12. Zara
ZARA
T he last haunting notes of the string quartet playing on my wireless speaker echoed in my mind, as I stood frozen in the middle of my bedroom.
Nearly a month had passed since the wedding, but my body still reeled like it had only just happened.
Sterling’s touch lingered on my skin, like a brand I couldn’t scrub off.
Each breath came in unsteady bursts, as I fought to reclaim myself.
The weight of his possessiveness was suffocating, and yet, some twisted part of me had leaned into it.
Had responded in a way I couldn’t understand or forgive.
Sleep well, little hummingbird.
That’s what he whispered to me, voice smooth as sin, after branding me like I was something to own.
Those words hadn’t stopped echoing since. They looped through my head like a curse, cruel and intimate. Like he knew how deeply he’d gotten inside me. I could still feel how my body locked up. The way I’d frozen under the weight of what he took.
I needed air.
The balcony doors from my room stood open, a weak promise of escape. I stepped outside, the cool night air biting against my overheated skin, a jarring contrast to the heat still branded into my body. The city sprawled below, its lights twinkling with deceptive little promises of freedom.
My arms wrapped around my waist, as I leaned against the railing, my mind spiraling through everything I’d endured, and everything I couldn’t forget.
Sterling was the storm I was drawn to; unpredictable, dangerous, and completely off-limits. Even before the wedding, before my world unraveled, he’d always hovered just beyond my reach.
Everyone whispered about him, how he tore through halls with a wildness that left bruises, but no one ever suspected the quiet way he watched me. The way he listened when I didn’t speak.
Before everything, before I became the scandal, before I was reduced to a servant in my father’s kingdom of pretense, there had been a moment. One I never talked about. One I couldn’t forget, even if I tried.
I hadn’t touched my violin in months. Not since the whispers started. Not since the laughter and rumors stripped the music room of its comfort, leaving only shadows and silence behind.
The last time I tried performing publicly, someone switched out my sheet music before a recital. Laughter echoed through the auditorium as I stumbled through the piece from memory, the stolen sheet music mocking me with its absence. The orchestra director never looked at me the same again.
Sterling had seen it all from his corner of the back row. Arms crossed. Silent. Watching me fall.
So when he slipped into the room that day, I expected more of the same.
I’d tucked myself into the farthest corner with my violin in my lap, not playing, just holding it, like a memory I didn’t want to let go. The bow rested loosely in my fingers. I hadn’t had the courage to use it.
I started to hum instead. Low. Quiet. A melody only I knew.
“You used to be louder,” came a voice from the doorway.
I startled.
Sterling stepped inside, eyes locked on me like he’d caught me doing something forbidden.
“I didn’t think you noticed,” I said, my voice small.
He walked slowly toward me, his presence heavier than usual, but not in the usual suffocating way. “I noticed. You were the only one in here who wasn’t pretending.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Not with the way my throat closed up.
“You still sound like yourself,” he added. His voice had softened, gravel edged with something almost tender.
I swallowed hard. “I don’t feel like myself.”
He crouched beside me then, close enough for me to feel the warmth of his breath as he looked up at me, eyes softer than I’d ever seen them. “Don’t stop humming,” he said. “You sound like…”
He trailed off, like he didn’t want to admit whatever it was.
“Like what?” I asked, too afraid to hope.
“Like something I forgot I needed.”
The air between us stilled.
My fingers trembled around the neck of my violin. His hand lifted to my face, brushing a curl from my cheek, the touch almost reverent.
I held my breath.
For a moment, just a moment, I let myself believe he saw me. Not someone to belittle or tease. Me.
Then the door banged open.
Chadwick.
He stepped in, with the smooth arrogance of someone who knew the world belonged to him, and hated anyone who didn’t bow to it.
“Well,” he drawled. “Isn’t this adorable?”
Sterling stiffened. His hand snapped back from my face like it burned him. He stood slowly, his entire posture hardening into something cruel and calculated.
“Didn’t realize you had a thing for smart girls,” Chadwick continued, smirking. “Daddy would be thrilled.”
Sterling didn’t look at him. He looked at me.
And I knew what was coming before he opened his mouth.
“You think you’re different?” he said, cold and sharp. “You’re not. You’re just another girl who thinks she’s special.”
I flinched.
Sterling didn’t stop. “Easy attention. Easy tears. Easy everything.”
He turned on his heel, brushing past Chadwick, like I didn’t matter at all.
I sat frozen, hum trapped in my throat, violin still clutched in my lap.
I didn’t cry until the door closed behind them both.
Now, my father’s disgrace with his own financial holdings had stripped me of everything.
Once a princess of privilege, I had become a servant in the same country club that had once been my playground.
The people I had grown up beside whispered about me behind their champagne glasses, reveling in my fall from grace.
But Sterling? He was something else entirely.
He was the worst.
I hadn’t worked another shift since the wedding.
Not officially.
Tara, my manager, and the closest thing I had to an ally in that place, went silent the morning after. Her usual one-word texts turned to nothing. My name disappeared from the schedule app.
No explanation. No warning. Just… erased.
I tried to tell myself it was a glitch. That, maybe, things had just shifted around. I even emailed to confirm my hours, still pretending I didn’t know the truth.
But I did.
Sterling had made a phone call. Or worse, he hadn’t needed to.
His last name did the talking. And Tara, for all her kindness, answered to the Kingsleys.
Still, I hadn’t let myself believe it. Not fully.
I was going to go back tomorrow. I’d show up in uniform, smile like I always did, act like everything was fine. If I was on the schedule, I’d work. If I wasn’t…
I didn’t know what I’d do.
Because if he’d taken this too, this last scrap of dignity, I wasn’t sure who I’d be without it.
The morning sun barely peeked through my curtains as I vigorously brushed my teeth. I gagged. Twice. I blamed nerves, but the back of my mind whispered otherwise.
Trembling with anxiety, I rinsed my mouth, and walked back into my room, sitting at my vanity, my silk scarf still wrapped around my head from the night before. With a tired sigh, I reached for my spray bottle and lightly misted my curls, working the water into my hair with careful fingers.
My curls, a mix of tight coils and springy spirals, needed coaxing back to life.
I smoothed in my leave-in conditioner, raking it through section by section, before scrunching in a curl cream to define them.
Once satisfied, I pulled out my satin scrunchie, fluffing my hair out to let it dry, as I slipped into my street clothes.
It was important that I wore it the way I wanted. That folks saw me as who I truly am. Before they tried to erase my existence.
The wives gathered in the lounge like a quiet storm, soft laughter and clinking glasses filling the air. Madeline Kingsley’s voice floated over the hum, smooth and practiced, like she was handing out advice I didn’t ask for.
“You know, Zara should really think about straightening her hair for her shifts here,” she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “It just reads better for the country club crowd. Sleeker. More... professional.”
Her words landed on me, heavier than I expected. I felt the heat rise in my chest, not because I doubted my curls, no, those were mine, alive and defiant, but because the message was clear.
You don’t belong here as you are.
Madeline’s eyes found mine, quick and calculating, like she was testing how much I could take before I broke. “Not that her natural hair isn’t beautiful. It’s just... this place has standards. Expectations.”
Expectations. The same word that tied me down, kept me boxed in, erased in the name of fitting in.
I wrapped my fingers tighter around my teacup, feeling the weight of every gaze in the room. They weren’t looking at Zara, the woman who had fought tooth and nail to get here, they were looking at my hair, my body, my very presence.
It wasn’t like I wanted to be seen. I didn’t want their attention. But my mere existence was what they were protesting against. As if, by my presence, I was bringing down their neighborhood. Pushing against the status quo.
And it gutted me that, some days, I believed it.
I grabbed my bag and stepped outside, shaking off my bullshit thoughts.
My worn sneakers crunched against the damp pavement.
The brisk morning air sent a slight chill up my arms, but I barely registered it as my eyes locked onto the sleek, imposing, black car idling near the sidewalk.
My steps faltered, my stomach knotting at the sight.
Sterling was already waiting in the driver’s seat, his sharp, unreadable gaze locking onto me as the door unlocked with a soft click. He didn't bother with pleasantries.
"Get in."
I hesitated, gripping the strap of my bag. “I have to look for work.”