Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
OLIVER
Sunlight sliced through the curtains like a laser, targeting my pounding skull with sadistic precision. I groaned, rolling away from the brightness, only to find the other side of the bed empty. Cool sheets. No lingering warmth. No Zahra.
My mouth tasted like I’d eaten ashes, and the night’s events were scattered in my brain in fragments: the county records office, the bar, Ryan, Zahra pressed against the door, and something about going to church.
That last bit struck me as odd. What was Zahra telling me about the church last night that it had lingered in my mind through the alcohol fumes and regret?
And then her words filtered through the fog. I sat up too fast, wincing as my brain sloshed against my skull.
The LLC. The missing link.
Zahra had seen something in those church records, something important. And I’d shut her out. Again.
Judging by the untouched pillow, she hadn’t slept here.
Fuck .
I staggered to the shower, bracing against the icy water as I tried to form a plan. There had to be a way to access those files.
Dressed, still nursing my headache, I pulled out my laptop and ignored Emmet’s missed calls.
Later .
I'd deal with him later.
I had the name, Blessed Heritage LLC, and now I had a lead. This took precedence.
The state registry revealed little: founded five years ago, labeled a “property management and investment company,” with no listed officers. Just one registered agent—Thomas Davidson. Again.
A chill settled in my gut.
I traced the LLC’s connections, tried to find threads between it and my parents, the church, anything. But I was hitting walls. The church might have internal records—meeting minutes, financial statements—anything to prove just how deep this ran.
I exhaled sharply, rubbing my temples. This would be easier with Zahra. She could access those files legitimately. She might have already seen something crucial.
But involving her meant telling the truth about why I was in Norman. About the trust fund, the fraud, the theft.
And if she refused to help? Told someone? Or worse—she agreed, but lost everything?
No.
I handle this alone. I protect her.
I’ve done it alone this long.
It’s safer that way.
Laptop shut, phone pocketed, documents gathered. I was out the door before I could second-guess myself.
I forced my posture straight, my expression neutral. Back in control. Back on mission. Personal feelings were locked away where they couldn't interfere with what needed to be done.
I had a church to visit, records to examine, and a con to expose.
Everything else would have to wait.
The First Baptist Church of Norman hadn’t changed. White clapboard exterior, imposing steeple, landscaping so immaculate it felt designed to intimidate rather than welcome.
I pushed through the heavy wooden doors, stepping into the cool, quiet interior. The office lights glowed at the end of the foyer.
Inside, a middle-aged woman with bottle-blonde hair glanced up, then did a double-take.
"Oliver Beck?" She beamed. "My goodness, you've grown! I haven’t seen you since confirmation."
I forced a smile. "Mrs. Wilson. Good to see you."
"Oh, call me Linda." She clasped her hands. "What brings you back? Your parents said you’d moved out west."
"Seattle," I confirmed, making note that my parents were still active here. "I’m in town for a wedding—Parisa Ansari and Darryl Henderson?"
"Oh, such a lovely couple!" Her smile was genuine. "How can I help?"
I leaned casually against the counter. "Zahra needs info for the reception setup. She’s been swamped, so I offered to help. She mentioned property records being stored here?"
Linda’s smile dimmed. "Those are in the archives."
"Could I take a quick look? She’s working herself to the bone with all these last-minute details."
"I wish I could help, dear, but only board members have keys." She lowered her voice. "Security measures. After the youth pastor incident a few years ago."
I kept my face neutral, though my pulse quickened. "Is there someone I could talk to?"
Linda tapped her pen, thinking. "Well, Maryam Ansari is head of the board, or you could try Ryan Calloway? He took over after Mr. Davidson’s stroke last year."
Ice crawled through my veins.
Ryan .
The church’s legal advisor. Davidson’s successor.
The same Ryan who terrorized me in high school. The same one who’s been lurking around Zahra, trying to hurt her again.
I forced myself to breathe.
"I believe Mr. Calloway is here this morning.” Linda smiled. “Would you like me to see if he’s available?"
"No." Too sharp. I forced a smile, softened my stance. "No, thank you. Things are…tense between us."
Her eyes lit with understanding. "Ahh. I won’t mention you stopped by."
"Appreciate it."
I walked out into the blinding sunlight, barely making it to my car before bile surged up my throat. I grabbed onto the hood, doubling over as I emptied what little contents I had in my stomach.
This was bigger than I thought.
Ryan, my parents, Davidson, Maryam. They weren’t just connected. They were the system.
And Zahra?
She wasn’t just a piece on the board. She was a pawn.
I swiped my sleeve across my mouth, breathing hard, pulse hammering in my ears.
My phone buzzed.
I pulled it out, expecting Emmet. Instead, an unknown number.
You don’t belong here.
A chill swept down my spine.
I swallowed hard, shoving the phone in my pocket, scanning the street. No one was watching. No one visible , at least.
I needed to see Zahra. Now .
Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the familiar driveway, lungs tight.
If Zahra wasn’t at the hotel, she’d be here, at her parents’ home, the one place she’d always felt safe.
I parked but didn’t move, gripping the wheel.
How much did I tell her?
How much did I keep hidden?
Where was the line between protecting her and using her?
I didn't have answers, and the realization terrified me.
My phone buzzed again. Emmet. He’d gotten top marks on his latest exam.
I couldn’t let him down.
Finally, I forced myself up the familiar walkway, hesitating only briefly before pressing the doorbell. The chime echoed inside, followed by footsteps.
The door swung open to reveal Mina Nazarian, her face brightening with recognition.
"Oliver! What a wonderful surprise!" She pulled me into a hug, warm and scented with saffron and cardamom. I allowed myself to lean into it for just a moment.
"Come in, come in." She ushered me inside. "Kamran will be so happy to see you."
Inside, the house was exactly as I remembered—family photos, Persian rugs, potted plants thriving in every corner.
"Kamran!” she called. “Look who's here."
Mr. Nazarian emerged, glasses perched on his nose, a book under his arm. His weathered face broke into a wide smile.
"Oliver, my boy." He clasped my hand between both of his. "What a pleasant surprise. Zahra didn’t tell us you were joining us for breakfast."
"She doesn’t know.” I tried to keep my voice light, but the deceit was heavy on my tongue. “It’s, uh, a surprise."
His gaze sharpened slightly, just for a fraction of a second.
"Ah," he said simply. Then, softer, "You look tired."
I swallowed. "Yeah. It’s been a long week."
A beat, then, "Be careful who you cross in this town, son."
My stomach twisted. It was a warning, not a threat. I could see it in his weathered eyes. He’d seen too much and still chose to stay silent, and it weighed on him, more so when he knew I was in the crosshairs. It was his cross to bear.
Before I could question him, Mrs. Nazarian ushered me into the kitchen.
"Zahra will be back from the market soon.” She practically shoved me into a chair. “Sit, sit. I'll make you tea."
“Oh, no, I don’t want to impose.” My chest ached at their kindness. I didn’t deserve this.
"Nonsense.” Mrs. Nazarian waved away my objections. “You're family."
She filled the kettle, arranging glass teacups stained with delicate red rose enamels. "How are you finding Norman after so many years away?"
"Um, mixed emotions, I guess," I said, settling at the familiar kitchen table. "Some things have changed, but others feel exactly the same."
Like this house. Like the Nazarians' unquestioning welcome. Like the warmth I felt when I was around them.
Mr. Nazarian laughed, taking the seat beside me as Mrs. Nazarian served us steaming chai.
I took a sip of the dark brew. Bitterness mixed with the sweetness of a single sugar cube, the taste and scent throwing me back to late-night study sessions with Zahra at this very table.
She remembered. After all these years, she remembered how I took my tea.
The knot in my throat made it difficult to swallow.
Over tea, we talked about my work. Mr. Nazarian listened intently, fascinated as always. The guilt twisted deeper.
Then he pulled out an old photo.
"I’ve been tidying the attic," he said. "Came across this."
I picked up the photo he slid my way, and the lump in my throat grew.
Zahra and I, on the first day of sophomore year, backpacks slung over our shoulders. Smiling.
Before Ryan. Before my world crumbled.
“You two always made sense,” Mr. Nazarian said softly, squeezing my shoulder. “We’re so happy you found your way back to each other.”
Mrs. Nazarian nodded, setting a plate of saffron cookies beside my tea. "She’s missed you, even if she won’t admit it."
Their pride, their affection, their unwavering belief in me—it was a knife twisting deeper with every kind word, every warm smile.
The front door opened. Footsteps. Then Zahra walked in.
She froze in the kitchen doorway, grocery bags in hand.
"Oliver," she said, voice unreadable. "What are you doing here?"
"He came to surprise you, azizam .” Mrs. Nazarian beamed. “Now, you two set the table while I start breakfast."
Zahra’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t argue.
As we moved around the kitchen, she remained distant, cold. The warmth of her parents only made the contrast sharper.
When breakfast was served, she sat as far from me as the table allowed. She picked at her food, contributing minimally to the conversation.
"Well." Mr. Nazarian patted his stomach when the meal was over. "I’ll start on the dishes.”
“I’ll see Oliver out,” Zahra said. No questions, no arguments, no direct communication. Just a clear-cut dismissal. It was like a slap.
I followed her to the door. When she opened it, I hesitated, then spun, planting a palm against the blue-painted wood before she could shut me out.
Zahra’s grip on the door tightened.
"Zahra, I’m sorry, I…" The apology I'd rehearsed in the car died on my lips when she finally met my eyes.
I swallowed, the weight of everything I wasn't saying crushing my chest. "Please, Zahra, can we talk?"
It didn’t even have to be talking. I’d accept yelling, slapping, being thrown out in a fit of rage. Anything to know she still felt something for me, anything other than this blank apathy that was telling me I’d already lost her.
It was killing me.
“Please,” I whispered in a final plea.
She stared at me, unreadable. Then, voice quiet but firm, she asked, "Did you come here to apologize, or because you need something?"
The panic must have been showing on my face, because she let out a tired exhale, shaking her head. "Thought so."
Think. Think. THINK .
Tell her? She’s in danger.
Don’t? I become him .
Walk away? Emmet’s screwed.
Every move was a sacrifice. Zahra. My integrity. Emmet’s future.
Choose, Beck!
“You should leave,” she whispered before turning away.
"I..." I stammered, my emotions at war, but one thing echoed loud and clear—not her. Not like this. "I can't do this alone anymore, Zahra."
Zahra finally looked up at me, her gaze still suspicious but softer than before.
"That's a start," she said, still not smiling, but at least her voice wasn’t icy anymore. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Then she shut the door. A reprimand. A second chance.
I exhaled. Not forgiveness. Not acceptance.
But maybe—just maybe—redemption.
Tomorrow . No more screwing up, no more letting her down. This was my only chance to keep her.