Chapter 37 Zara
This penthouse should feel like another cage, just taller, shinier. But it doesn’t. Not entirely. Because every time I shut my eyes, I don’t see Anthony’s sneer or my father’s shadow. I see Enzo’s hand brushing down my arm. His voice in my ear is relentless: mine.
The walls stretch high and wide, all glass displaying the Chicago skyline, spilling moon light across the room.
It’s beautiful. Safe, even. And I hate that part of me feels it.
Hate that after weeks of rot and marble floors and Anthony whispering filth into my skin, I’m here trembling not with terror, but with something far more dangerous—relief.
Relief that it’s Enzo who dragged me out. Enzo who slid a ring on my finger. Enzo who swore no one would ever touch me again.
The champagne glass glitters from the table where he left it, the bubbles long dead. My throat is raw, aching with thirst, but I don’t move. I won’t give him the satisfaction. Not when the air still clings with his vow, thick and impossible to breathe through.
Because the nightmare didn’t end when Anthony forced me to my knees. It ended when Enzo lifted me up. And that terrifies me more than anything.
“I should hate you,” I say, the words sharp but betraying the tremor beneath.
Enzo doesn’t rise to meet them. He only arches a brow, pouring himself another drink with maddening calm. “You can hate me if it helps, but I don’t think you really do.”
His glass clinks softly against the counter, his movements relaxed, as if we’re just two people sharing a quiet night. That’s the illusion he spins, even as my world lies scattered at his feet, rearranged entirely by his hand.
It’s always been his hands—the quiet command in them, the certainty.
They’ve unsettled me since the first time they touched me, two years ago, when every stroke felt less like seduction and more like possession.
I told myself that night was nothing but indulgence, something I could bury under lies and distance.
But the memory never left. It seeped into my blood, pulsing beneath the surface, waiting for moments like this to come roaring back.
And now it burns through me, so fierce I can’t tell if it’s anger tearing me apart…
or the fire he left inside me that never went out.
I turn on him, eyes narrowed, forcing resolve into a voice that wavers with too much truth. “You think this will work? You steal me. Put a ring on my finger. Then what—you expect me to crawl into your bed willingly?”
Enzo leans against the couch, framed in the amber glow of the city lights. His gaze is unreadable, steady, carved from shadow. “I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He takes a sip, his eyes locked on mine. “What I want is your submission. And I’ll wait for it.”
The word sparks bitter laughter from my chest. “Submission? You think I’m going to kneel at your feet? Spread my legs like a good wife?”
His answer is quiet, steady. “No. I want you to come to me because you want to. Not out of anger. Not out of fear. Because you remember, Zara. Because it’s still there.”
My name on his tongue steals the air from my lungs.
It’s the first time he’s used my actual name.
Not like in Detroit, not on that one night where I hid behind a different name.
Back then I was Lilly—a mask I clung to, a lie I thought would keep me safe.
He didn’t know the truth, but somehow he saw through it anyway. Saw me.
I drag in a breath and force my feet toward the window, needing the distance, needing something solid to hold onto. The city sprawls beneath us, endless lights against endless dark, and my palms press to the cool glass.
I should run. Should scream. Should hurl something at his head just to break the suffocating stillness.
But all that comes is memory—his eyes on me two years ago, stripping away the armor I’d built.
The way he listened when I spoke, the way he touched me with the hunger of a man who’d been denied too long.
He hadn’t treated me like something broken. He’d treated me like I was whole.
“You married me,” I whisper, voice raw.
“I did.”
“I didn’t say yes.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I spin on him, pulse hammering, fury and heat colliding in my veins. “That’s not how it works.”
Enzo only shrugs, infuriatingly calm, his strength coiled beneath that polished control. “It is in my world.”
I cross my arms, nails biting into my skin just to keep myself steady. “You think this erases everything my father did?”
“No,” he says without hesitation. “But it means you’re no longer his to use.”
The words slice through me, too sharp to ignore.
My throat tightens because I can’t deny it—he saved me.
He married me to shield me, and that truth settles in my chest like a stone I can’t cough up.
I don’t want to cry. I won’t. I’ve been caged, silenced, threatened.
I won’t break now because of Enzo Marchetti.
But God, I’m so damn tired. Tired of holding every jagged piece of myself together. Tired of pretending I don’t feel this fire every time he looks at me. Pretending I don’t want to cross the space between us, crawl into his lap, and let him burn the past off my skin with nothing but his hands.
I perch on the arm of the chair, close enough to test him, far enough to pretend it’s casual. His gaze tracks me, patient, steady, infuriating.
“I don’t trust you,” I say.
“I don’t blame you.”
“I don’t forgive you.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
My tongue darts across my lips before I can stop it.
His eyes catch the movement, dark and sharp, and the weight of his gaze pins me where I sit.
My chest tightens, my pulse tripping over itself, and suddenly the space between us feels too charged, too dangerous to ignore.
I hate the way the question claws up my throat, but it’s already burning on my tongue before I can smother it.
“Are you going to kiss me?” The words come out quieter than I mean them to, thinly veiled with defiance but tangled with something far more reckless.
He leans forward just enough that I feel the pull of him, his voice rough when it comes. “No. I’ll starve you of it until you’re desperate. Until you beg for my mouth. Until you crawl to me and prove you understand—there’s no one else you’ll ever belong to.”
That maddening confidence. That quiet patience. It unravels me in ways his aggression never could.
He settles deeper into the couch, arms stretched wide along the back, the picture of control. “When you’re ready,” he says, voice even, certain. “When you want it, I’m right here.”
The words land hard. My pulse hammers against my ribs, a traitor to the fury I keep trying to stoke.
I want to throw something at his head, scream until my throat gives out, remind him and myself that I didn’t ask for this.
That he forced my hand. That he is the reason my world is shattered beyond repair.
But another part of me—the part I hate—doesn’t want to fight. It wants to move closer. To kneel between his knees, curl into the strength of him, let him hold the pieces I’ve been carrying alone. That thought burns worse than any anger.
The silence stretches, thick and heavy, binding us tighter than the marriage license on the kitchen island. Outside, Chicago glitters and hums, but here it’s only him. The weight of his stare. The impossible choice pressed against my ribs.
I pace the edge of the room, the cold marble beneath my feet useless against the heat simmering in my skin.
My mind betrays me with memory—his mouth on mine in Detroit, then again in his kitchen.
Both kisses were different, yet the same.
Hungry, reverent, consuming. Like he was trying to carve the shape of me into himself so he’d never forget.
I told myself that the first night was nothing but sex, a moment of escape I could fold away and bury.
But the past weeks have destroyed that lie. It wasn’t just sex. It never was.
I almost gave in the second he touched me again—the night he denied me, the night he held the line I couldn’t.
And when I was trapped under my father’s thumb, it wasn’t anyone else I thought of.
It was him. It’s his body that’s haunted me for two years, the one I’ve recreated in my imagination every time I’ve touched myself just to remember what it felt like to be wanted like that.
I spin toward him, fire in my veins. “You think you can just sit there and wait me out?”
He shrugs, lips curving. “I said I wouldn’t make the first move. I meant it.”
I cross the room, his gaze trailing down the length of me—legs, hips, lace—and then back to my eyes.
“So that’s it?” My voice sharpens. “You just wait, smug and silent, until I’m desperate enough to crawl into your lap again?”
His stare doesn’t waver. “No waiting, Angel. Just time. And we have plenty of it now.”
My pulse spikes, anger tangling with want until I can’t separate one from the other. I want to slap him. I want to fuck him. I want to burn out this rage in the only way he’s ever let me—by giving in.
So I do the only thing that makes sense in the chaos of this moment. I walk straight to him, planting myself between his knees. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t lift a finger. Just waits—dark eyes fixed on me.
“You’re an arrogant asshole,” I whisper.
“Absolutely.”
I lower myself into his lap, the shift in the air sharp as my bare skin brushes the open edge of his shirt. His muscles tense beneath me, but his hands stay at his sides.
His restraint only feeds the storm tearing through me.
And then his hand moves—one arm finally lifting, until his palm rests at the base of my throat.
Not squeezing. Just holding. Claiming. The weight of it is enough to make my pulse jump against his skin, enough to send heat surging sharp and fast. I should pull back.
Instead, my body arches into his touch, traitorous, craving more.
His hand rests steady at my throat, anchoring me, keeping me suspended in that dangerous space between fury and desire. The silence stretches until it feels unbearable, my pulse tripping wildly against his palm.
Then, slowly, his touch softens. His thumb grazes along my jaw, a caress instead of a claim. “I can see it in your eyes, Angel.” He exhales slowly. “You want it. And fuck, I want you too. More than I’ve ever wanted anything. But tonight isn’t the night.”
My breath catches, the words slicing through me. The last time he told me ‘no,’ I was frustrated, but tonight that word lands differently.
“Not tonight,” he continues, his mouth close enough that I feel the heat of every word. “Tonight, you need rest. Food. You’ve been through so much, let me care for you. Let me give you peace. Just for one night.”
I swallow hard, the fight draining out of me. “You’re really saying no?”
His eyes never waver. “I’m saying I care for you enough to wait until tomorrow to ruin you.”
The anger inside me cracks, giving way to something I almost don’t recognize—relief.
My throat tightens, not from rage but from the weight sliding off my shoulders.
For seven years I’ve been running, surviving on scraps of safety, carrying every burden myself because there was no one else to bear it.
For the past month, I was a hostage, thinking there was no way out.
And now, here he is, steady and unshakable, refusing to let me crumble even when I want to.
He’s not denying me, he wants to care for me.
For the first time in years, I don’t have to fight, don’t have to flee, and don't have to be stronger than the storm.
I can just let myself be here—tired, raw, cared for.
And the release in that nearly undoes me more than his touch ever could.
When he stands, pulling me with him, I don’t resist. His arm comes around me, steady and sure, and I let myself exhale as he leads me away from the storm and toward something I never thought I’d crave from him.
Peace.