Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Zara
The ink on the marriage certificate was barely dry when my body finally caught up with what I’d done.
Panic struck instantly, tightening my chest like a vice. Suddenly, the room became suffocating, air too thin. Lorenzo conversed quietly with the judge, steady and unaffected, as if this were routine business, while I sat there feeling as though the floor had vanished beneath me.
I needed air.
A bathroom.
Space.
Anything to stop the crushing pressure building inside my ribs.
One minute, I was standing in the living room kissing my brand-new husband, staring at the signature that legally tied me to him. The next, I’m collapsed on the bathroom floor.
The first thing I recognized was the marble against my palms, cherishing the way it bit into my knees. The second was the sound of my own breathing—ragged, too fast, wrong. I couldn’t get enough air. It was as if my lungs had forgotten how to work.
The sound of it filled the room—ragged, uneven gasps that echoed off the walls while panic clawed its way higher and higher up my throat.
Oh God.
What had I done?
Behind me, Lorenzo’s voice filled the room, “Zara?”
My mouth opened, but the air wouldn’t come. I pressed my palm against my chest, trying to push air in, but it was like breathing through a straw the size of a needle.
Lorenzo came into view above me, and the look on his face—I’d never seen it before. His eyes were wide, darting over my body. His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, yanking my hand away from my chest.
“Zara. What happened?” he asked while shaking me. Not hard, but I could feel the panic in his grip.
I jerked away. My back hit the wall, and I scrambled, trying to push myself up. “Don’t. I’m fine…I just need to—”
“Everyone out!” Lorenzo barked into the hall, sending the judge scrambling.
I tried to stand, legs trembling as the world tilted.
I’d spent years hiding these cracks, building walls so the world could never see me weak. But here I was, unraveling, the mask slipping — I couldn’t stay here. The thought of him watching me come apart felt unbearable.
“Zara.” His voice was low, controlled. “Stop.”
“Just leave me alone,” I gasped, stumbling toward the hallway. “I just need—”
I hadn’t made it two steps before his hand pulled my waist.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “Come here.”
I tried to pull away. “Lorenzo, let go, please.”
“No.”
He tugged me gently, and I stumbled back toward him. My legs gave out, and I collapsed against his chest. He caught me easily, lowering us both to the floor. Even with the comfort of the heat radiating from his chest, I continued to struggle, pushing at his shoulders, and trying to get free.
“I said I’m fine—”
“You’re not fine.” His arms wrapped around me, pinning my arms to my sides. Not painfully. Just firmly. “You’re having a panic attack, and you’re trying to run from it. That’s not going to work.”
“Let me go,” I sobbed, the tears finally breaking free. “Please. I don’t want you to see me like this—”
Lorenzo pulled out his phone. I saw him fumbling with it.
“Too late.” His voice softened, just a fraction. “I’m already seeing you. And I’m not going anywhere.”
I kept fighting. Weak, useless thrashing against his chest. But he held on, steady as stone, absorbing every hit until I had nothing left and my arms went limp, followed by sobs that came in ugly, heaving waves.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Let it out.”
I cried into him until my throat was raw. He stayed silent, just holding me, one hand tracing slow circles on my back, the other cradling my head. His heartbeat steady beneath my ear. I focused on that: the rhythm, the warmth of his body.
When my breathing still failed to slow, he pulled back just enough to look at me. His thumb found my chin, tilting my face up.
“Look at me.”
I did. His eyes were dark and intense, but there was no anger there. Only a fierce tenderness that made my chest ache.
“Breathe with me,” he said. “In… out…”
I tried. My breath hitched, but I followed him. Slowly, painfully, breath by breath.
“What do you need?” he asked. “What helps?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I just wanted to get to my room. I wanted to be alone.”
“Being alone makes it worse.” He pressed his forehead to mine. “Hold on.”
He was up and back in seconds. I heard the ice tray crack, heard him curse under his breath when a cube slipped. Then he was beside me again, holding a piece of ice between his fingers.
“Tell me if it’s too cold,” he said, sliding under my shoulders, pulling me up so I was leaning against his chest before pressing the ice to my throat.
I recoiled, then released a shaky sigh as the chill pierced the haze.
He moved it gently along my jaw and collarbone.
Each touch drew me further back into myself.
“Better?” he asked.
I nodded, unable to speak.
He kept going until the ice melted, leaving only water and a lingering chill. Then he set the last piece aside and pulled me into his lap. I curled into him, head tucked under his chin, body still trembling.
“How did you know?” I whispered. “To use the ice.”
He was quiet for a long moment. His fingers combed through my hair, gentle and slow.
“My mom,” he said finally. “She used to get panic attacks. When I was a kid. I’d find her on the floor. Same as you.” He swallowed. “I learned that the ice brings you back. Grounds you in your body.”
We continued to breathed together. His hand found mine, lacing our fingers together, squeezing every time I exhaled.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be.”
Leaning into him, I allowed my eyes to drift closed. The panic faded to a dull ache, exhaustion settling in, only to be broken by his phone ringing.
I watched him glance at the screen, his jaw tightening. He silenced it, sliding it back into his pocket, but it rang again almost immediately. And again.
“Go,” I said, surprising myself with the word. “It’s fine.”
He looked at me, dark eyes searching mine. “Zara—”
“I mean it. I need a minute anyway.” I gestured vaguely at the penthouse. “To, uh, process.”
There was a beat of hesitation before he nodded, reaching out to brush his knuckles against my cheek. The touch was gentle, almost reverent, and it sent a confusing shiver down my spine.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said. “Carla is here if you need anything. And here.”
He pressed a heavy, black card into my palm. My name engraved in elegant script.
“Use it for whatever you want,” he said. “Anything.”
Then he was gone, the elevator doors sliding shut behind him, and I was alone in a penthouse that cost more than I’d earn in a lifetime.
I sat on the floor there for a long time, staring at the card.
Zara Falcone.
That was me now.
It still felt surreal. Just a few days ago, I was essentially homeless, and now I’m married, alone in a penthouse bigger than any home I’ve ever had.
I turned the card over in my hands. No PIN. No restrictions. Just a black card with my new name, linked to a man I barely knew.
What the hell am I doing?
I’d signed a contract. Said, “I do” in front of a judge. Let a stranger kiss me as if he owned me, hold me as I fell apart. And now I was sitting in his home—our home?—holding a credit card that could probably buy a small car.
I should have felt trapped.
Instead, I felt… nothing.
Or everything.
I couldn’t tell anymore.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, Marcus’ name lighting up the screen, and I fumbled to answer, desperate for a familiar voice.
“Hey, girl. Did you do it?” Marcus asked, his tone painted with excitement.
“I did.”
“Holy shit. How do you feel?”
I looked around the penthouse. At the dark marble floors. The floor-to-ceiling windows. The roses Carla was quietly clearing away.
“Honestly? I have no idea.” That was the most honest answer I could give while I worked through everything that had just happened.
Marcus and I talked for a while longer before we were interrupted by a call from my sister, Rowen.
She was younger than I was, still in college, making far better decisions than I ever did.
That’s part of why I had no interest in telling her how I just spent my morning.
Even through the phone, I could picture her dorm room, stacks of textbooks, and the little reminders Mom used to send.
She filled me in on her schedule, academics, and winter break plans, her voice bright and enthusiastic.
For a moment, I felt worlds away from her, standing barefoot in a penthouse with a brand new life she could never imagine.
I almost told her the truth—almost. But I pictured the worry in her voice, the questions I couldn’t answer.
Instead, I let her talk and promised to visit soon, her easy affection mixing with a tangle of guilt and relief.
As I hung up, I wondered how long I could keep all of this to myself, and if I’d ever be brave enough to let her in.
An hour later, I was dressed comfortably in baggy jeans and a t-shirt, blocks away from Lorenzo’s penthouse and on the hunt for necessities.
I couldn’t bring myself to go into the boutiques I passed along the way. The ones with the hushed lighting and saleswomen who’d judge my shoes. It felt wrong, somehow, to walk into a place where a single dress cost too much and required me to pretend I belonged.
So I went to Target. The one on Clark Street, with fluorescent lights and vaguely sticky floors, and the simple comfort of $3.99 body wash.
I grabbed a cart and wandered the aisles, my brain on autopilot. Toothpaste. Deodorant. A new sleep bonnet because I’d left mine at my ex’s place. I threw in a pack of cheap socks and a journal because I needed to write down everything I was feeling before it drowned me.
I was in the middle of comparing two types of shampoo when I felt a shift in the air.
“Zara,” a sexy, deep voice called from behind me.
I looked up, and there was Lorenzo Falcone, in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, standing in the middle of the hair care aisle as if he had materialized out of a fever dream.
“What—how—” I stammered, my eyes wide. “How did you find me?”
He didn’t answer. He just walked closer, his shoes silent on the linoleum. “Why are you here?”
“Because I needed shampoo?” I held up the bottle like evidence.
“No,” his voice was low and controlled. “Why are you at Target when you could be at any other store in this city?”
I blinked. “Because I like Target?”
His eyes narrowed. “My wife doesn’t shop at Target.” I should have been more annoyed, but the way my wife rolled off his tongue stunned me for a moment before I remembered my own voice.
“Your wife apparently does.” I set the shampoo in my cart, suddenly defensive. “Look, I don’t know how to be a rich man’s wife. I don’t know how to spend money I didn’t earn. So yes, I came here. Because it’s familiar and I can afford it.”
He reached out and took the cart from me, his fingers brushing mine. “Then let me walk with you.”
I stared at him. “You’re not going to drag me to Nieman Marcus or something more acceptable to your taste?”
“No, I’m going to walk with you.” He paused. “And then I’m taking you to dinner.”
“I’m not dressed for—”
“You look great.” He started pushing the cart forward, and I had no choice but to follow.
We finished shopping in silence. He walked beside me, tall and imposing, while I grabbed the rest of my essentials. A few people glanced at us—a man in a suit pushing a cart full of body wash and socks—but no one said anything.
At the checkout, he pulled out his wallet before I could reach for the card he’d given me.
“Let me,” he said.
I shrugged. “It’s your money, anyway.”
“Technically, it’s our money now.”
I snorted. “We’ve been married for three hours. Plus, I have no interest in taking advantage of your hard-earned money.”
“I told you, I take care of what is mine; that includes you now.” He paid, took the bags, and offered me his hand. “Come on. There’s a place nearby, let’s eat.”