Zara didn't get out of bed until 11:47 a.m.
She had already called her assistant earlier and claimed she was feeling unwell. A convenient excuse—though not entirely untrue. The tension sitting behind her ribs had built into something thick and suffocating, like smoke she couldn't cough out.
Her phone vibrated on the nightstand.
She reached for it absentmindedly, thumb unlocking the screen.
Instagram.
And right there, top of the feed: Celeste.
A photo from the gala a month ago—Celeste and Dylan clinking champagne glasses, her engagement ring shamelessly front and center.
Caption: There's no substitute for the real thing.
Zara blinked at the screen once. Twice. Then let out a small, dry laugh and tossed the phone aside like it was nothing more than a pebble.
The post didn't sting.
It grated.
But only in the same way a mosquito bite does: a small, annoying reminder that something tried to crawl under your skin without invitation.
She sipped slowly from her mug of ginger tea, ignoring the growing itch in her chest.
Dylan and his fire-breathing doll.
How poetic.
She wasn't in the mood for meetings. Especially not with him. Not today.
So she skipped their appointment without hesitation.
Except Dylan had other plans.
The doorbell rang sometime around noon. Zara thought it might be her pharmacist, or a courier—anything other than a man with shadows under his eyes and too much to say.
Joyce, her housekeeper, called up the hallway. "Ma'am? Mr. Dylan Reid is at the door."
Zara stiffened.
She hadn't expected him to follow up in person. Not after everything.
"Should I tell him to leave?" Joyce asked gently.
Zara paused.
Then: "Let him in."
A moment later, he entered, dressed in slate-blue slacks and a crisp white shirt, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. His hair was a bit unkempt. Like he'd run a hand through it more times than necessary.
"You didn't show," he said.
"I called in," she replied evenly. "Didn't realize that required your approval."
He exhaled through his nose. "Zara—are you okay?"
"I'm fine," she said. Too quickly.
But as she moved to stand, she wobbled slightly—just enough to make the room tilt.
Dylan was at her side in an instant. "You're not fine."
Before she could protest, he had her seated in the home office, nestled on her velvet couch. "Stay," he said firmly. "I'll make something."
Ten minutes later, he returned with a bowl of hot soup. She blinked awake to the scent and sound of the spoon tapping against porcelain.
"You made this?"
"I remember what you like."
Their eyes met. The air thickened.
She touched his wrist. "You didn't have to do this."
"But I wanted to."
The moment hovered between them, fragile.
And then, it broke—into heat. Into breath. Into hands that searched, and mouths that remembered.
He kissed her like memory. She held him like a question she no longer feared asking.
Zara shifted slightly on the couch, her bare legs curled beneath the edge of her robe, eyes watching Dylan over the rim of the soup bowl. He took it gently from her fingers and set it down on the low marble table. Neither of them spoke for a moment.
Then he reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered just a second too long on her cheek.
"You're warm," he said softly.
"So are you," she replied—quieter than she meant to.
Their eyes locked, the kind of stare that says everything that hasn't been spoken in years.
And then he kissed her.
At first, it was slow—uncertain, even. His lips brushed hers like a question, hesitant, almost afraid to shatter the silence.
But when Zara didn't pull away—instead sighing gently into his mouth—he deepened it. One hand cradled the back of her neck, the other pressed at her waist, pulling her flush against him.
She moaned softly against his lips as his hand slid beneath the fabric of her robe, fingers tracing her side like he was trying to memorize her body all over again.
Zara's arms curled around his neck, one hand sliding into his hair, tugging gently. She bit his lower lip in return, just enough to make him groan.
He trailed kisses down her jaw, to the curve of her neck.
She gasped as his mouth found that sweet spot just below her ear—the one he always remembered. He sucked lightly, then again, marking her with a blooming red bruise she'd find later. A reminder.
His hands moved with reverence but hunger—tugging the silk belt of her robe loose. She let it fall open willingly, her breath catching as cool air hit her bare skin.
He paused, breath shaky.
"You're beautiful," he whispered, eyes scanning her slowly. "You always were."
"Then why did you look at me like I disgusted you?" she asked, voice barely holding steady.
He pressed his forehead against hers, voice thick with regret. "Because I was a coward."
She kissed him again—harder this time—because she didn't want his guilt. She wanted his body, his heat, the part of him that never really left.
She tugged his shirt free from his waistband, her fingers sliding underneath, desperate to feel skin.
He undressed slowly at first—unbuttoning his shirt, letting her hands trail over each line of his chest. Then it turned urgent. Her robe slipped from her shoulders, pooling to the floor as he lifted her, carrying her to the plush chaise near the bay window.
Their mouths never left each other.
Hands roamed. Kisses deepened.
She bit his shoulder. He kissed down the center of her stomach, lingering at the hollow between her ribs.
His touch worshipped her.
And hers unraveled him.
Dylan knelt between her legs, worshipping every inch of her like she was something sacred he was lucky to touch again.
He kissed a trail from her navel up to her chest, murmuring things she could barely hear over the sound of her heartbeat thundering in her ears.
"You're so soft," he whispered, his hand caressing the line of her thigh, then teasing higher. "So warm."
She arched into his touch, eyes fluttering closed, fingers gripping his shoulders.
When he entered her, they both gasped.
And then he stilled—eyes locked with hers, full of disbelief and something far deeper.
"…You're so tight," he whispered hoarsely, voice cracking slightly as he buried his face in her neck. "You didn't let any man in… since then?"
Zara didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
Her body told the truth.
Her silence screamed it.
His jaw clenched, lips brushing her collarbone. There was reverence in the way he held her now—like regret had curled around his ribs, and he was trying to rewrite the past with every motion.
"Zara…" he said her name like a vow, a prayer.
She pulled him deeper in response, her legs wrapping around him, her back arching off the chaise as she met him thrust for thrust.
It wasn't just physical—it was a storm. A memory. A reclamation.
He moved inside her with both hunger and restraint, their bodies pressed so tightly together it felt like time folded in on itself.
Whispers turned to moans.
Moans to gasps.
His mouth found hers again as they tipped over the edge together—lost, shaking, breathing each other in like they were drowning and finally found air.
Afterward, he held her in the hush, the city lights flickering below.
She rested her head on his chest, eyelids heavy, fingers tracing the fading mark she'd left on his shoulder.
He stroked her back slowly, protectively.
And when she fell asleep, his arms never left her. For the first time in three years, Zara fell asleep not feeling alone.
Even as morning crept closer.
Even as truth waited just outside the door.
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