CHAPTER 4
MIA
“Miss, would you like to have dinner before heading to your father’s event?” Olga asks in her usual professional tone.
I smile. “Olga, are you married?”
“No, ma’am,” she replies.
“Why not? You seem like a catch. Any man would be lucky to have someone so organized.”
“I don’t have time for men. They’re usually useless.”
“Women then?”
“I’m not attracted to women.”
“Are you attracted to anything?”
“Knitting.”
“Really? You could teach me sometime. I bet it would be fun.”
“Eat your food, Mia.”
I grin. “Ha! You finally called me by my first name. I think we’re making progress.”
Olga just stares at me with her usual deadpan expression, but I catch the ghost of a smile.
“I made something for you,” she says, setting a plate of waffles with ice cream in front of me.
“I thought Paulina wouldn’t let me eat carbs.”
“What carbs? Those are fruits, ma’am,” she says, amused.
My smile widens. “Only after dinner.”
“Okay.”
“Mr. Mitchell asked me to let you know he’ll be here in an hour,” The security man says, approaching, and I nod.
I can’t help but feel nervous about seeing him again.
Ever since that night—when Zane comforted me—he’s gone back to being distant, cold. He hasn’t touched me since, and I miss him. But it’s like he’s avoiding me, like I have some contagious disease.
I should be happy, right? He’s staying away.
But what’s the point of him keeping his distance when he’s still tangled up in this universe with me?
I eat dinner alone, as always—Olga refuses to eat with me because it’s “house rules”—and then I head upstairs to get ready.
Being here is strange. It brings back memories I never paid attention to before. It’s like I suppressed everything, but now the jar is overflowing, and I feel everything all at once. Worse. Because this time, I’m fully conscious.
This time, I have to be an active participant in this horror show.
Before, I killed to survive.
Now, it feels like the environment is killing me back, piece by piece.
I move on autopilot. When I finally look in the mirror, I’m wearing a turquoise blue dress, my hair falling in waves, the white streaks standing out starkly against the dark strands. I smile.
As I descend the stairs, I spot Zane—Reign, whatever—lounging on the couch, eyes glued to his phone. His usual brooding expression is in full force, but his foot taps softly against the floor, betraying his impatience.
I pause on the last step, tilting my head. "How do I look?"
His eyes lift, and for a second—just a second—they linger. There’s a flicker of something warm before his mask slips back into place. "Always beautiful, Mia," he murmurs, like it’s a fact he can’t argue with, no matter how much he wants to.
I grin, stepping closer. "Good to know that even when you’re mad at me, you still think I’m pretty."
He slides his phone back into his pocket, shaking his head slightly. "Are you going to tease me all night?"
I slip into the car, tossing him a playful smile. "That depends. Are you going to be a jerk all night? Because if you are, I deserve entertainment."
He huffs, shutting the door behind me a little harder than necessary. "You’re impossible."
"Thank you." I beam. "I try really hard."
Zane climbs into the driver’s seat, adjusting the rearview mirror like it personally offended him. "You don’t take anything seriously, do you?"
I lean back in my seat, stretching my legs. "Oh, I take a lot of things seriously. My skincare routine, for example. And bothering you. Full-time job, by the way—very demanding."
His jaw clenches as he starts the engine. "Must be exhausting."
"It is. But I’m passionate about my work."
He mutters something under his breath, and I pretend not to hear it because that’s more fun.
"You know," I say, turning toward him with a thoughtful expression, "you’re kind of adorable when you’re grumpy. Like a very attractive thundercloud."
Zane glances at me, unimpressed. "A thundercloud?"
"Mm-hmm. All dark and stormy, but secretly soft on the inside." I grin wider. "You probably cry at cat videos."
His knuckles tighten on the steering wheel. "I do not cry at cat videos."
I gasp. "So you do watch them."
He lets out a long, dramatic sigh. "Why am I even here?"
"Because you love my company," I say sweetly. "And you’d miss me too much if you left."
"I wouldn’t," he mutters, though the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s holding back a smile.
"You would," I counter, leaning closer. "You’d be miserable without me. A sad little thundercloud, all alone."
"You’ve officially lost your mind," he says, but his voice is softer—less tense.
"And yet, here you are. Voluntarily spending time with me." I tilt my head. "Almost like you enjoy it."
"I regret every decision that led me here," he deadpans, but I catch the flicker of amusement in his eyes.
"No, you don’t." I nudge his arm with my elbow. "Admit it, you’d be bored without me."
"More like at peace," he mutters, but his shoulders have relaxed, and I know—I know—he’s not as annoyed as he pretends to be.
"You love it," I tease, my voice softer now. "You love when I get under your skin."
Zane glances at me, something unreadable in his expression. "You are under my skin, Mia."
And for a moment, the teasing stops—because the way he says it feels like a confession.
As the car hums to life, I stretch out in my seat, crossing my legs just to watch Zane glance at them before forcing his gaze back to the road.
"You know," I sigh dramatically, "I miss being under you."
His grip tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. "Mia."
"What?" I blink innocently. "I’m just reminiscing. You were much nicer when you were on top of me."
His jaw flexes. "You’re unbelievable."
"And you suck at being the broody bad boy who hates me," I continue, watching his reaction closely. "Seriously, it’s not convincing at all. If anything, it's just making me horny."
Zane exhales sharply through his nose, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the wheel. "Mia—"
"Like, if you're trying to push me away, maybe try not looking at me like that." I gesture at his face. "Because all I’m getting is ‘I’m mad, but I still want to f—’"
His hand leaves the wheel for half a second—just long enough to cover my mouth before I can finish. "Enough."
I bite his palm, and he jerks his hand away with an annoyed groan.
I grin. "See? You can’t even commit to hating me. It’s adorable."
He mutters something under his breath, but I catch the word insufferable.
"Admit it," I press, leaning in. "You like me too much to be a jerk for real."
Zane keeps his eyes on the road, but I don’t miss the way his ears turn pink.
"I need to drive faster," he mumbles.
I smirk, victorious.
By the time we arrived, Zane had slipped back into his usual avoidant self, the walls up again. Guess I’ll have to push him a little harder to make him crack.
I don’t remember ever going to one of my father’s parties. Maybe in my imagination, but never in a way that feels real. Never in a way that matters.
People blur around me like fragments, like puppets moving in a room too big for them. That’s exactly how I see them—and no, I’m not delirious.
I scan the crowd. Paulina isn’t here.
The room is suffocating—thick with heat, alcohol, sweat, and perfume. The bass from the music thrums under my skin.
I lose sight of Zane for a moment, caught up in the sea of people, and when I find him again, my heart sinks. He looks so different here, like he's molded into the havoc around him, and I hate it. I miss our little bubble—just the two of us, away from all this.
He stands near the edge of the chaos, arms crossed, shoulders tense. He looks out of place, like the room doesn’t touch him, like he’s above all of this. But I know that’s not true. I know he feels it. I know he feels me.
I move closer, my lips curving. “Aren’t you going to ask me to dance?”
He frowns—that frown that should be illegal for being so damn beautiful. His gaze is dark, unreadable, like a storm held back by sheer will. “I told you I don’t dance,” he mutters, looking away.
“Actually, you said you couldn’t dance with me at that moment. And now…” I shrug. “We’re past that.”
He exhales sharply, irritated. “You’re annoying, Mia.”
I beam at him. “Is that a compliment?”
He gives me a look, half-impatient, half-something else.
“You always need attention, don’t you?”
“Not from just anyone.” I lean in slightly. “Only from the wrong person.”
His jaw flexes. “Then you admit I’m a mistake.”
I laugh. “Honey, you’re the best bad decision I’ve ever made.”
His fingers twitch, like he wants to drag them through his hair in frustration. “Why do you make everything a game?”
“Because if it’s not fun, what’s the point?” I say, watching him closely. “And because I like seeing you like this—trying to resist.”
“I’m not resisting.”
“No? Then ask me to dance.”
His eyes narrow, knowing any answer would be a trap. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, even more irritated.
“Well.” I turn away with an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll just find someone who doesn’t find my company annoying—”
His hand catches my wrist.
His touch is firm, warm. A jolt straight to my spine.
Zane never touches me without reason. Never initiates contact unless he absolutely has to. And yet—here he is.
My heart stumbles.
He pulls me back, his fingers sliding to my waist—hesitant, conflicted. He holds me like he wants to push me away and pull me in at the same time.
“You don’t have to do this out of obligation,” I murmur, the tease still lingering in my voice.
He doesn’t respond. Just pulls me closer.
And suddenly, we’re dancing.
It’s slow, but the tension isn’t. His grip tightens without him realizing it. Every shift of his body is controlled, deliberate. My skin burns where he touches me.
“You haven’t looked at me,” I whisper. “Not since I got here. Not since…”
His fingers press against my waist, silencing me without words.
“Don’t ruin this, Mia,” he murmurs near my ear, his voice barely audible over the music. “Just… don’t.”
My chest tightens. He’s not talking about the dance. He’s talking about us. About whatever fragile thing still exists between us.
“Zane.” I test his name on my tongue. Finally, he looks at me.
I trail my fingers over his shirt, feeling the tension beneath. He stiffens, every touch pushing him closer to the edge.
“Do you hate me?” I ask.
His jaw locks. The answer doesn’t come fast. He just holds me, swaying in silence.
“If I hated you,” he says finally, voice rough, “I wouldn’t be here.”
My heart clenches.
Part of me wants to smile. Part of me wants to break.
Because I know what that means.
Despite the anger. Despite everything. Zane still belongs to me. And that does things to me—some good, some terrible.
“You’re good at this,” I murmur, impressed.
“I never said I couldn’t dance,” he replies.
A small smile plays on my lips. “That’s one of the things I’ve always liked about you. You’re always so talented.”
Something in his eyes darkens. The moment shifts. His grip loosens. And then—
He lets go.
My body aches at the loss. My skin misses the heat of his touch.
“I need to go,” he mutters. He turns and disappears into the crowd before I can stop him.
I exhale sharply, then head for the balcony, desperate for air.
Maybe if I wish hard enough on a shooting star, I’ll wake up in a different life.
One where I’m not chained to the Cartel.
One where everyone I love isn’t doomed to suffer.
One where I don’t feel like a stranger in my own body.
One where breathing doesn’t feel wrong.
I grip the railing, trying to steady myself, when a voice sneers from behind me.
“I didn’t know they let whores from the brothel attend parties now.”
My stomach drops.
A man I don’t recognize stands there, leering. I wouldn’t recognize any of them. I was never conscious enough to.
I was never meant to.
I was never truly there. Not in the way that mattered.
I was just flesh—open, vacant, disposable. A breathing corpse, stripped of choice, of self, of anything that made me human. They wanted a puppet, something to tear apart without consequence, something that wouldn’t scream because the drugs made sure of that.
I was always drugged, floating between consciousness and oblivion, my body a hollow shell while hands I didn’t recognize pried it open, claimed it, ruined it.
The world around me bled into a sickening blur, faces shifting like ghosts, their voices slurred and sticky with want. I was trapped in a place where time didn’t move, where pain became background noise, where I forgot what it felt like to be clean.
I’ve spent so long like this—adrift, defiled, unreal—that sometimes I wonder if I was ever a person at all. Or if I was just something to be used and discarded, over and over again, until there was nothing left to break.
Back then, I was just a puppet. An unresponsive, drugged-up thing, existing only to be used.
The man’s smirk widens. “Cat got your tongue? If you keep acting like a mute bitch, I might just fuck you in public. Maybe I’ll find you again.”
Don’t react.
Don’t explode.
Kill him, Mia. Break the glass. Shove it down his throat. Watch him bleed.
No.
A dead body means unwanted attention. It means punishment. It means a cage.
And I can’t protect Zane from the cage.
“Don’t touch me, please,” I whisper.
He ignores me.
His fingers trail down my spine before gripping my arm, hard enough to bruise.
“You’re still nobody’s,” he murmurs. “Still free to be used.”
I force myself to stay still.
“I have a fiancé.”
He chuckles. “A fiancé isn’t a husband.”
But he lets go. Steps back. Smiles.
“I’ll come find you when the party’s over.”
And just like that, he turns, fading into the crowd, like he hadn’t just made a promise to destroy me.
Everything around me starts to blur, the noise growing distant as my chest tightens painfully. Each breath feels like I’m choking, my lungs searing with the effort to breathe.
I can’t be here. I need to get out.
“Mia.”
A voice. Distant.
“Mia, look at me.”
Hands cup my face, warm and steady. Familiar.
Green eyes pull me back from the abyss.
“Zane.” My whisper is shaky. I cling to the color of his hair, the lines of his face. Something to ground me.
“I don’t like your hair black,” I murmur absently. “I prefer blond.”
And then it slips out before I can stop it—
“He said he’s going to touch me again. I don’t want anyone touching me.”
Zane goes still.
His expression darkens, not with confusion, but with understanding.
"Who touched you?" His voice is ice, a barely contained threat.
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
His gaze follows mine—straight to the man.
And before I can react, before I can stop him—
Zane is already walking.