Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
“Zara.”
Jaxon’s voice cuts through the fog in my head, snapping me awake. My eyes flutter open, and I jolt upright, disoriented for a second—until I remember where I am.
I glance out the window.
We’re parked in front of my house, the SUV idling before the closed gate. I turn to Jaxon, who’s watching me with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.
“I slept the whole way?” I ask, my voice rough with sleep.
He nods. “Pretty much.”
“Wow.” I reach into my purse, digging for my keys. I press the button on my fob, and the iron gates begin to glide open, retreating into the thick privacy hedges lining my driveway.
As we drive up the cobblestone turnabout toward the front door, my house looks... cozy. Safe. Welcoming in a way I didn’t expect after a night like this.
“Nice place,” Jaxon says, his voice low as he surveys the exterior.
“Thanks.” I unclip my seatbelt as the SUV rolls to a gentle stop. I hesitate for a moment, then turn to him. “Do you want to come in? Just for a drink… or if you need the bathroom?”
It’s a courtesy. Polite. Not meant to be taken literally.
But he surprises me.
“Sure,” he says.
It’s a little odd having Jaxon here. He’s so tall and broad-shouldered that he almost seems too large for my cozy hallways and modest-sized rooms.
I hand him a bottle of water before showing him around.
“It’s really well decorated,” he says once we’re in the living room. “I like the color palette—browns, tans, whites. Clean. Warm.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Me too.”
We smile at each other—polite and distant, like the kind of friends we certainly aren’t.
“Come on,” I say. “I’ll show you the backyard.”
And truthfully, I don’t mind showing him. There’s something nice about sharing this part of my life, my space, with someone—even if it’s him.
Out back, I point to the casita.
“I use that mostly for yoga and Pilates. And over there,” I gesture toward a small, slightly raised area with lighting, “is my practice stage. I run lines there sometimes.”
He grunts in interest. “Zara,” he says, my name slipping out as if unprompted.
“Jaxon,” I say, matching his tone.
“Oh—by the way,” I add casually, “feel free to stay in the guest room tonight. It’s no trouble.”
We lock eyes for a beat. My heart pounds—not because I want him, but because I can see it in his face. That sullen, heavy look. He’s about to say something I don’t want to hear.
“I have a place in Century City,” he replies.
“You do?” I say, surprised.
“Yeah.” He hesitates. “But I wanted to tell you…”
I cut him off before he can finish. “Wait—before you do, I just want to say I’m sorry for falling asleep today. I get it. I really do. I’ll do better. I promise.”
But his mouth tightens at the corners, his expression growing heavy again.
That’s when I know.
He rubs the inside corners of his eyes. “Roger’s done with the arrangement,” he says. “And… we’re going with Ashley. Just thought I should give you a heads-up.”
I go still.
And yet, I feel nothing.
Not shock. Not hurt. Just… a strange, hollow numbness.
It’s the same feeling I had when I showed up at Blaine’s house—groceries in hand, planning to surprise him with a birthday dinner—only to find him in bed with not one, but two women. I didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Just dropped the groceries and walked away.
I’d seen the signs with Blaine. Chose to ignore them. And there it was, in my face.
Just like now.
I nod, calmly. “It’s fair,” I say.
After a moment, he echoes it. “Yeah.”
I take a deep breath—steady, resigned. I still feel nothing. Not yet. But deep down, I know I’m to blame. I fumbled something important, and now the cost is coming due.
“Well,” I say, “see you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow,” he replies.
I walk him to the front, point him down the path that curves around to the driveway. I listen for the soft start of the SUV engine, the quiet crunch of tires on cobblestone. The gate closes automatically behind him.
And that’s when I feel it.
Not devastation. Not betrayal.
Just the sharp, cold certainty of square one.
Back at the beginning.
Still in trouble.
My shot at redemption?
Blown to hell.
And I have no one to blame but myself.