Chapter 18
Eighteen
OLIVER
I checked my watch for the third time in five minutes, shifting my weight from one foot to the other as I scanned the hotel lobby. Brunch started five minutes ago, and Zahra was nowhere to be seen.
Not that I was eager to face her, not after this morning.
I’d woken up alone. At first, I didn’t process it. My arm had stretched out instinctively, reaching for warmth but finding only cold sheets.
For a brief, foolish second, I thought maybe she was in the bathroom, maybe she’d come back, maybe?—
Then I saw it.
Her phone was gone. Her tablet, her sneakers.
No lingering warmth. No note. No sign she had ever been there at all except for the wreckage we’d left in the wake of our solar flare. A perfect storm, sudden and intense. Lethal.
The room smelled like jasmine and sweat and sex, all tangled up in the air like some cruel reminder of what I wasn’t supposed to have.
The evidence was everywhere. The ruined sheets, my torn shirt lying next to the bed like a casualty of war. The faint, unmistakable ache in my body, like even my muscles knew I was never meant to let her go.
I sat up too fast, my head spinning, my skin still marked by the heat of her hands, her lips.
She left .
Of course she did.
I forced myself to move, to shower, to erase every last trace of her touch from my body. My reflection in the mirror looked back at me, sharp-eyed, unsmiling, detached.
This was business. This was the deal.
And now, it was time to reinstate the mask and hold up my end of the bargain.
And tonight? I still hadn’t figured out what to do about tonight. Same room. Same bed. Same woman who had just reminded me exactly what I would never get to keep.
Sleeping on the floor felt dramatic. Pretending nothing had happened felt impossible.
And talking about it?
That felt dangerous.
The elevator doors slid open, and Zahra stepped out, looking effortlessly perfect.
Simple pale blue sundress. Loose updo. A small gold necklace.
Like nothing had happened.
Like she hadn’t spent the night falling apart in my arms.
My eyes instinctively searched her exposed neck, hunting for the mark I’d left, proof she was still mine in some way.
Gone. Covered.
It hit me harder than I wanted to admit.
"Hey," I greeted her, keeping my tone light, searching for any sign that she was as affected as I was.
"Hi." A polite smile. “Sorry I’m late. Had some last-minute wedding details to take care of.”
Liar . But I nodded anyway, going along with whatever game we were playing now.
"No problem." I hesitated, then gestured toward the garden doors. "Shall we?"
We fell into step, careful inches of space between us. I felt her presence like a physical force, the same magnetic pull that had driven me to pin her against our hotel room door less than twelve hours ago now manifesting as acute awareness of her every movement.
Then we stepped into the garden, and everything changed.
The moment we were in public, Zahra’s hand found mine, like clockwork. I linked our fingers, and she leaned in, flawless in the lie.
I should have been relieved. Instead, I felt something crack in my ribs.
"There they are," Parisa called, waving us over and snagging two mimosas off a passing tray.
I clocked the looks immediately. Knowing smiles. Teasing glances. A couple of groomsmen elbowing each other, whispering with deviant smirks and snickers.
Zahra went tense beside me.
“What’s going on?” I murmured.
She laughed—too highpitched, too forced.
“They, um…” She cleared her throat, followed by a sharp exhale. “They heard us.”
“Heard us?” My brow furrowed. “Heard us doing wha… Oh.”
They'd heard us.
Of course they'd fucking heard us .
"Beck!” One of the groomsmen clapped me on the back, smirking. “Haven’t seen you around much today. Late night?"
I was already moving before I could think, throwing an arm around Zahra, tucking her against my side, claiming her. If they were going to talk, they’d talk on my terms.
“Hey,” I said easily, squeezing her close. “Better to be the one keeping everyone up than the one kept up.”
The table howled with laughter.
“And that’s all I’m going to comment on our personal matters.”
Zahra let out a breath so soft only I could hear it. A silent thank you.
And then, of course, Ryan opened his fucking mouth.
“If you don’t want people talking,” he said, ice cubes clinking against glass as he swirled the amber liquid around, “don’t give them something to talk about.”
I was this close to snapping something back, but Zahra beat me to it, leaning forward, tilting her head just so, eyes big and innocent.
“Did we ruin your beauty sleep?” she asked, all honey-sweet condescension. “You always were grouchy when you didn’t get enough rest.”
The table lost it, Ryan’s grip on his lowball tightened, and something dark and primitive thrummed through me.
He’d heard her. Heard her screaming my name. Heard the headboard slamming, the way she begged me to take her harder, deeper, more .
And he hated it.
I grinned at him, slow and sharp, then raised my mimosa. Cheers, motherfucker .
It was petty. Unprofessional. And I couldn’t care less.
"Okay, you rowdy lot, we have a tight schedule today," Zahra said, smoothly redirecting the conversation as she distributed small folders to the wedding party. "Brunch until half-past-noon, then at one we'll head to the Rose Garden at the Historical Society for photos."
I watched, proud and impressed, as she navigated the group back to wedding logistics.
"Bride and groom portraits first, then we'll do family groupings, followed by wedding party shots." Her hands trembled slightly as she handed Ryan his folder, but her voice was steady, authoritative. "We're splitting into men's and women's groups for some of the shots to save time."
The realization hit me like a supernova shockwave, expanding rapidly through my consciousness, rearranging my mental state in its wake.
The photoshoot meant mixed groups .
I'd planned to use this time for research and reconnaissance, preparing for tomorrow morning's visit to the records hall.
Mixed groups meant Ryan and Zahra together .
The entire purpose of my trip to Norman hinged on distributing my time and efforts efficiently.
It meant Ryan had opportunity .
I should be planning my exit, not hyper-aware of Ryan watching Zahra with increasing deadly hunger in his eyes.
It meant handing Zahra over on a silver platter .
"Any chance I can tag along?" The words were out before I could think.
Zahra’s head snapped toward me, startled. Across the table, Ryan’s smirk faltered.
I didn’t care.
I pressed my palm against the small of Zahra’s back, leaning in. “Haven’t had a chance to watch my brilliant girlfriend in action.”
“Sorry, Beck, but it’s wedding party only,” Ryan said, followed by an apologetic shrug, but I could see the violent rage barely contained under his pretense of indifference.
“Come on. Please?” I kept my eyes firmly on Parisa and Darryl, making it clear I knew who was calling the shots, and that it wasn’t Ryan. "I promise I won't get in the way," I added with a wink.
Parisa giggled. “Of course you can come.”
Ryan looked like he wanted to punch something.
Good .
"You’re practically part of the family by now," Darryl agreed with a warm smile. “Plus, if we manage to tire you out, maybe we’ll get some sleep tonight.”
There was a wave of “ oooooh” s and “ burn! ” and gleeful laughter.
“Judging by your snores, you slept just fine,” Parisa poked at him, another wave of jovial laughter swept over the table, and the group reverted to happy, teasing chatter.
Ryan stormed off seething, unable to hide his rage. It confirmed my instincts had been spot on, and I couldn't bring myself to regret my impulsiveness, even if it cost me valuable investigation time.
The brunch proceeded with the usual mix of toasts and wedding small talk.
Ryan, who had returned somewhat subdued and somehow with a fresh drink, tracked Zahra as she moved through the garden.
Each time she circulated near him, I found a reason to be there—offering to refill her drink, asking a question about the schedule, touching her arm in a casual display of affection.
By the time we all gathered to head to the photoshoot, I'd positioned myself as Zahra's shadow without making it obvious to anyone but Ryan. And judging by the tight set of his shoulders and the forced quality of his laugh, he was a ticking time bomb.
At the Historical Society's rose garden, I found a corner to observe from, giving thumbs up and making appropriately appreciative noises during the portrait sessions.
I fetched water bottles and mingled with the groom's party whenever the bridal party was in "girls only" photos, making a point of actively including Ryan in the conversations so he couldn’t walk away.
I made myself useful and approachable, played the perfect supportive boyfriend.
In reality, I was staying close to ensure Ryan didn't sneak off and try to get Zahra alone.
The most surprising part, though, was Zahra's orbit around me.
It started small. A brush of her fingers on my shoulder as she passed. A light laugh as she leaned into my side while checking photos on the photographer's camera.
I told myself it was for the act. She was using me for the exact purpose she’d hired me. This was about Ryan, not about me. Not about last night.
Then she tucked herself against me during a break in the shooting, her body fitting perfectly against mine. A soft touch. Nothing dramatic. Nothing noticeable to anyone else.
And I couldn't breathe.
Each point of contact between our bodies felt like both victory and defeat—proof our act was convincing, proof I was getting too invested.
It was impossible to ignore any longer. The taste of her still lingered on my tongue, the memory of her complete surrender as I moved inside her fresh enough to make my hands tremble with the urge to touch her again.
Watching her work, sunlight in her hair, completely in her element as she directed the wedding party with gentle authority, I found myself taking photos with my phone.
Not because our contract required documentation of our fake relationship, but because I wanted to remember her like this. The realization terrified me.
I’d tried to drown it, spent the whole damn morning reciting formulas and research logs, but Zahra had sent me spinning through open space, and giving in to her gravitational pull was the only chance of finding steady orbit.
Then there was Ryan.
He was a fucking shadow. Every time I turned around, he was there. Watching her. Lurking.
And then? The final straw.
Elena arranged the wedding party for group photos, and Ryan kept suggesting old poses from his and Zahra’s dating days.
She stiffened, but she didn’t say anything, and I was back in high school, watching her as she let him walk all over me. Watching her disappear into the background while I bled.
Ryan positioned himself near Zahra, his hand ghosting over the small of her back, fingertips brushing against her skin like he had every fucking right.
“Remember that one pose we used to do?” Then, with a grin directed straight at me, he lifted her hand, settling it against his chest.
He was taunting me.
Fuck this .
I moved before I could think, wrapping my hand around Zahra’s waist and yanking her into me. She thawed, her muscles unwinding and her wide eyes blinking as if she came out of a trance.
She wasn’t silent. She was frozen.
He touched her, and her sympathetic nervous system froze as a survival response.
Jesus . Zahra was so scared of Ryan that it triggered her fight, flight, freeze, or fawn response.
It was the last time I let it happen.
"Watching you work, Lumina, it’s amazing." My voice was light, but my grip was iron. My free hand lifted to her face, thumb caressing her chin, and her breath hitched. “I can’t take my eyes off you.”
Ryan’s jaw hardened, his eye ticking.
He’d heard the warning.
Good .
Zahra’s fingers curled into my shirt, trembling. A sharp inhale. The same fucking sound she made last night when she came around me, desperate and ruined and?—
My fingers flexed against her hip. Hard. I needed to get her alone.
"We don't have all day, babe," Ryan called out, trying to sound lighthearted, but his voice was tense, angry.
The moment shattered. Zahra slipped back into her shield of professionalism, though whether she was protecting herself from Ryan or from me, I couldn't tell. I searched her face for signs of distress.
"I'm okay," she assured me, patting my chest awkwardly, and I reluctantly released my hold.
Once the group session was done, Zahra circled back to me, tucking herself against my side, and before I could overthink it, she kissed me. A soft, casual brush of lips.
For the cameras. For everyone else.
But it left me wrecked.
"Thank you," she murmured. "For being here."
I nodded, because what the fuck was I supposed to say?
I wasn’t here for the act anymore. I wasn’t here for the mission.
I was here for her.
And I was going to lose her all over again, because I knew how this story ended.
I was the boy who let her bleed me dry.
The boy she’d never chosen.
The boy she walked away from and never looked back.
And in ten days, she was going to rip my heart out all over again.