29. Zara
ZARA
T he Kingsley Art Gala had always been the city’s glittering confession booth, every sin lacquered in champagne, and gold leaf.
But, this year, it felt like a guillotine dressed in silk.
I arrived alone, a single name on the guest list that read Zara Elise Kingsley, even though I had spent the last month pretending that name did not own me.
The crimson gown clung like a second pulse, each step through the marble foyer echoing too loudly, as if the hall itself were asking where my monster hid.
Sterling was not beside me.
That absence scraped at the bone.
I felt it when the doorman whispered Mrs. Kingsley, right this way, felt it when a trio of influencers in column gowns froze mid–air kiss, to catalogue my belly, my curls, and the loneliness stitched into my posture.
Every chandelier burned hot on my skin, but the space inside my ribs stayed winter-empty.
Across the atrium, art critics circled a triptych of oil-slick nightmares.
Somewhere on the mezzanine, a quartet tugged at a Vivaldi prelude, the violins sounding like a question I couldn’t bear to answer.
I took a flute of champagne, ignored the warning throb in my temple, and told myself I could survive one night without Sterling’s shadow pressed to my spine.
It lasted twelve minutes.
Each tick of the antique clock drove my pulse harder, until the hush shifted. A susurration swept the crowd: heads turning, whispers sharpening. I followed their gaze to the arched entrance, just as he stepped through it.
Sterling wore midnight wool and grief, like twin skins.
His smile, sharp, fractional, did not touch his eyes.
I saw the moment those eyes found me; the ground slipped half an inch sideways.
He had not shaved the worry off his jaw, and he had not slept.
I tasted our week of mutiny in the tremor that ran through him.
He didn’t cross the floor right away; power made its own gravity, and the crowd orbited him first, hands to shake, alliances to threaten.
I felt each measured nod, like stitches pulling at fresh scars.
I turned to a gilt mirror, just to breathe, and caught sight of myself: a storm bottled in silk, pupils blown wide with wanting.
I hated how relief shimmered beneath the hate.
When he finally moved toward me, the gala’s roar thinned to wind in my ears. He stopped at regulation distance, no touch, just heat, his gaze cataloguing every inch, like he needed proof I was real.
“Red,” he said, voice rougher than memory. “You always knew how to bleed beautifully.”
“I came for the art,” I lied, lifting my flute so he wouldn’t see my hand shake.
“And I came for forgiveness,” he replied, softer, as if the words were barbed. “We can trade.”
“I haven’t decided if you deserve it.”
“I decided I can’t breathe without it.” His throat bobbed. “Or without you.”
The admission sliced us both open. For a beat the gala receded, just Sterling, me, and the chasm we’d carved. Then the orchestra shifted into a waltz I recognized, from the night he showed me his shrine. The crowd parted, as though the floor itself remembered our steps.
He extended a hand, no command this time, only a plea. I set my glass aside, and placed my palm in his, feeling the world lock back into its ruined orbit.
When we moved, I tasted the tremor in his shoulder, the way his fingers shook where they splayed against the small of my back. Power had never looked so breakable. We turned beneath chandeliers gauzed in candlelight, and for the first time the spotlight felt less like a noose.
“I tried to stay away,” I admitted, voice barely above the strings. “I rented a place that didn’t echo with ghosts. It still felt empty.”
“I filled rooms with tribute, and they sounded like coffins,” he answered. “Seventy-two hours without your voice, and the estate started to rot.”
“Maybe we’re both poisoned.”
“Then we’ll be poisonous together.” His lips brushed the shell of my ear. “Choose me, Zara. I’ll spend a lifetime proving the cage can grow gardens.”
The music bled into silence. Applause swelled. He bowed over my hand as if it were a sacrament, and the audience a church full of doubters. For a fragile heartbeat, hope felt possible.
Silence stretched between us.
And then, from the far end of the gallery, the music shifted. The orchestra began to play. A lyrical jazz tune. Familiar.
Sterling looked down at me. “Shall we keep going?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
The crowd watched, enraptured, as he led me around on the dance floor.
Every movement was deliberate, a display of undeniable control.
My dress, red as blood, pooled around me with every turn, the silk whispering secrets only we could hear.
Sterling’s touch was firm, his grip just shy of painful, as he spun me in perfect time to the music.
People parted, their eyes devouring us, some in admiration, others in envy. They had never seen someone like me before, a woman who had stepped from the shadows, and into the arms of the most dangerous man in the city.
“Do you feel it?” he murmured, his lips barely brushing my ear.
I swallowed, my pulse hammering against my skin. "Feel what?"
"The power," he said, his voice a deep rumble. "The way they look at you. The way they look at us. They know you are untouchable now."
I let my gaze wander across the sea of faces. Some were frozen in awe, others whispering behind delicate gloved hands. I caught sight of a woman in a red gown, someone who had likely scoffed at my name just months ago, watching me with barely concealed resentment. She knew. They all did.
I exhaled, allowing myself to sink into Sterling’s embrace, into the weight of what this night meant. "I see it."
"Good," he said, his grip tightening as he pulled me impossibly closer. "Let them watch. Let them understand."
And so we danced, in the eye of a storm we had yet to unleash, in a world that now belonged to us.
As the final notes of the waltz drifted into silence, I felt Sterling’s fingers trail along my spine. "A perfect performance," he murmured, his lips brushing against my ear. "Now, let’s enjoy the show."
I should’ve known something was wrong, the moment Chadwick showed up.
He wasn’t supposed to be invited.
And yet, there he was. In a designer tux, drink in hand, face slick with mockery.
“Zara,” he said as he approached, his breath stinking of whiskey, and rot. “You always did know how to wear red.”
I stiffened. “Get away from me.”
He smirked, his eyes glinting with a madness I recognized all too well. “You’re really going to act like you didn’t love it? That night?”
“You raped me,” I said, steady. “And I hope you rot.”
His nostrils flared. “You wanted it,” he sneered. “You’re nothing but a fat whore, pretending to be royalty. Sterling will throw you away like I did.”
I saw the flash of silver before I registered the knife.
Everything slowed.
He lunged, and I turned, just in time to feel the air shift behind me. Sterling was there in a second, grabbing my waist, twisting us both out of reach.
The knife slashed through Sterling’s jacket. He grunted.
Blood bloomed.
Sterling didn’t flinch. He let me go and pounced.
Chadwick hit the floor with a sickening crunch. Sterling straddled him, fists flying.
One. Two. Three.
Screams erupted around us. Glass shattered. Guests scrambled.
Security moved in, but Sterling wasn’t done.
“Touch her again,” he growled, smashing Chadwick’s face into the marble. “I’ll bury you where no one will find the fucking body.”
Blood spilled across the floor. Chadwick was gasping, sputtering. His face unrecognizable.
That’s when I heard the pop.
Then another.
Gunshots.
From the mezzanine.
Panic exploded. People screamed, shoved, ducked behind art installations.
Sterling threw himself over me as more shots rang out.
Time shattered. I watched the silver button on his cuff spin, watched the air bloom red, before the pain found him.
A sound, half growl, half prayer, broke in his throat as his body caged mine.
We hit the ground behind a podium, his body shielding mine.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured. His lips brushed my ear as he said, “Hummingbird, if this is the only thing I ever do right-” A wet splat came from him, as he started to cough mid sentence.
Time stopped. In that heartbeat, I saw him at fifteen, snapping my violin bridge, at twenty-five, branding himself inside me, every moment arrowed toward this one, his body writing the line fate refused. He was bleeding. I felt it.
Not just from the knife.
“Fuck! Sterling!” I screamed as he slumped. More blood soaked his shirt.
He coughed and gasped, “Z-Zara, if this is it…” his eyes filled with pain. “I’m so sorry p-”
I pressed a finger to his lips. “Don’t. Don’t say anything more. You’re going to be fine.” My eyes filled with tears, as I watched the love of my life struggle with his strength. Holy shit!
I loved Sterling.
I loved my husband, and I’d be damned if I lost him now. In a panic, I looked around, and my eyes landed on his right hand man.
Frankie appeared from the smoke, firing back.
“They’re aiming for you both. This wasn’t random,” he barked. “We’ve got to go. Now!”
Sterling pushed to his feet with a groan. I was amazed by his strength. I tried to help, but my knees gave out.
My stomach twisted.
A cramp.
Not now.
Please, not now.
I looked down.
Blood .
Not just his.
“Oh God.”
Frankie paled. “She’s going into labor.”
Sterling’s face drained of color.
He lifted me in his arms, ignoring his own injuries. “Grab Laz,” he ordered. “Get him here.”
“Sterling-”
“I said, go get him.”
We made it out the side emergency exit, just as a fresh round of gunfire tore through the foyer. That was the last thing I saw before the world slipped away again.