8. Zara
ZARA
Over the past week, I’ve buried myself in work—anything to forget my internal turmoil.
Because of him. Ever since he left, a part of me has slowly withered away.
He’s a virtual stranger, my husband only on paper, but his power to affect me is undeniable.
Missing him debilitates me. There’s an invisible cord around my neck, cutting off my air supply, and only his presence can ease the chokehold.
The faceless man in my dreams now wears Vian’s face. With every encounter, Vian erases him and fills the holes in my mind with himself. It’s terrifying. I believe myself to be a rational woman, but he turns me into an emotional mess, challenging a part of me I’ve lost contact with.
Instead of dreaming about him, Vian popped up. It was his face looking back at me. If I lose that part of the man I loved, as blurry as it is, it means abandoning the hope of remembering.
I went through every specialist there was. Tried every therapy. Nothing helped. Not even the diagnosis was clear—whether the head injury caused my memory loss or my brain deliberately shut down, keeping a traumatic experience hidden from me in an attempt at self-protection.
I could accept self-preservation or go insane. I chose the sensible option.
If memories define a person, then I am nothing more than an empty shell with years of my life stripped away.
I’ve always perceived that loss as a phantom limb—feeling it there but knowing it’s not attached to me, like a shadow: amorphous, something I can’t touch but that hurts all the same.
Pain has accompanied me like a constant, stubborn, omnipresent companion.
My head trauma healed, but the memories never returned, making me wonder whether something else happened. Every attempt to uncover my past led to a dead end.
I toss and turn in bed, chasing sweet oblivion, but restlessness, coupled with thoughts of my husband, steals my sleep. Him and his undeniable capacity to make me forget everything else when we’re together.
I know I hurt him with my unfortunate choice of words. He doesn’t deserve my cruelty when he has been nothing but supportive—too good, triggering me to think he is after something or, worse, hiding something. Trusting him blindly would be stupid.
He’s a conundrum and, apparently, a virus that has infected me. I’ve tried and failed to erase him from my system.
Picking up my phone from the nightstand, I glance at it, but there are no texts or calls.
My chest tightens at his goodbye. Fuck him if he thinks I am too much. I might be a mess, but I am his mess to deal with. I didn’t put a gun to his head to make him say yes. He agreed to be my husband, and if I don’t get some sleep soon, I don’t know what I will do.
He has become a strange source of comfort. Needing him is the most dangerous thing I have done, but trusting him with my vulnerabilities feels out of my control. Maybe it’s because being on my own has become tiresome.
I have Conrad, but even with him, I don’t share everything, keeping a professional distance.
I glance at the time. If I leave now, I can be in Chicago by ten o’clock. Without a second thought, I pack a bag and tell the pilot to prepare the jet.
In the small cabin at the back of the jet, I change into a black dress that falls just below my knees, molds to every curve, and has a heart-shaped neckline.
I touch up my makeup and curl my hair. I look composed, more like a woman who has her shit together.
I’m not above using every weapon in my arsenal to disarm him.
He’s attracted to me, and he is going to swallow his goodbye.
He can’t simply leave me. If anyone is leaving, it’s me.
Tone down the petty, my inner voice whispers.
A headache throbs behind my temples, and as I rub them, I look into the mirror. “You’re a freaking mess of epic proportions,” I mouth to my reflection before sighing, the deep sound ringing with frustration.
I had to find my way alone.
Had to be strong when all I wanted was to give up.
This man won’t be the exception.
Squaring my shoulders, I return to my seat, ready for landing.
On the tarmac, one of my men checks the surroundings before opening the door to a tinted SUV while the other two flank me.
I trust these men with my life—or I used to, until my husband so easily penetrated my compound. It reinforces the belief that I chose right if they fear him, but it angers me that they think I wouldn’t kill them if they betrayed me.
I am not one for brute force, but I do believe in making a statement. The last traitor ended up chained in the backyard. Snuffing out hope is much crueler than taking a life. Starvation is an atrocious way to go, from what I witnessed.
He starts the car, knowing exactly where to take me.
If we have one intense encounter followed by a week of separation, it diminishes the chances of falling in love to slim. I will talk to Vian, set some ground rules, sleep, and then head back home. I have important meetings next week, and I should focus on work, not my husband’s tantrums.
I look out the window, Chicago glowing under the streetlights. After so many years spent in seclusion, I thought city life would overwhelm me, but as I people-watch, everyone looks engrossed in their own lives, the anonymity surprisingly appealing.
I see the glass skyscraper towering over the city like a sentinel, not letting anyone forget who’s in charge. My husband is a show-off. We couldn’t be more different if we tried.
As soon as the driver parks in the underground garage, Vian’s men peer from the car to each other in obvious confusion.
One rushes to open my door. “Ma’am, welcome home.”
I am about to refute that this will never be my home, but I nod instead.
With one gesture, my men stop at the car, waiting for new orders.
Nerves mix with excitement while I wait for the private elevator to arrive.
Breaking the silence, one guard clears his throat. “Ma’am, the boss is not home.”
“Where is he?”
“At a gala, but I’ll let him know.” He plucks his phone from his pocket, and I snatch it.
“I would like to surprise my husband,” I say in a sweet voice, expecting cavities to appear any second now.
Vian didn’t think to inform me. The asshole. He won’t keep me in the dark like a secret. Oh, he chose the wrong wife for that.
“Where is this gala being held?”
Another one gives me the address, and I keep my fake smile plastered on my face. “If any of you inform my husband and ruin my surprise, I will be very mad.” The underlying threat hits its mark as they share another contrite look but dip their chins in agreement.
I don’t want them to get into trouble, and I won’t let my husband treat them as casualties. It’s our war, and I guess using each other’s men is our go-to strategy.
I take the elevator upstairs and find a black, shimmering satin gown waiting for me in our closet, as if he knew I couldn’t stay away.
With an asymmetrical one-shoulder neckline, structured mermaid bodice, full train, and side slit, it’s elegant and sensual—perfect for a grand entrance and tonight’s event.
On the drive to the location, I reapply my lipstick, red like the fire raging inside me, and prepare to crash his party.
The car stops in front of an old brick building, and one of my men rushes to open the door.
I step onto the red carpet and straighten my skirt. “Stay here.”
“Ma’am,” he tries.
I don’t fear my husband, and I certainly don’t fear the fine people of Chicago. If I know how to do one thing, it’s make an entrance.
I lift my palm in a stop gesture and approach the two bulky men serving as security. I smile, give them my name, and as one checks the list, he scratches his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “Ma’am, you’re not on the guest list.”
The muscle in my jaw tics. The asshole.
“I don’t need an invitation. My husband didn’t know I would make it,” I say, keeping the polite smile on my face, which requires incredible acting skills.
I try to enter, but the other guard blocks my way.
“You don’t want to do that. Believe me.” My tone doesn’t waver, landing like arrows in his confidence.
He drops his arm instantly. “Who is your husband, Mrs.…?”
“Ma’am, to you. And my name is Zara Monroe Giancana.”
Their eyes bug out, and I say to the guy in front of me, “Now move before I have you removed.”
He rushes to comply, and I step inside the event space. Hundreds of people crowd together, the dim light creating an intimate atmosphere. A quartet plays onstage, the only pleasant, real thing in the room. The ballroom reeks of pretense and money.
Plucking a glass of champagne from a passing server, I scan for my husband.
Instinctively, my eyes find him, as if an invisible compass guides me straight to him.
I inhale deeply to compose myself when I see he is in deep conversation with a brunette who eyes him with familiarity, smiling brightly.
Oh, I will gladly pluck her eyes out so she can remain in the dark forever.
With every step, people glance at me, some more discreetly than others.
My husband says something, and she throws her head back and laughs. It’s an insult to crows to compare her laugh to them, but surely she’s exaggerating. Vian is not funny.
She places her hand on his arm, wearing a soft look on her face. This woman has moved to number one on my shit list. She really shouldn’t test me.
She doesn’t remove her hand from what’s mine, and neither does he, which only worsens my jealousy. I will cut her arm off and shove it down his throat so he never forgets he’s fucking mine.
I haven’t been here for a full ten seconds, and I want to murder my husband. He should know better.
I come to an abrupt stop, breathing deeply to calm down and avoid going over there all ballistic, but it’s like sound travels to him because he cocks his head and our eyes lock. Time and space distort, creating a tunnel straight between us.
He arches a brow, gives me a once-over, and then redirects his attention to that woman, tearing my composure to smithereens. I forget all my good intentions of staying collected and speed-walk straight to him.
Instantly, the air around the high table charges, thickening with tension until it’s a wonder neither of us suffocates.
The woman sweeps her gaze from him to me, her brows furrowing as uncertainty crosses her face.
My future dead husband sips from his drink, unperturbed. He chose the wrong woman to piss off.
“Won’t you introduce us?” I ask sweetly, batting my lashes at him.
“Amber, meet Zara,” he says in a neutral tone, pissing me off even more.
I curl my hand around his arm, clawing my nails into his suit. It’s a wonder I don’t cut the material. “I think you forgot to add a small detail.”
“Hmm, can’t think of what.” There’s a challenge etched in those blue eyes.
He’s doing that on purpose, the asshole, and his tactic works because I am all riled up. Keeping our eyes locked, it’s like we shoot thunder and wait for the other to crack.
He’s angry at me; the calm exterior is only a show. Well, I am mad at him too—an explosive combination. I should leave, but once again, his nearness blasts my rationality, just like I am about to do to him.
“Your wife.”
“This is her?” she asks, sounding genuinely excited.
I glare at her, not understanding.
“Mm-hmm.” He smirks, enjoying my distress. Asshole.
She reaches out her hand, and I take it. “Nice to meet you. I lead his nonprofit organization for cancer research.”
Oh, fuck.
Just then, I register the name of the gala, Life Shall Prevail, and his mother’s picture centered along the wall, surrounded by more faces—survivors in color and the ones who left in black and white.
The contrast twists my heart, and as I stare into his mother’s soft blue eyes, the longer I watch her, the more the feeling intensifies, making me strangely nostalgic.
She looks familiar. I gulp, but the lump won’t pass, stuck in my throat and making it hard to breathe.
“He was just recounting stories about her,” she says, wearing the same smile she gave him. Jealousy is a bitch. An ugly monster that loves to stir trouble.
Right then, a man comes by and puts his arm around her, introducing himself as her husband.
Feeling stupid. I roll my engagement ring, but it doesn’t ease my nerves.
“Excuse me,” I say, rushing from the ballroom to find a restroom.
My palms slap the counter, and I stare at my reflection, shaking my head. I doubt I could lose it over another man the way I do over him.
The door bursts open and I recognize him without looking. His woodsy scent and imposing presence tingle my senses, betraying his arrival.
“What did you expect to find?” He leans against the wall, and our eyes clash in the mirror.
I can’t believe his nerve. “You were pretty cozy with her.”
“I know exactly what you thought. Your poker face needs some work, wife.”
I spin around and grip the edges hard enough that I might break my fingers. “You could have informed me about tonight.”
“For what?” Pain laces every syllable, thrusting a knife into my chest.
“Had you thought to invite me from the start, I would have come with you,” I murmur, my tone lacking its former edge.
“What do you want from me, Zara?” He drags a hand down his face, sounding exhausted. “Because you give me one fucking inch only to retreat a yard.”
“I didn’t know you had such powerful feelings for me, husband,” I grumble to mask the flurry of emotions assaulting me.
He lets out a self-deprecating laugh, and I fidget with my fingers, spinning the ring hard enough that I might dislocate one.
“Why are you nervous?” he asks, jerking his chin toward my hand, his voice calmer.
“I’m not.”
He expels a heavy breath and is about to leave when I blurt out, “I was jealous, Vian.”
“I told you—”
I don’t let him continue, intent on letting it out before it poisons me. “Then I felt stupid for being jealous. Then I was mad. I am permanently confused.”
He sighs. “I make you mad if I am there. I make you mad when I’m not. What every man wants to hear.”
“Sensitive as always.” I wrap my arms around myself, wishing they were his. “I don’t want to fight right now. I’m tired—I haven’t slept. I…”
Instantly, his face softens, and he stretches out his arm, offering me his hand. “Let’s go home.”
As I take it, the moment feels pivotal, as if it will change everything, but I am incapable of stopping it.
“What about the gala?”
“I made the rounds.” He shrugs. “I have a wife to care for.”
He makes me feel like I am his sole priority, a heady feeling I could get drunk on.
“You give me whiplash,” I whisper, savoring the way he cradles my hand, his larger one engulfing mine.
He gives it a little squeeze. “Ditto.”
With the ceasefire in place, we smile, pausing for a picture on the way out. Then we leave—together.