Thank you. For not judging me.”
“Oh, I’m judging you.” He grinned. “But I’m also loving you. That’s what best friends do.”
A moment later, his bedroom door clicked shut, leaving the apartment quiet except for the hum of the TV and distant city traffic outside the windows.
I curled deeper into the couch, staring up at the ceiling while the wine buzz fades slowly through my veins.
I was exhausted, but my mind kept drifting back to the bar.
To Lorenzo.
To the way his thumb brushed tears off my face, like it hurt him to see me cry.
To the way he said I want you like it was a confession and a warning all at once.
This is ridiculous.
Absolutely ridiculous.
I reached for my phone as it buzzed on the coffee table, expecting a work email or a spam notification.
Instead, an unknown number flashed across the screen.
Unknown
It’s Lorenzo. In case you change your mind.
I stared at the screen as my heart hammered against my ribs, fear slicing sharp and bright through my chest. How did he get my number? I never gave it to him—I didn’t even share my full name.
I read the message again. And again. And again.
“In case you change your mind.”
Part of me, the small part that hadn’t felt wanted in years, whispers: What if you did?
I thought about Nathan. About the way he had looked at me when he said I didn’t know what love was. About my father, who’d walked out without a word. About my mother, who’d loved me but had been too exhausted to show it.
I thought about all the ways I’d been left.
And then I thought about Lorenzo, watching me with those dark, hungry eyes, telling me I could have whatever I wanted if I just said yes.