Chapter 2
Two
ZOE
Stumbling back into the bedroom, I blinked at the opulent surroundings, feeling like a pauper in a queen’s palace.
A glint of silver caught my eye from atop an antique dresser.
Curiosity drew me closer until I was peering down at the framed photographs that were decidedly not part of my usual decor.
My breath hitched as I took in the images.
There I was—or rather, she was—me, but not me, with dark hair cascading like a waterfall of shadows around her shoulders, eyes glinting like polished steel.
She wore a dress that screamed designer louder than a catwalk at New York Fashion Week, hugging curves that seemed more pronounced than I remembered.
“Well, I’ll be,” I whispered to the empty room, picking up the frame with trembling fingers. “I’ve always wanted to play dress-up with a billionaire’s wardrobe. But this… this is like winning the genetic lottery and the actual lottery at the same time.”
A door ajar beckoned me to the dressing room beyond—a veritable wardrobe Narnia.
As I stepped inside, my jaw slackened so fast I was worried it might detach entirely.
Racks of clothing stretched from wall to wall: gowns that shimmered like morning dew on spiderwebs, suits crisp enough to slice bread, and casual wear that probably cost more than my yearly rent.
Shelves lined with shoes and bags formed a rainbow coalition of luxury brands. Heels stood tall and proud, their red soles flashing like stop signs for common sense spending. Handbags perched like exotic birds waiting for an outing.
The vanity was an arsenal of beauty products and makeup, brands that would normally make my wallet weep in surrender. Jewelry sparkled from its stand, each piece no doubt with a price tag to match the sparkle.
“Is this what it feels like to be in one of those music videos?” I wondered aloud, my voice lost among silks and satins. “Or did I accidentally stumble onto the set of Lifestyles of the Rich and Fabulous?”
I backed out slowly, feeling like an imposter among these riches. Collapsing onto the plush bedspread, I took a moment to gather myself as opulence spun around me like a carousel.
“Get a grip, Zoe,” I scolded myself. “You’re not in the discount aisle of the local grocery store.”
Needing a drink to steady my spinning head, I slipped into a silk robe that felt like whispers against my skin and hesitantly padded out into the hallway.
Every inch of this place oozed wealth; lavish paintings and sculptures lined the walls as if this were some sort of private museum.
The staircase unfurled before me like a red carpet inviting me down into another world.
Descending into the living room was like walking into an architectural digest fantasy—sleek lines and modern designs dominated the space. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed New York City’s skyline, lit up like a million candles on an overachiever’s birthday cake.
My breath caught—a thief again, stealing moments in someone else’s life. “This woman,” I murmured, taking in the immensity of her domain, “must have a bank account that rivals the GDP of a small country. Maybe even a medium-sized one.”
The kitchen beckoned with its stainless steel and glossy surfaces; state-of-the-art didn’t begin to cover it. I sidled up to the coffee machine—a shiny contraption that seemed capable of space travel—and eyed the array of coffee beans with glee.
“Well, hello there, you beautiful caffeinated marvels,” I cooed to the beans. “Let’s see if you taste as fancy as you look.”
As rich aromas filled the air and warmth seeped into the fine china cup cradled in my hands, a giggle bubbled up from within me. The liquid bliss met my lips—heaven in a cup.
“Well,” I said to no one in particular as I sipped again, savoring the complex flavors dancing on my tongue, “if this is insanity, it sure tastes delicious. Even the caffeine is high society here. I half expect this cup to start giving me stock tips.”
I leaned against the marble countertop, taking in the surreal scene around me. “Alright, Zoe,” I muttered, “you’ve somehow body-snatched your way into the life of a woman who probably uses hundred-dollar bills as coasters. The question is… what the heck are you going to do now?”
A deep masculine voice cut through my musings, sharp and crisp as a winter morning. “What are you doing up so early?”
The cup nearly leaped from my hand as I twisted around, heart thumping a wild rhythm against my ribs.
There stood living proof that genetics could play favorites.
He was tall, his frame filling the space with an ease that spoke of power and grace.
His dark hair was styled back from a face that belonged in luxury advertisements—the kind that makes you forget you’re supposed to be looking at the watch, not the man wearing it.
My mouth went dry as he approached—each step measured and deliberate, like a predator who knew his territory.
His tailored suit hugged broad shoulders and a chest that his tailor probably thanked the heavens for daily.
If perfection had a blueprint, I was pretty sure it was standing right in front of me.
He stopped inches away, close enough that his scent—citrus and cedar with undertones of pure intimidation—filled my senses.
My neck craned back to meet his gaze, and in that moment, with our breaths mingling in the space between us, I braced for a kiss that might stop my heart for good.
Boyfriend material? No, this was husband-and-kids-and-a-golden-retriever-and-maybe-a-yacht material.
My mind raced. Was I so lucky to have the money, the looks, and now this hunky Adonis as arm candy?
But instead of closing the distance for a lip-lock, he leaned to the left and reached past me for his own cup of coffee. “You’re in the way,” he grumbled, his voice a low rumble that set off a flurry of butterflies in my stomach.
I blinked up at him as he filled his mug with almost ceremonial precision, shuffling over awkwardly. “Roommate?” The word tasted strange on my tongue—too mundane for this Greek god in bespoke tailoring.
His hands were a study in controlled rage; one held the coffee pot with careful precision while the other raked through his perfect hair in frustration.
“I received an interesting call from the board this morning,” he announced abruptly, eyes hard as diamonds.
“Apparently, there are… concerns about my leadership. Your father’s been busy. ”
Coffee spewed from my mouth in a spectacular display—graceful, Zoe, real graceful—transforming the pristine counter into what could pass for abstract art at a very confused gallery. My mind whirled faster than a hamster on an espresso binge.
“My… father?” I coughed out, trying to catch my breath and my dignity.
The word father felt foreign on my tongue—mine had vanished before I’d even taken my first breath, leaving Mom to handle morning sickness and bill collectors alone.
“What kind of alternate reality have I woken up in? Did I stumble into a soap opera filming?”
Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deliciously Confusing arched an eyebrow at my outburst. He seemed as out of place in my current state of bewilderment as a penguin in the Sahara.
“Is it really that surprising?” he asked, his voice steady despite the bomb he’d just dropped.
“We’ve been living separate lives under the same roof since our wedding two years ago.
Separate rooms, separate schedules… separate loyalties.
Though I have to admire the timing. Threatening my position right before the merger? Calculated. Even for you.”
Separate rooms? My mind raced to keep up, stumbling over the absurdity of the situation like a drunken ballerina on a tightrope. I was tempted to check my reflection again, just to make sure this wasn’t some bizarre dream where I’d suddenly become the queen of high society.
“Right,” I managed to squeak out, trying to ignore the fact that my palms were sweating more than a politician at a lie detector test. “Separate rooms. Of course. Because that’s completely normal for… us.”
He sipped his coffee with the poise of a man who’d never known the struggle of instant granules, while I was still trying to reconcile the fact that I was sharing oxygen with walking perfection.
“I’ll have my lawyer draw up the divorce papers,” he said, the words sliding off his tongue like they were discussing nothing more significant than the weather forecast for next Tuesday.
“And before you start your usual routine about how daddy dearest will destroy my company’s reputation, let me be clear—I’d rather lose half my fortune than spend another day pretending this marriage is anything but what it is: a power play you orchestrated. ”
I stood there, mouth opening and closing like a fish auditioning for an underwater ballet, trying to process this bombshell. My silence seemed to surprise him.
His eyes, cold as a winter storm, fixed on me. “No threats? No reminders about how your family’s connections could ruin me? This is new.” His laugh was sharp enough to cut glass. “Though I suppose I should be grateful. It’s preferable to your usual performance.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came out. What could I possibly say to a man I’d just met, who was apparently my soon-to-be ex-husband, about a life I knew nothing about?
My continued silence seemed to fuel his frustration. He set his coffee mug down with a sharp click, the sound echoing in the tense silence between us. His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath the surface as he visibly struggled to maintain his composure.
“I have a meeting downtown,” he said, straightening his already impeccable tie, a gesture that seemed more habitual than necessary. “I expect you’ll want to call your lawyer. Feel free. But know this—I’m done playing games.”