chapter 10
A news highlight flashes across my desktop screen: ‘Loris Moir spotted with Nexoil’s MD, Zloban Bennett.’
My heart lodges in my throat. I click the article with a speed that doesn’t even feel human.
The image explodes on my screen. A tall, blonde, breathtaking woman wrapped around Zoan. Her arms looped over his neck, her body pressed against his. His face isn’t fully visible, but hers is, she’s smiling at him very sweetly.
Heat crawls through me as I scan the article, not really processing, because patience has abandoned me.
She’s identified as Loris Moir. Twenty years old. A supermodel. The new face of Nexoil.
My jaw tightens. I flick down to the comments section.
‘They look made for each other.’
‘A perfect CEO romance.’
‘Imagine their children, stunning genes!’
‘They must be dating, otherwise someone would’ve denied it by now.’
Every line pulls my eyebrows tighter and tighter until it feels like they’ll knot together.
“Veni!” I snap, nearly shouting at my AI assistant. “Call Zoan.”
“Making the call,” she replies calmly. “Are you upset, Avi?”
It’s the first time I’ve ever spoken to her so harshly. Guilt hits me instantly.
“I’m sorry, girl. I’m just… very pissed at someone.”
“Pissed at who?”
The voice that responds isn’t hers. It’s his. Deep. Rough. So unmistakably Zoan.
“What is your relation with this Loris Moir?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” My voice sharpens. “The way you were holding her didn’t look like nothing to me.”
The connection flickers, then shifts into a 3D projection. His video call materializes over my phone, enlarging until he’s right in front of me, eye-level.
Zoan sits at his office desk, dressed in his usual black shirt.
“Why are you mad about it?”
My frown doesn’t waver. “Because I don’t like her. And my brother can’t date someone I don’t approve of.”
That’s the explanation I give myself every time I question why I hate seeing him with girls. There is no one good enough for him. No one.
“I’m not dating anyone,” he answers flatly.
“You’re not allowed to fuck around either.”
His eyes narrow, a faint crease appearing on his forehead. Finally, he shows a human reaction. “I’m not fucking around. And what is this language?”
“Then why are there rumours about you dating her?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze slides away from me, focusing on something on his desktop.
I take the chance to drink him in. His face is sharp, commanding, impossibly beautiful. The face I could pick out in a crowd of thousands. The face that never leaves my head, not even for a second.
This is the face of every male lead I’ve ever written. Why? Because my brother is a real hero.
“Now check,” his eyes come back to me.
I tap on my desktop. The post is gone.
I pout, my frustration rising. “There are always rumours about your relationships. Even if I search Zloban Bennett right now, ten possible girlfriends will show up.” My voice dips bitter. “I and Wen don’t even exist for the world, but our brothers are in headlines every other day.”
“And you know they’re fake,” he counters, calm as ice.
Maybe. Maybe not. There can’t be smoke without some fire.
Some of those rumours must have been true.
But I swallow that thought, bury it deep.
Because if I said it aloud, there’s a chance he’d silence every whisper, wipe every article, erase every piece of gossip.
And as much as it burns me, I’d rather know about his possible girlfriends than live in complete darkness.
“Don’t think too much about it. How’s your new book going?”
“It’s going fine.”
“Did your hero find the treasure he needed to save his girl?”
I nod, still sulking.
He studies me for a few seconds. “What’s bothering you, Dove?”
Usually, his voice is a monotone, cold, measured, almost mechanical.
But whenever he calls me Dove, it changes.
His tone softens, a warmth leaking through the cracks of his icy composure.
I like to believe that’s because he loves me more than anyone else.
I only have the texture of his voice to rely on, because the content of his words is always so calculated, so precise, like responses coded into him.
“Is it the rumours?” he asks.
I shake my head, though in truth I’m exhausted. Exhausted of my own thoughts, my emotions, my feelings that I can’t seem to cage.
“I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”
He nods once.
I cut the call, push away from the chair, and collapse on my bed. Staring at the ceiling for minutes that feel like hours, I realize this spiral will take me nowhere.
With a sigh, I drag myself up and decide to go downstairs, where Ma and Pa are most likely enjoying their evening tea in the garden. Wen isn’t home tonight, she’s gone to L.A. for her concert.
We came here two years ago, after Wen and I finished school and our parents shifted to D.C. Since then, we’ve been staying with Ma and Pa at their countryside farmhouse. Mama and Daddy visited us last weekend. Thanks to Ma and Pa, I don’t miss them as desperately as I feared I would.
I step into the front garden and find them sitting on the cool grass. The evening breeze carries the scent of roses from the nearby bushes. I lower myself onto the grass and rest my head on Ma’s lap.
Her fingers glide through my hair. “What happened?” she asks softly.
I sigh. “I’m not feeling good.”
“About what?”
About my brother having girlfriends. About thinking of him more than I should. About missing him so much it aches in my chest.
“Just… some plot twist in my book,” I lie.
I watch the setting sun in front of me, its golden rays spreading across the sky. “Ma, what could be the reason for someone thinking about something the whole day?”
She doesn’t answer. Concern paints her face instead, and when I glance toward Pa, his expression is equally tense.
“Is this something a boy?” Pa asks, his tone edged with hostility, almost as if daring me to say yes.
I quickly shake my head. “It’s the story of my book. It just… doesn’t leave my head.”
Pa’s eyes narrow, clearly unconvinced. I force a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “Why are you looking at me like this? There’s no boy, seriously.”
Ma nods. “Of course. There’s no boy here. And I’m sure she’s not interested in our butler.”
That makes me laugh for real this time, the butler in question is just ten years younger than Pa.
Ma’s fingers move slowly through my hair. “When something doesn’t leave your head, bring it to life. Once your story is on paper, it will finally let you go.”
I nod.
Zloban (21 years old)
“You can’t get rid of somethings, Dove. They are bound to stay with you. In your head. In your life. In your soul.”
But she can’t hear me the way I hear her. I hear every word she speaks throughout her day. And now, I wonder, what has occupied my little Dove’s pretty head?
Pa suspects the obvious: a boy. But unlike Pa, I know that’s not the truth. She has no boy in her life. I’ve made sure of it.
On her social media, there are only girls. Any boy who dares to follow her loses his account. Her entire feed is carefully shaped with content related to only her hobbies. I’ve hacked and rewritten her algorithms, ensuring she never stumbles upon anything she shouldn’t.
Her world is curated, controlled, protected. And I intend to keep it that way.
Am I protecting her by doing all this? Yes. But is protection the only reason? No.
I need to know what she knows, what she thinks, what she wants, what she likes, so that I can make sure she never wants something I don’t want her to want. Like some stupid teenage fling.
I know too well that none of this is what I should do. But when it comes to her, the boundaries of right and wrong dissolve entirely. She is the chaos in my perfectly coded life.
I could plan every step of my future, from this very moment to the day I die. I could write it all down on paper and bend the entire world to fit that script. And yet, I can’t.
Because of one uncertainty.
Out there exists a girl who holds the terrifying power to alter the entire course of my existence.
If one day she wakes up and decides she wants to live on Mars, then I would have no choice but to abandon everything and go with her.
I slide her live footage to the side of my screen before resuming my work. I need her always in my periphery. Because I can’t breathe without knowing that she is breathing.