Zoey
Two hours later, I was standing outside a candlelit restaurant in SoHo, the kind of place where Max felt most himself—polished, exclusive, and expensive for the sake of being expensive. Through the tall windows, I saw him at our table, scrolling his phone without looking up.
And for some reason, as I reached for the door, my mother's words from earlier slid into my mind like a whisper: I have someone I want you to meet.
The door man greeted me by name, took my coat, and led me to the corner table where Max was already seated.
He didn't stand. Didn't even look up from his phone until I slid into the chair across from him.
"Babe," he said absently, still scrolling. "You're late.
"I'm five minutes early," I said, reaching for the menu.
He set his phone down—face up, notifications lighting it like a Christmas tree—and leaned back in his chair. "Traffic's a nightmare tonight. Took me forever to get here from the gym. My trainer says my numbers are insane right now—lowest body fat I've had since college."
"Impressive," I murmured, glancing at the wine list.
He launched into a play-by-play of his workout, detailing sets, reps, and his "macro adjustments," his voice low and self-satisfied. I nodded at the appropriate moments, the way you do when someone's monologuing and you've already lost the thread.
When the waiter arrived, Max ordered a bottle of wine without asking what I wanted, then launched into a speech about a deal he'd closed that morning. It was worth "seven figures, minimum," and apparently he'd handled it "with the kind of finesse only Max Vale could pull off."
I tried to tell him about the new charity collaboration my jewelry line was launching, something I'd been excited about for months.
"That's great, babe," he said before I'd even finished the sentence. "Anyway, so then the CFO this guy's been in the game for twenty years—looks at me and says, 'Max, you're a killer.'"
I leaned back, sipping my water, and let his voice wash over me like background noise. Across the room, another couple laughed over a shared dessert, their faces tilted toward each other, eyes bright. I couldn't remember the last time Max and I had laughed like that.
He barely paused to breathe, jumping from his deal to the dinner party he'd been invited to next week, to the new watch he was considering buying because, as he put it, "a man of my caliber needs something more… commanding."
When the food arrived, he dug in without waiting for me, barely glancing up from his phone between bites. I found myself studying the folds in the linen tablecloth, counting the minutes until I could escape without making a scene.
"Anyway," Max said, swirling his wine, "about moving in together—"
My phone buzzed in my lap. A text from my mother lit the screen: Don't forget lunch tomorrow, darling. He'll be there.
For the first time all evening, I smiled. And it had nothing to do with Max.
By the time I got to the office the next morning, Jane was already there, coffee in one hand, iPad in the other, looking like she'd been up for hours.
"Morning," I said, setting my bag on my desk.
She glanced up at me, narrowed her eyes, and said, "So… how was Prince Charming last night?"
I sighed, dropping into my chair. "Please don't start."
"I wouldn't—except I saw your face when you came in. Don't tell me Max spent the whole dinner talking about himself again."
I gave her a flat look.
She threw her hands in the air. "Zoey, he's a walking monologue in designer shoes. Every time you tell me you had dinner with him, I feel like you need hazard pay."
"It's not that bad," I muttered, opening my laptop.
"It is that bad," she shot back. "The guy could be dating a houseplant and never notice. And if I have to hear about his 'macro adjustments' or his 'elite network' one more time, I'm going to throw myself into traffic."
I bit back a smile, shaking my head. "You're being dramatic."
"No, I'm being realistic," she said, leaning on my desk. "You deserve someone who listens to you. Someone who actually looks at you like you're the most interesting person in the room, not a mirror reflecting his own ego."
Her words sank in deeper than I wanted to admit, but I didn't respond. Instead, I pushed away from my desk and grabbed my bag. "I have lunch with my mum. Try not to stage a coup while I'm gone."
My Mother's House
My mother's penthouse was perched high over the city, all sweeping glass walls and impossible views, the kind of place that made you feel like you were standing above the rest of the world.
She greeted me at the door in a cream silk blouse and a perfectly tailored skirt, her signature scent—jasmine and something expensive I could never quite name—wrapping around me in a wave of familiarity.
"Darling," she said, kissing both my cheeks. "You look beautiful."
"You look busier than usual," I said, following her into the sunlit dining room.
We sat, and before I could ask about this mysterious "someone" she wanted me to meet, she placed a cream envelope on the table between us. My name was written across it in neat, unfamiliar handwriting.
"This arrived two weeks ago," she said softly. "From your father. Just before he passed away."
I froze. "He's… dead?"
She nodded. "Heart failure. He reached out to me first. Asked for my forgiveness. He was too ashamed to face you directly, so he wrote this."
I stared at the envelope but didn't touch it. "Why now?"
"He wanted to leave you something," she said. "A gift. His way of… apologizing. There are conditions, yes—but he hoped you'd see them as an opportunity, not a punishment."
He didn't only abandon me, he never reached out all these years. Come to find out that the only time he could act like a father he's giving me something with a condition.
"What kind of conditions?" My voice was sharper than I intended.
She hesitated. "He asked that you marry the man he chose. He believed this man could offer you more than just financial stability—he thought he could be a partner worthy of you."
I let out a bitter laugh. "A partner worthy of me? From a man who abandoned me before I was born?"
"Zoey." My mother reached across the table, taking my hand. "I know how this sounds. Your father wronged you and me, he has apologized countless times and it took everything in me to forgive him and give him a listening ear and I also did that for you.
But I've met the young man. And… I think your father might have been right. You've built your empire alone. You've kept your guard so high no one's been able to get close. Maybe… it's time you let someone in."
I shook my head, my chest tightening. "I don't need a man to complete me, Mum."
"You don't," she agreed. "But maybe you need someone who can match you. Challenge you."
I wanted to argue. To tell her this was absurd. But before I could, the dining room door opened.
He stepped in like he owned the room—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a suit cut to his frame like it had been made just for him. His hair was dark, his jawline sharp enough to draw blood, and his eyes… God. Grey, piercing, the kind that made you feel like you'd just been read cover to cover.
"Zoey," my mother said, her tone perfectly calm, "this is Julian West".
He extended his hand, and I forced myself to stand. The moment our palms touched, something sparked—sharp, electric, unwanted.
"Pleasure," he said, his voice low, smooth.
I lifted my chin, meeting his gaze head-on. "We'll see about that."
The corner of his mouth curved just slightly, as if I'd amused him. We sat, and lunch was served.
I tried to ignore the way his eyes lingered on me when I spoke, the subtle way he leaned in when I challenged him. He asked questions—not about my looks, not about my family's wealth—but about my work, my ideas, my designs. It irritated me how much I wanted to answer.
Every glance, every brush of his hand against mine when we reached for the same dish, felt like a line drawn between us—one I had no intention of crossing.
And yet… there was something there. Something I couldn't quite name. Something that made me hate this arrangement even more.
Because if I wasn't careful, I might start to want it.
Julian poured himself a glass of wine, his movements unhurried, deliberate—like he knew I was watching and wanted me to know it.
"So," he said, turning that grey gaze on me, "your mother tells me you built your brands from the ground up."
I arched a brow. "What, you assumed I inherited everything?"
His mouth tilted into the faintest smirk. "I assumed nothing. But most people in our… circles don't bother building when they can buy."
"I'm not most people," I said evenly, spearing a piece of roasted asparagus.
"I can see that," he murmured, eyes lingering on me a beat too long before he cut into his steak.
Across the table, my mother smiled like a cat who'd just cornered two mice. "Zoey's work ethic has always impressed me. She doesn't take shortcuts."
Julian's gaze slid back to me. "Good. Neither do I."
I met his stare head-on, refusing to look away first. "Sounds exhausting. Always having to prove something."
"Not exhausting," he said. "Necessary. I like to earn what I have. Keeps it… valuable."
I tilted my head. "Is that how you see this? Me? Something to earn?"
He didn't blink. "Would you rather be handed over without a fight?"
Something in my stomach tightened—anger, irritation, and something else I didn't want to name.
"I'm not a prize," I said flatly.
"No," he agreed, his voice quiet, measured. "You're a challenge. That's far more interesting."
My fork stilled midair. "You think flattery is going to make this easier for you?"
"It's not flattery if it's true." His eyes held mine, steady, unflinching. "And I don't want it to be easy."
My mother, ever the diplomat, changed the subject to one of her hotels' latest expansions, but the air between Julian and me stayed charged. Every accidental brush of his hand against mine when passing a dish felt deliberate. Every glance from those grey eyes was a silent dare.
By the time dessert arrived, my pulse was annoyingly unsteady. I told myself it was irritation. It had to be irritation.
When lunch ended, Julian stood and held out my coat. I hesitated a fraction of a second before taking it.
"Zoey," he said quietly, leaning close enough that I caught the faint, clean scent of him, "you don't have to like the arrangement. You just have to admit that, deep down, you're curious."
I slid my arm into my coat sleeve without looking at him. "Curiosity fades."
"Not with the right person," he said.
"Until next time ".
Bye Miss Elizabeth.
And damn him, I hated how much I wanted to turn around and see if he was still watching me as I walked away.