11. Zara
ZARA
Two things have been running through my head since I returned home: Vian and the flash of memory. Both threaten my focus, but I’ve learned how to hide behind an impenetrable mask.
I can’t slip. Not in front of my men, and certainly never before customers. Dealing with men who would enjoy nothing more than finding one crack in my armor to tear me apart has taught me to become a chameleon.
After finalizing the deal, I close my eyes, replaying that flash of memory.
He had his back to me, nothing new there, as I scribbled on his neck.
We lay on a dark green velvet sofa, the large French windows offering breathtaking light, sunrays dancing on the hardwood floor.
The tattoo was my idea, a way of telling everyone he belonged to me and I belonged to him.
The memory causes raw pain, and tears stream down my cheeks.
I try to remember more, but my brain releases nothing else, feeding me only crumbs. Still, it’s better than nothing.
Vian’s presence is the key. It was his tattoo that caused that flash, but why, damn it?
I don’t know what terrifies me more: the power this man has over me, or the fact that I crave his nearness. Surrendering to my need for him frees something in me.
When we’re together, unveiling my past becomes a second thought, yet it still intrudes, disturbing every peaceful moment.
Just then, my phone vibrates, startling me, and my eyes fly open.
His name flashes on the screen, and a smile tugs at the corners of my lips, the tears drying on my face.
There’s this pressure pulsing behind my rib cage, as if my quest is a betrayal to him.
After so long, maybe I should simply forget and live.
I pick up the phone from my desk and lean back in my chair as I answer—always torn between two lives.
“How did it go?” he asks, sounding genuinely interested.
“I have a reputation for closing deals.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“What about you, husband? Don’t you want to do business with me?” I ask, my voice laced with flirtation.
“I don’t mix business with pleasure, wife.”
“I think you single-handedly keep my competition alive.”
He chuckles, the rich sound tugging at my heartstrings. “We must level the playing field. Without competition, we settle. In our world, that would be dangerous.”
He makes it sound as if he cares.
There is something between us. I can’t deny it because it’s the root of my confusion. My walls threaten to crumble around me one by one. Keeping a safe distance and pretending our marriage is just a show is not as simple as I initially thought.
“I don’t like going to bed alone, Zara.” He says my name with such longing it makes me want to fly to him right this moment and ease both our needs. Luckily, I still preserve some common sense.
“You knew who you married, Vian.”
“I know exactly who I married. Do you?” His voice deepens, eliciting goose bumps that trickle down my body. “I’m on my way.”
He hangs up, leaving me to believe he just wanted to gauge my reaction. He made up his mind long before he called me. In his own way, he prepared me as if knowing I don’t like surprises.
What an intriguing man.
I won’t have much time to work once he’s here, so I schedule an appointment with a renowned therapist who specializes in hypnosis. The others weren’t much help, and I don’t let my hopes climb, but I need to do something.
Standing up, I walk to the window, the familiar landscape offering me some much-needed comfort.
A knock sounds, but I don’t bother turning knowing it’s Conrad.
“The shipment arrived as scheduled with no issues,” he says, approaching me.
“Good. Vian is coming.”
“I see you’re trying to work on your marriage,” he teases, elbowing my side playfully.
“I guess.”
“It’s okay to let go. I know you’re tired of hearing that, but the past doesn’t define us.”
I am tired of trying to make people who haven’t woken up with a chunk of their identity ripped away understand. Memories make us. They tell tidbits of our story, guide us to act in certain ways, and offer glimpses into our personality. This Zara is a product of butchering my old self.
“I’ll visit another hypnotherapist.”
His eyes widen into two pools of worry. “I must vet them first. You know that.”
I jerk my chin toward my laptop because I can’t ignore that I am a security risk. It’s the consequence of my line of work.
I am good at what I do, no false modesty, aware that if I am not doing it, someone else will seize the chance. Yet the cognitive dissonance makes me believe there’s a part of me bothered by what I do. It’s my father’s business. It’s my legacy.
Conrad snaps a picture of the therapist’s information on my laptop, then excuses himself, leaving me alone with this invisible ghost haunting me, taunting me to acknowledge its presence.
Maybe that’s why I enjoy being in Chicago, no ghosts hiding in the shadows, giving me a break.
I call my household manager so the staff can prepare dinner, then return to my desk to finish some paperwork.
In the distance, I hear a jet landing.
He’s here. My heart leaps as if wanting to run down the stairs to welcome him. This reaction is so unsettling that I urge myself to stay still and retain some dignity.
It’s been only three days, but they feel like an eternity—unbearably long, the distance too cruel. Another proof of his innate chokehold on my being.
Shaking my head to clear it, I take my sweet time. I am not some desperate woman ready to jump into her husband’s arms. A bit of caution is always better.
Not even a full minute later—I know because I counted the seconds—my body divorces my brain, and I stride out the door with one goal in mind. Go to him. To rule out insanity would be foolish of me.
At the top of the stairs, I come to an abrupt halt. His smile roots me in place, delight stretching over his face, making his eyes light up just because he sees me.
“There you are,” he whispers, his soft tone laced with nostalgia that makes me question our history.
Could it be that we met in another life? Could it be that he was always meant to be mine? Could it be that we were destined? So many questions swirl in my head with no answers in sight, making me dizzy—but not more than his presence.
I grip the banister to support myself. “Here I am. Did you search for me?” I ask in a playful tone, climbing down the stairs.
“Without a break.”
“You found me now,” I murmur, feeling lightheaded.
He’s right there to catch me just in case. “And I won’t ever let you go.”
A jolt skitters down my spine, revitalizing me. He says the most disturbing and romantic things possible.
I cup his cheek, and he leans into my touch, making the moment feel ethereal. I would have no problem if time froze because I could gaze into his eyes for the rest of my existence.
“Is that so?”
“You know it’s so.”
I can’t deny it, and he places his hand on mine before moving my palm to his mouth, where he presses a sweet kiss that goes straight to my toes, making them curl.
I am not just Zara Monroe, the gun heiress, but a woman, his wife.
With him, I can just be—no pretense, no power struggle.
I can let myself fall, knowing he will catch me. It’s quite liberating.
“Hungry?” I say, my voice sounding unfamiliarly soft.
He gives me an intent look. “Starving.”
For me, and he’s not making a secret of it.
Even with my memory loss, I haven’t forgotten humanity’s basic instincts. I have been propositioned and flirted with, yet not a single man ignited this fever in my body. How unfair that he’s the cause and the cure.
The gradual pace I proposed already seems so distant, but yielding to this man is unavoidable. It’s a sweet dream, especially after years trapped in a merciless nightmare.
“Let’s eat.”
He gestures upstairs, eyes glowing with unrestrained desire. “After you.”
I press my lips together, barely containing my amusement. “Food.”
“Unnecessary,” he groans, eliciting a giggle.
In his presence, I don’t have to be on alert, watching myself. Being playful comes naturally. I feel safe. Such a wonderful thing I never thought I’d experience.
Inside the dining room, we face one another across the table, not taking our gazes from each other, not even when the staff brings the soup.
“It’s Noemi’s birthday this Saturday, and she’s wondering if you’d like to come,” he says, lifting a spoonful to his mouth.
Even that gesture is sexy. Damn, I have it bad for him.
“Yes, of course.”
The first impression was positive, and she’s family now. I don’t have friends, only acquaintances. I like both the women in the Syndicate and the ones from brACON, but letting my guard down in the underworld is reckless.
Finishing our soup, I pat the linen napkin at the corners of my mouth when he asks, the playfulness gone. “Will I have you for more than one night?”
One night will turn into two. Two to three. Three to four. And after that, I won’t want to leave. I know it in my gut. How? It eludes me.
Why it would be wrong remains unanswered. He is my husband. We’re going to spend the rest of our lives together, so why am I so torn when it comes to him? Why does a part of me want to run straight to him while the other wants to run as far as possible?
I rim the glass of wine with my index finger, fully in a flirtatious negotiating mood. “How many would you like?”
He cocks his head, tapping his fingers on the table, emanating such raw masculinity it dazes me. “All of them.”
I cast him an intent stare. “Don’t be greedy, Vian.”
“Seven.”
I raise a brow. “A month?”
“A week.”
I throw my head back and laugh so wholeheartedly, tears gather in my eyes. “Hard negotiator. Two nights at your place.”
He leans over, steepling his fingers. “Six.”
“Three is my last offer,” I breathe out.
“What do I have to do for a fourth one?”
Four nights a week? The number feels excessive yet simultaneously insufficient.
“We’re on your turf. Pick a challenge. I will win it.” He challenges me like no one else, making me want to prove him wrong.
“So sure of yourself?”
He smirks, winking at me. “Always when I want something, and I haven’t wanted anything more than you.”
My mouth dries and I rinse my nerves with a long gulp of wine. “Fine. You’ll get your chance. Let me guess, you’d like to spend that time at your place.”
His jaw sets in a hard line, that I expect him to crack his teeth. “I can’t live here.”
“Of course not. You scream of a city person.”
“I’ve grown up in a city most of my life, but it’s not that,” he grits out, staring out the window with violence burning in his eyes.
“Nothing could happen to you here. You’re safe,” I say lightly, trying to diffuse the tension.
Hardness eases from his face, but his taut body betrays he’s still tense. “Taking care of you is my job. No rest for the wicked.”
“We live dangerous lives. It is what it is.”
He raises his wineglass toward me. “I won’t make you a young widow. You can bet on that.”
I shake my head at him. “Has anyone told you how cocky you are?”
“You, several times so far. And you like it.” He grins behind the glass and takes another sip.
“You’re so full of yourself.”
He rolls his lower lip through his teeth. “And you love being full of me.”
Between that erotic gesture and his filthy mouth, my cheeks heat, and I swallow a long gulp to ease the pressure. “Good God, Vian.”
“Later.” He winks at me, unabashed. “Now, where were we? Right. I have no time to question my flaws or shortcomings. I’m too busy for that. What about you?”
“I don’t know who I am... Not even this persona I present to the world. It’s like I live with a stranger inside me.” Sincerity flows out of me, and I toss the wine back, emptying it in one go. If I could only fill this gap inside me, but nothing helps.
Silence descends, as thick as a fog obscuring the path, dooming me to wander lost.
He opens and closes his mouth several times as if searching for the right words. “I think what makes us who we are is something unalterable, embedded into the fabric of our lives.”
“So you think I am the same?”
“We’re made to change and grow, but some traits can’t be erased.”
If his theory is right, then I preserve some of the older version of me, and it eases the constant internal turmoil a little.
“Thank you. I needed to hear that.”
His blue eyes darken, boring into mine with an intent look. “Let the past go. Your brain is not trying to sabotage you. It’s trying to help you. That’s its primary job.”
I slap my palms on the table, bending over it. “Quite presumptuous.”
He shoots up and mimics my position. “Don’t start a fight with me.”
How does he know what I intend to do before I do? I realize this is exactly what I was looking for, as if it’s my defense mechanism. Before him, I thought I was a reasonable person, but he triggers something deep within me, and I don’t know how to stop.
He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them, the fight is gone. “I’ve missed you. I’m here, and I am not leaving you, baby.”
I don’t want fighting to be my go-to reaction either. Looking down, I avoid his gaze. “I am not like this… It’s—”
“Me,” he sighs, the sound filled with such sorrow it clenches my heart into an unyielding fist. “You can fight with me for the rest of our lives. I can take it.”
“Why?”
I don’t understand his strategy. What is he trying to do? Seduce me to get access to my body? Make me love him so he can control me?
“We’re playing a very dangerous game.”
“I’m not playing games.”
I tilt my head, gesturing between us with my hand. “Then what are you doing? What makes me so different that you ended your celibacy, your vow to another woman?”
I don’t even know what I want to accomplish.
“We’re married. We can treasure the people we loved, but we must continue living.
That’s what you have done since you proposed marriage.
You planted a seed that has grown into something beyond your expectations.
Aren’t you tired of simply existing, surviving one day after another, waiting for the shitshow to end because you lost your purpose long ago? ”
I rear back. He loved her tremendously, but it also shows me he’s capable of that kind of deep love.
“Who would you choose?” I whisper, knowing I sound like a selfish, idiotic woman, but that woman he loves triggers another part of me.
I wait with bated breath. The table between us might as well be an uncrossable rift, separating us into two continents.
The vein in his neck throbs, threatening to burst from the pressure. “This is not fair, Zara.”
He’s always using my name to reason with me, but I have none left, and it’s because of him.
“Answer me, Vian,” I demand, afraid if he doesn’t relieve me, I will hyperventilate.
He cocks his head, sweeping his gaze from my head to my toes and back. “I don’t have a choice. It’s always been you.”