Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Zara
I was useless all day.
Absolutely completely useless.
I stared at my computer screen for eight hours; the cursor blinking on a blank document I was supposed to fill with marketing copy. The words wouldn’t come. Every time I tried to focus, my mind drifted back to that text.
Me:
You have a deal.
I had typed those words hastily because if I had hesitated, I would have backed out and talked myself out of the only lifeline I had left.
So I sent it and spent the rest of the day second-guessing every decision I’d ever made.
What was I doing?
I didn’t know this man. All I knew was that he owned a bar.
I was aware of his dark, all-seeing eyes and the voice that left a strange flutter in my chest. I knew he’d offered me a way out of my miserable existence with a marriage of convenience, of all things.
And I’d said yes because it gave me a chance at something more.
But what if I was making a huge mistake?
What if he actually was a psychopath?
What if he locked me in his basement and never let me see the light of day again?
I shook my head, forcing myself to breathe.
It wasn’t ideal.
But it was something.
And right now, something was better than nothing.
The clock hit 5:00 PM, and I was out of my chair before the second hand finished its sweep.
I grabbed my bag, ignoring my coworker’s curious looks, and practically ran to the elevator.
Since I had not intended on agreeing to marriage with a mysterious billionaire before work, I hadn’t brought a change of clothes and was stuck wearing my work outfit: a simple blouse and black pants that had grown a little too tight around the hips.
I flagged down a taxi on the street, ignoring my bank account that screamed about the cost. My bank account was pathetic, and the cab ride alone would eat up half of it, but I couldn’t take the subway.
I couldn’t handle the crowds, the noise, the feeling of being trapped underground.
I needed air and movement, or my anxiety would spike, somehow more than it already had.
But before I could slide into the taxi pulling up to the curb, a man in a well tailored suit stepped out of the sleek sedan parked in front of me.
“Ms. Cruz? Mr. Falcone sent me to pick you up.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to form words before he opened the door, allowing me to slid into the back.
I sat quietly and watched as the city blur: tall buildings, honking horns, rushing people. I stared at my reflection: dark hair in a messy bun, circles under my eyes, determination on my face.
We arrived at a tall steel and glass skyscraper before I had a chance to fix the disaster that was my face.
This man’s lobby felt so New York: grand, polished, and intimidating in equal measure.
Marble climbed the walls from floor to ceiling, gleaming beneath the warm glow of an enormous chandelier hanging at the center of the room like a piece of jewelry.
Clusters of armchairs and low tables were scattered across the expansive floor, where well-dressed residents lingered over cocktails while muted conversation drifted from the bar tucked into the corner.
And here I was in heels from Walmart and a knock-off purse.
Near the entrance stood the security desk, staffed by a man in a razor-sharp uniform whose broad shoulders looked like he could bench-press me without breaking a sweat.
“Hello, I’m here to see Mr. Falcone,” I said, my voice coming out steadier than I expected.
He didn’t ask for my name. He just nodded, as if he’d been expecting me. “Penthouse floor. Elevator to your right. You’ll need this keycard,” he said as he handed me a small plastic card.
“Thank you,” I whispered, my hands already beginning to tremble, a nervous tic I’ve had since my teens.
I tried to ground myself, practice the skills I’d relied on to help me, as the elevator rose. The numbers climbed: 10, 20, 30, 40, until the display read “Penthouse,” and the doors slid open with a soft chime. Stepping out of the elevator into, I was thrown right into Lorenzo’s foyer.
The penthouse was enormous.
I felt like I’d stepped into a magazine with floor-to-ceiling windows lining the far wall, dark hardwood floors polished to a gleam. Deep charcoal leather couches and moody abstract art lining the walls.
I was still standing there, frozen, when I heard a door open.
Lorenzo stood in front of me, leaning against the doorframe of what I assumed was his office.
His arms were crossed, his eyes fixed on me as if I were the only thing in the room worth looking at.
He was wearing a crisp white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing strong, corded forearms.
He was beautiful.
And terrifying.
And I couldn’t look away.
“Zara,” he said, my name rolling off his tongue as if he’d been savoring it all day.
“Lorenzo.” I swallowed. “This place is…beautiful.”
He let out a low chuckle, pushing himself off the doorframe and walking toward me. His steps were measured, unhurried.
“Beautiful,” he repeated, stopping a few feet away. “No, Zara, you are beautiful. This place does not compare.”
I felt heat creep up my neck. “I don’t even know what to say. I’ve never been in a place like this.”
“Then let me show you around.”
He didn’t wait for my response. He just turned and started walking.
The penthouse was a masterpiece of design and money.
A sprawling living room with a fireplace that looked like it had never been used.
A kitchen that could have rivaled a restaurant, with stainless steel and marble countertops.
A dining room with a table that could seat twelve.
A balcony that wrapped around the entire floor, offering views that made my head spin.
And everywhere I looked, I saw him. His taste. His presence. The way everything was carefully curated, controlled, and owned.
Just like he wanted to own me.
The thought should have scared me. And it did, in a way. But underneath the fear, there was something else. Something I didn’t want to name.
He led me to a room at the end of the hall, pushing open a door to reveal a bedroom that was bigger than my old apartment. The bed was massive, covered in dark linens, with pillows that looked obscenely soft. The windows faced the city, causing the lights to reflect off the glass.
“This would be yours,” he said, his voice low.
I turned to look at him. He was standing close, closer than I’d realized. His eyes were dark, intense, boring into me as if they could see straight through to my soul.
“My room?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
“Your room. Or part of it. You also have a private bathroom.” He paused. “The arrangement is what we discussed. You stay here, I provide for you, and in exchange, you marry me. You are to be my wife for one year. That’ll be enough to please my father.”
My heart hammered. “And the… other parts?”
His lips curled into a slow, devious, smile. “The marriage will be real enough to convince my family, but what happens between us, behind closed doors, that’s up to you.”
I should have felt relieved. The only expectation: play the perfect show wife.
But the way he looked at me—the way his eyes traced the curve of my neck, the swell of my breasts, the line of my lips—made me feel like he was undressing me with his gaze. And the worst part?
I wanted him to.
I hated myself for it. For being so desperate, so broken, so weak, that I was attracted to the man who was buying me.
But I couldn’t deny it.
He was sexy.
And I was scared.
And I had no other options.
I let out a shaky breath, looking away from him, focusing on the view outside the window. The city lights were starting to flicker on, one by one, like stars descending to earth.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I admitted.
He was quiet for a moment. Then he stepped closer, and suddenly the air seemed to shift, thickening with the tension between us.
His hand lifted, knuckles nearly grazing my cheek as he reached out to brush a strand of hair from my face.
The scent of his cologne—dark, expensive—wrapped around me.
When his fingers slid against my skin, the touch was gentle, almost reverent, so careful I could barely feel it, and yet it burned.
I felt heat bloom low in my belly, conflicting with a knot of fear in my chest.
My breath stuttered as my heart hammered, every nerve ending alive and focused on the point where his skin met mine.
I wanted to pull away. I wanted to lean in.
I couldn’t decide. All I could do was tremble, caught between desire and panic, as his eyes watched me as if he already knew every secret I was trying to bury.
“You can,” he said softly. “I’ll take care of everything. All you have to do is trust me.”
He hesitated, then let his hand linger by my cheek, voice gentler than I’d ever heard it. “I know this is a lot. If you need time, take it.”
I looked at him, into those dark, depthless eyes. They held secrets. Pain. An obsession that I didn’t understand.
But they also held something else.
A promise.
And for reasons I couldn’t explain, I wanted to believe it.
“Okay, let’s do it,” I whispered.
His smile widened, and I felt as if I’d just stepped off a cliff.
Falling.
And hoping desperately that he would catch me.