Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Zara
I woke up to the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my temples.
The morning light sliced through the curtains like a knife, and I groaned, rolling over and pressing my face into the pillow.
I’d drunk too much.
Way too much.
But what else was I supposed to do when every rich, polished woman at that gala looked at me like I was something stuck to the bottom of their designer heels?
They’d smile with their perfect teeth and ask where I’d gone to school, what my family did, and how I’d met Lorenzo.
And I’d give them vague answers, watching their eyes narrow as they tried to place me.
I didn’t belong there.
I’d known it the second I walked in.
But then I’d found Jenny. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-four, long red hair framing her face, her laugh ringing out above the careful, practiced voices.
Her husband was in his early thirties, some tech guy, and she spent the night rolling her eyes at the men who kept reaching for her, brushing her arm like she was a prize on display.
We’d ended up in a corner by the dessert table, passing glasses of champagne back and forth, whispering jokes about everyone in the room.
“Did you see Mrs. Harrington’s dress? She looks like a lampshade.”
“Mr. Vance has been hitting on the same waitress for an hour. She’s going to mace him.”
“Your husband keeps staring at you like he’s about to ravish you in the corner.”
That last one had made me choke on my champagne.
I glanced across the room and found Lorenzo watching me.
His eyes were dark, steady, almost hungry.
For a moment, something flickered there—pride, maybe, or a kind of need, like he wanted me to see him just as much as I wanted to disappear.
I wondered what he was thinking as he watched me, what storm was brewing behind that careful mask he wore here.
It was so difficult from the way he’d looked at me when he asked to prove himself.
“Two weeks. Fourteen days. Fourteen nights. Let me show you who I am. Let me earn the right to know you.”
I’d agreed because I had nothing to lose.
That was the truth, wasn’t it?
I had no money. No family. No future except the one he’d handed me on a silver platter. And sure, the marriage was fake—the contract said no sex, no expectations—but we’d already broken that rule.
But wanting someone and falling for someone were two different things. I knew that. I’d learned that lesson with my ex, and I’d learned it even harder with every man who’d come before him.
Love wasn’t real.
Not for me.
I was broken in ways that made love impossible. Daddy issues so deep I’d need a therapist for a decade. Trust issues so ingrained I couldn’t even trust myself.
So when Lorenzo had asked for a week, I’d said yes because it didn’t matter.
He could show me who he was.
He could buy me fancy dresses and expensive gifts.
But he would never have my heart.
Because I wasn’t sure I had one left to give.
The knock on my door an hour later, as I lay there face down under my pillow, made me jump.
“Good morning,” Lorenzo said, his voice low.
I sat up, wincing as the room spun. I was still in the oversized t-shirt I’d slept in, the one I’d stolen from the closet days ago when I got tired of wearing the same pair of pajamas.
“Come in.”
The door opened, and there he was, wearing a casual button-down, sleeves rolled up, and dark jeans. His hair was still damp, like he’d just stepped out of the shower.
He looked good.
Hell, he always looked good.
“You okay?” he asked, stepping inside. His eyes scanned me, taking in my rumpled appearance and the dark circles under my eyes.
“Hungover,” I muttered. “But fine.”
He walked closer, and I instinctively pulled the blanket up to my chest.
His gaze dropped, and I knew what he saw. My nipples pressed against the thin fabric of the shirt. No bra. Nothing between us but a few layers of cotton.
He reached out and gently pulled my hands away. His fingers were warm against my skin, and I felt a jolt of heat crawl up my arms.
“Don’t,” he said softly. “You don’t have to hide from me.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but he was already stepping back.
“I’m taking you to brunch. There’s a place downtown that makes the best pancakes you’ve ever had.”
I blinked. “Pancakes?”
“With whipped cream, strawberries, and enough syrup to put you in a coma.” A hint of a smile played on his lips. “Hair of the dog, right?”
The thought of pancakes—real, fluffy, syrupy pancakes—made my stomach growl.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “Give me ten minutes to get ready.”
He nodded and left me to get ready.
I padded over to the closet, questioning what was even appropriate for a hangover brunch with a very wealthy, older husband.
Even now, days after I’d first seen it, I still couldn’t believe it was real.
The day after the official craziest day of my life, I came home from work and the room was different.
There were clothes and bags everywhere. Dresses hung in neat rows.
Blouses folded on shelves. Jeans, skirts, jackets, and shoes—so many shoes, from sneakers to heels to boots.
Designer bags lined the top shelf, the kind I’d only seen in magazines.
Perfume bottles glimmered on the vanity. Jewelry sat nestled in velvet boxes.
I’d stood in the doorway, frozen, my mouth hanging open opening a small, white, propped against a bottle of Chanel.
My wife deserves the best. - L
Just that.
No apology, no explanation, just a statement of fact.
My wife deserves the best.
I’d furiously shoved it all into the closet and slammed the door. I’d wanted to call him and scream at him for trying to buy me. For thinking he could fix everything with money. For treating me like a doll he could dress up and display.
Instead, I’d fired off a one-line text: Thanks.
And then I’d ignored the closet for days.
But now, standing here, hungover and tired and wearing the same five outfits I’d brought in my suitcase—plus the pajamas I’d bought at Target—I couldn’t help but feel a wave of gratitude.
I had nothing.
He’d given me everything.
And even though I knew it was a manipulation, even though I knew he was trying to buy my affection, I couldn’t deny that it felt good to have options.
To have nice things.
To feel like someone, somewhere, thought I was worth the effort.
I ran my fingers over the silk blouses, the soft cashmere sweaters, the delicate lace dresses before settling on a simple sundress, light blue and soft, and a pair of sandals.
I met him at the door, and he looked me over, his eyes softening.
“You look stunning,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek.
I rolled my eyes. “I look like a hangover in a dress.”
“You look stunning,” he repeated, his voice firm.
And for a second—just a second—I almost believed him.