Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
I'm curled up on my bed, eyes fixed on my laptop screen as the drama of "When They See Us" unfolds before me.
The story of the falsely accused Central Park Five twists my gut—innocent people manipulated by a system designed to use them.
I reach for my cup of herbal tea, now cold from sitting too long.
A sharp knock on my door breaks the tension.
"Come in," I call, pausing the show.
Byron enters, impeccably dressed as always in a tailored suit despite the late hour. His eyes scan my casual appearance—yoga pants and an oversized Columbia sweatshirt.
"Zoe," he says, his tone business-like. "I just received a call. Damiano Feretti has requested a dinner meeting. Tomorrow night at Marea."
Oh God, no. "He actually wants to meet? After storming out?"
"It appears he thought about it." Byron's thin lips curve into what passes for his smile. "He's intrigued enough to want to discuss terms."
I close my laptop, pushing it aside. "Terms for what, exactly? Our sham marriage?"
"This isn't the time for sarcasm." Byron's voice hardens. "This dinner is crucial. Everything—everything we've worked for depends on your performance."
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, meeting his gaze. "I know what's at stake."
"You cannot let your emotions rule you tomorrow," Byron says. "Not your anger, not your fear, not any misguided moral qualms. You've been trained for this, Zoe. Every etiquette lesson, every language class, every shooting practice—it was all for this."
I nod, my throat tight. "I understand."
"Do you?" Byron looks down at my screen. "What are you watching?"
"When They See Us. It's about—"
"I know what it's about." He cuts me off. "Innocent boys railroaded by the system. Is that really appropriate viewing the night before you meet your father's killer?"
I bite my tongue against the retort forming there.
"Your emotions are your weakness, Zoe." Byron's voice softens, almost fatherly. "Remember your training. Be charming but reserved. Intelligent but not threatening. Show him the perfect society daughter I've raised. Can you do that?"
I stand, squaring my shoulders. "I've been preparing for twelve years. I won't let you down."
Byron studies me for a moment, then nods. "Good. We leave at seven tomorrow. Wear the navy Chanel. Conservative but elegant."
After Byron leaves, I sink back onto the bed, my mind racing in a thousand directions. I reach for my phone, needing to hear a voice that doesn't calculate my every word and gesture. My fingers find Scarlett's number automatically.
She answers on the second ring. "Hey stranger, isn't it past your bedtime?"
"He wants to meet," I blurt out, my voice barely above a whisper. "Feretti. Dinner tomorrow night at Marea."
"Holy shit." The playfulness vanishes from her voice. "That was fast."
I run my fingers through my hair, tugging at the roots. "I thought I'd have more time to prepare. To...I don't know, mentally get ready to face him. Byron just came in here talking about how I can't let my emotions rule me tomorrow. Like I'm some kind of robot he can program."
The line goes quiet for a moment before Scarlett speaks again. "Zo, I know you've been waiting for this chance for years, but—"
"I know what you're going to say."
"Do you? Because I'm worried this is moving too fast. One minute you're watching him reject Byron's proposal, and now suddenly you're having dinner with him?"
I press my palm against my forehead. "It's what we wanted. What I've been preparing for."
"I know, but—" She pauses. "I love you, you know that, right? And I just want you to be safe."
"I will be," I assure her, though my voice lacks conviction.
"Everything's going to be fine if you move carefully," Scarlett says. "Remember, this man is dangerous. Don't let Byron push you into something before you're ready."
I feel a lump forming in my throat. "I'm supposed to wear a navy Chanel dress I have. Conservative but elegant."
"Of course he's picking your outfit," Scarlett mutters. "Listen to me, Zo. No matter what happens tomorrow, you're not alone in this, okay? I'm here. Even if I think this whole revenge plan is—"
"The only justice I'll ever get," I finish for her.
"That's not what I was going to say." Her voice is gentle but firm. "Just... keep your eyes open. With Byron and with Feretti. They both want something from you."
I close my eyes, feeling the weight of tomorrow pressing down on me. "I need to go. Early morning."
"Call me after, no matter how late. Promise?"
"I promise."
My eyes burn as I stare at the ceiling, watching shadows shift across it as headlights occasionally sweep by outside. The digital clock on my nightstand flips to 5:37 a.m. I've barely slept, my mind refusing to quiet down.
With a frustrated sigh, I throw back the covers and slide out of bed. Sleep isn't coming, so I might as well do something useful with this restless energy. I pull on leggings and a sports bra, tie my hair into a messy bun, and quietly make my way to the mansion's basement gym.
The cool air hits my skin as I flip on the lights.
Byron spared no expense here—state-of-the-art equipment lines the walls, a testament to his belief that physical strength is as important as mental acuity.
I head straight for the punching bag in the corner, not bothering with wraps. The pain might help clear my head.
I strike the bag once, twice, feeling the impact jar up my arms. Each hit sends a satisfying shock through my system.
Dinner with Damiano Feretti. Thwack.
The man who killed my father. Thwack.
The man I might have to marry. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
My knuckles sting, but I keep going. The physical discomfort is nothing compared to the churning in my stomach when I think about what "marriage" to Damiano would actually mean.
I'd have to live with him. Share meals with him. Pretend to be his devoted wife while secretly working to destroy him.
And I'd have to share his bed.
My stomach twists at the thought. I stop punching, pressing my forehead against the cool leather of the bag. How can I possibly let that monster touch me? The same hands that pulled the trigger and killed my father would be on my skin.
I shiver despite the sweat forming on my brow.
Byron never explicitly discussed the physical aspects of this arrangement, but the implication is clear. A marriage needs to appear real. And real marriages involve intimacy.
I push away from the bag and grab a jump rope instead, trying to outrun my thoughts with each rapid skip.
Thwap-thwap-thwap-thwap—the rhythm of the rope hitting the floor matches my racing heart.
Could I really go through with it? Let him kiss me? Touch me? More than that?
I falter, the rope catching on my ankle, and I stumble. Sweat drips down my back as I untangle myself.
"Focus, Zoe," I mutter to myself. "Eyes on the end goal."
Revenge. Justice. Making him pay for what he took from me. That's what matters. Everything else is just... collateral damage. Including whatever dignity I'll sacrifice in his bed.
I grab a towel and wipe my face, catching my reflection in the mirrored wall. My eyes look hollow, haunted. Is this what my father would want for me?
No. Don't go there.
I can't afford doubts now.
I shower, letting scalding water wash over me like armor. Each precise movement—applying makeup, drying my hair, selecting jewelry—follows years of careful instruction.
The Chanel dress hangs on my closet door—elegant, understated.
I slip it on, feeling the silk against my skin. The diamond earrings and matching bracelet catch the light as I move.
My reflection stares back at me—blonde hair falling in soft waves, makeup enhancing my features while appearing natural. I look exactly as I need to look: refined, educated, desirable. The perfect bait.
The clock shows 6:15. We need to leave soon to make our 7:00 reservation.
I slide my feet into the Louboutin heels—four inches of sleek black leather that make my legs look endless. Standing at my full height now, I take a deep breath and reach for the doorknob.
But my hand freezes inches away.
For a moment, I think I might be sick.
Get it together.
This is what you've been preparing for.
I take another deep breath, straighten my spine, and open the door. The familiar click-click of my heels against the floor echoes as I make my way toward the grand staircase.
Byron stands at the bottom, checking his watch. His tuxedo is impeccable, not a thread out of place. When he hears me approaching, he looks up, his critical gaze scanning every inch of my appearance.
I feel Byron's gaze move over me as I descend the stairs. His expression shifts into a smile of approval.
"Perfect," he says softly. "You look exquisite, my dear."
The town car waits outside, engine purring. Byron holds the door for me, a gentlemanly gesture that feels both familiar and hollow. I slide in, careful not to wrinkle my dress.
As we pull away from the mansion, Byron reaches over and pats my hand. His touch is gentle, so different from his rage yesterday.
"Are you nervous?" he asks, his voice unexpectedly soft.
I keep my eyes forward. "No."
"It's alright if you are." His tone shifts, warmer now. "This is what we've worked toward, but I understand the weight of sitting across from him."
I glance at Byron, surprised by the tenderness in his expression. It's these moments that confuse me most—when the man who screamed at me yesterday suddenly transforms into someone who seems to genuinely care.
"You were only thirteen when I brought you home," Byron continues, squeezing my hand. "So small, so broken. Now look at you. You've become everything I hoped you would be."
His words slide under my skin. Is this manipulation or real affection? After twelve years, I still can't tell.
"I'm proud of you, Zoe." His eyes, usually cold and calculating, now shine with something that looks almost like love. "You know I only want what's best for you."
The ride continues in silence, Byron's unpredictability hanging between us like a storm cloud that might bring either gentle rain or devastating lightning.
The restaurant glows with warm light as we pull up. A valet opens my door while another takes the keys.
Inside Marea, the hostess leads us through the main dining room toward a secluded area in the back. My heart pounds against my ribs with each step.
We approach a private dining room with frosted glass doors. The hostess slides them open, and there they are.
Two men stand as we enter.
Breathe Zoe.
Damiano Feretti is even more intimidating in person than in photographs or from a distance.
Tall—at least six-two—with broad shoulders that fill out his custom suit to perfection.
His dark hair has touches of silver at the temples, and his olive skin contrasts with eyes so deep brown they're almost black.
When those eyes lock on mine, I feel a jolt of electricity I wasn't prepared for.
I want to kill him.
The man beside him must be his brother. They share the same strong jaw and commanding presence, though this man is slightly shorter with lighter hair and sharper features. Where Damiano radiates controlled danger, this man seems more openly aggressive.
Damiano steps forward, a predatory grace in his movements. His gaze travels over me slowly, deliberately, before his mouth curves into what might be a smile but feels more like a threat.
My father's killer stands before me, and all I can think is that no one told me the devil would be this beautiful. What a waste.