Chapter 21
Twenty-One
ZHARA
I sipped my club soda slowly, trying to look casual as I checked my phone for the fifth time in as many minutes. The bridal shower had run late, and by the time we'd finished the endless games and gift opening, most of the wedding party had dispersed.
Parisa had practically shoved me out the door.
"Go find your man," she'd teased. "I need my beauty sleep, and I cannot handle another night of listening to you two through the floor."
The memory made my cheeks burn. But Oliver still hadn’t responded to my texts.
When I got to our room, it was empty.
I didn’t know what I expected. Relief? Disappointment? Maybe I was just exhausted—too frayed at the edges to process emotions properly.
Either way, the thought of sitting alone with my thoughts was unbearable, so I headed downstairs, shooting Oliver another message to meet me at the hotel bar when he got back.
The bar's dim lighting cast long shadows across the polished wood, the soft jazz playing overhead mixing seamlessly with the hum of conversation. I chose a spot at the far end, where I could see everyone coming and going.
"Another club soda?" The bartender—a woman with a sleeve of colorful tattoos—raised an eyebrow at my nearly empty glass.
"Please." I forced a smile. "With lime this time?"
She nodded, turning to prepare the drink. She had a no-nonsense efficiency that made me instantly like her.
And then?—
"Well, well. If it isn't little Zahra Nazarian, all by her lonesome at the hotel bar."
My spine stiffened, my stomach plummeted. I didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge him.
But Ryan didn’t need an invitation.
He slid onto the stool beside me like he’d been waiting for this exact moment, like he knew exactly how to slither in when my guard was down.
Too close. Always too close.
"I'm waiting for Oliver," I said coolly, still not looking at him.
"Are you sure about that?" Ryan’s voice was lower now, dropping into the tone I remembered too well, one designed to make me question myself before I’d managed to make my mind up. "Because I saw your boyfriend heading into O'Malley's about an hour ago. Looking pretty determined to tie one on."
The words shouldn’t have rattled me, but they did. Oliver at a dive bar? That didn't seem like him.
"He’s meeting some old friends," I lied, forcing confidence into my voice. “He’ll be here soon.”
Ryan's laugh held no humor. "Oh, I bet he will. But in the meantime, here you are, all lonely and begging for attention."
His fingers brushed my arm, but I knew better than to jerk away, knew it would only encourage him. Still, my skin crawled where he touched me, a phantom taunt that made my stomach twist.
The bartender returned, setting my drink down harder than necessary. She didn’t move away immediately, wiping down the counter near us. She was listening. She’d sensed something was off, bless her.
"Everything okay here?"
"Fine," Ryan answered for me before I could open my mouth, his smile never reaching his eyes. "Just catching up with an old friend."
I inhaled carefully, keeping my shoulders relaxed. Don’t flinch. Don’t let him see the fear .
But I made eye contact with her, a silent plea to stick around. A minuscule nod, and she was deep cleaning every inch of bar and bottles within five feet of us. And Ryan? He never counted those he saw as beneath him. They were invisible to him.
An invisible shield I’d use against him if necessary.
"So," Ryan continued, leaning closer. "How long are you planning to keep up this charade, Zahra?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Please." He chuckled, shaking his head. "You and Beck? It's laughable. We both know he's not your type."
"And what exactly is my type?" I asked before I could stop myself, my voice sharp.
His smile widened.
"Someone who knows how to handle you.” His hand slid from the bar to my knee. I jerked away. I couldn’t help it. The words were flippant, but something about them made my stomach turn.
He leaned in, just enough to make my skin crawl.
"You think you know what you want, but I know what you need ," he murmured, tapping his fingers against the bar in a slow, measured rhythm. "Someone to guide you, to keep you focused."
The phrasing, the tone. It was familiar. It was wrong.
The back of my neck prickled at the memory of my conversation with Aunt Maryam after yoga surfaced. I could still hear the words spoken in her crisp and cutting voice.
" He lets you run wild instead of guiding you. Focusing you on what matters ."
I went still.
Ryan noticed, and he smirked.
The ice in my chest thickened.
Had Aunt Maryam told him that? Did she believe that?
Or was this just Ryan, assuming he deserved something that had never belonged to him in the first place?
I swallowed hard, schooling my features. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe it was just the kind of thing people like them said.
Or maybe?—
His hand shifted—too quick, too bold—brushing my thigh.
I shoved it away. "I'm not interested, Ryan."
"Come on, Zahra. We both know that's not true.
" The way he said it, so damn certain, cracked the frozen block behind my ribs in two, and a flow of ice-cold fear rushed through my veins.
He was pushing me, testing me, seeing how far he could go, just like before .
"Remember how good we were together? How I used to make you?—"
"She said she's not interested."
The voice cut through the space between us, low and dangerous.
I saw Ryan tense before he turned. Because he knew. Oliver was behind him.
And Oliver wasn’t just standing there. He was waiting.
Ryan’s smirk faltered, but he forced a chuckle. "Beck. How nice of you to finally join us."
Oliver didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His silence was heavier than a fist.
The bartender shot me a look, then took a careful step back. Oliver took a step forward.
Ryan must have felt it then—the weight of Oliver’s patience running out. He tilted away on instinct but covered it quickly.
"This is a public place," he said, lifting his drink with an easy shrug. "I’m just having a friendly conversation with an old girlfriend."
Oliver didn’t respond, didn’t react except for the tick of his jaw and the hardening of his eyes, but the temperature around us dropped.
Ryan smirked, taking Oliver’s silence as weakness, opening his mouth to say something, probably another twist of the truth or below-the-belt jab.
Then Oliver leaned in, hands still tucked in his pockets, and whispered something in Ryan’s ear.
I couldn’t hear the words, but Ryan went rigid. His fingers flexed around his glass, his smirk slipped and became a twisted snarl.
"You’re lying," Ryan muttered, but his voice lacked conviction.
Oliver didn’t answer, just held Ryan’s gaze, unfazed. The epitome of cold calculation. A vision of silent fury. Quiet violence wrapped in lilac Ralph Lauren and dark denim.
Ryan swallowed.
For a second, I thought he might throw a punch. But his gaze flickered to me, then back to Oliver, weighing his odds.
"This isn’t over," he spat, pushing past Oliver and toward the elevators.
The bartender let out a low whistle. "Damn. That was impressive. Ex-boyfriend?"
"Something like that," I murmured, mesmerized by this version of Oliver, who was still watching Ryan, eyes dark, chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths.
I touched his arm, a light, cautious touch, and his head snapped to me so fast it startled me. Then his gaze softened, something melting at the edges.
Without breaking eye contact with me, he took his hand out of his pocket and slid a fifty across the bar. "Thank you for keeping my Lumina company until I got here."
My breath hitched.
Not just from the words. From the way he said them.
Possessive. Undeniable.
And then his hand slid around the back of my neck, fingers fanned across my nape, thumb stroking my jaw before his mouth covered mine, and the world blurred into heat and bourbon and Oliver.
Nothing about this kiss was calculated. Nothing about it was for show.
This was a claim.
When he pulled back, his pupils were blown wide, dark with something that made heat pool low in my belly.
"You okay?" he asked, voice rough. I could only nod. "Let’s get back to our room."
He took my hand. And I let him.
Because right now, this—this heat, this reckless pull between us—felt safer than anything else in the world.
The moment the elevator doors closed, trapping us in a space barely big enough to contain the tension between us, I found my voice again.
"What did you say to him?"
Oliver didn’t answer immediately. He exhaled slowly, rubbing his jaw as if debating how much to reveal.
"To Ryan.” My voice took on a firm tone, clarifying I wasn’t about to let him get away without answering. “I've never seen him back down like that."
Oliver’s thumb brushed over my wrist, tracing absent circles against my pulse that sent shivers up my arm. I kept my eyes on his face, waiting, until he realized he had no choice.
"Just what he needed to hear."
His voice was too calm.
"Oliver—"
The elevator doors opened, and instead of answering, he led me into the hallway, his grip firm but not tight, the warmth of his fingers enveloping mine.
I let him guide me. I let him pretend nothing was wrong. But something was, and I wasn’t about to let it slip away unnoticed.
Inside our room, Oliver locked the door behind us, but instead of releasing me, he turned—slow, deliberate—until my back was against the wood, until his arms caged me in.
"What did you say to Ryan?" I repeated, pulse hammering.
His body thrummed with something I couldn’t place—was it anger? Relief? Something darker?
"Why does it matter?” His voice was almost gentle, his breath feathering against my cheek.
"Because I've never seen him look afraid before."
Oliver smiled, sharp and satisfied. "Then I did my job."
Before I could push further, his fingers slid to my jaw, tilting my face up, and his mouth was on mine.
Nothing about it was gentle.