Zara's POV
I don't sleep.
How can I sleep when Manhattan's most feared divorce lawyer knows my darkest secret?
By 5 AM, I've googled Ethan Cross seventy-three times. Yes, I counted. Each article is worse than the last.
"Cross Destroys Another Marriage - Wife Leaves With Nothing"
"The Attorney Who Never Loses: Ethan Cross's Brutal Prenup Strategies"
"Sources Say Cross Believes Love is a Psychological Delusion"
There's a video interview from last year. I click play even though I know I shouldn't.
Ethan sits across from a news reporter, perfectly calm in an expensive suit. His gray eyes are cold. Empty.
"Mr. Cross, you have a reputation for being... unsympathetic to romance. Do you believe in love at all?"
He doesn't even blink. "I believe in patterns. Chemistry fades. People change. Passion becomes resentment. I've seen it happen a thousand times. My job is to protect people from their own temporary emotions."
"So you've never been in love?"
His jaw tightens—just for a second. Then the mask is back. "Love is a word people use to justify irrational decisions. I prefer facts."
The reporter looks uncomfortable. "That's quite cynical."
"No," Ethan says, and there's something dark in his voice. "It's realistic."
I slam my laptop shut.
This is the man I have to work with. A man who thinks everything I do is stupid. A man who destroys marriages for a living while I try to build them.
And he knows about Marcus. About my failed wedding. About how I was too blind to see the betrayal coming.
He probably thinks I'm pathetic.
My phone alarm screams at 7 AM. Two hours until the meeting. I drag myself to the shower and stand under burning hot water, trying to wash away the anxiety crawling under my skin.
"You can do this," I tell my reflection as I dry my hair. "This is five million dollars. Your career. Everything you've worked for. Don't let some cold-hearted lawyer intimidate you."
My reflection doesn't look convinced.
I choose my outfit carefully—a professional navy dress that says "I'm successful" without trying too hard. Heels that make me feel taller, stronger. Makeup that hides the dark circles under my eyes.
By 8:30 AM, I'm in a taxi heading toward the Upper East Side, clutching my portfolio of past weddings like a shield.
"Big meeting?" the taxi driver asks, watching me in the mirror.
"The biggest of my life," I admit. "Celebrity wedding. Five million dollar contract."
He whistles. "Sounds amazing."
"Yeah." I stare out the window at Manhattan rushing past. "Or terrifying. Haven't decided yet."
The taxi stops in front of a building that's all glass and money. The doorman looks at me like he's deciding whether I'm fancy enough to enter.
"Zara Kingsley," I say, voice steady even though my heart is hammering. "I have a 9 AM appointment with Sienna Vale and Dante Morelli."
He checks his tablet, then nods. "Penthouse. Top floor."
The elevator is the kind that makes you feel poor. Gold trim. Mirrors everywhere. Classical music playing softly. I watch myself in the reflection—small, nervous, pretending to be brave.
The elevator dings. The doors slide open.
I step into a hallway with only one door. Before I can knock, it swings open.
A woman in a perfect black suit smiles at me. "Miss Kingsley. Right on time. I'm Patricia Chen, we spoke on the phone."
"Nice to meet you in person." I shake her hand, grateful mine isn't sweating despite my nerves.
"Follow me. Miss Vale and Mr. Morelli are waiting in the sitting room. Mr. Cross is already here."
My stomach drops. He's early. Of course he is. Probably sitting in there judging everything already.
Patricia leads me through the penthouse. I try not to stare at the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, the art on the walls that probably costs more than my entire apartment building.
We stop at a doorway. Patricia gestures for me to enter.
I take a deep breath. Straighten my shoulders. Walk in.
The first thing I see is Sienna Vale, even more beautiful in person, sitting on a cream sofa next to Dante Morelli, who has his arm around her. They look like a magazine cover—perfect, glowing, in love.
The second thing I see is him.
Ethan Cross.
He's standing by the window, hands in his pockets, looking out at the city like he owns it. The photos didn't do him justice. He's tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair styled perfectly. When he turns to look at me, his gray eyes are exactly as cold as they were in the video.
He looks at me like I'm a problem he needs to solve.
"Miss Kingsley," Dante says warmly, standing up to shake my hand. His Italian accent is charming. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. Please, sit."
I sit on the chair across from them, very aware that Ethan is still standing, still watching me with those calculating eyes.
"Can I get you coffee? Tea?" Sienna asks. Her smile is genuine, kind.
"Coffee would be great, thank you."
Ethan finally sits—in the chair next to mine. Close enough that I can smell his cologne. Something expensive and woodsy that makes my brain go fuzzy for a second.
Focus, Zara.
"Let me explain why we called you both here," Dante begins. "Sienna and I are getting married in two months. We want it to be perfect—romantic, memorable, everything a wedding should be."
"But we also want to be smart," Sienna adds, reaching for Dante's hand. "We love each other, but we're not naive. We've both been through bad relationships before. We want to protect what we're building together."
I nod, understanding. "That's very wise."
"No, it's realistic," Ethan says. His voice is deep, smooth, and completely emotionless. "Half of marriages end in divorce. Being prepared for that possibility isn't pessimistic. It's intelligent."
I bite my tongue before I say something rude.
Dante continues, "We want you, Miss Kingsley, to plan our dream wedding. And we want Mr. Cross to create a prenup that protects us both fairly. But here's the unusual part—we want you two to work together. Closely."
I blink. "I'm sorry, work together how?"
Sienna leans forward. "We want the wedding and the prenup to reflect the same values. Romance AND security. Hope AND realism. We don't want them to be separate things—we want them woven together. Which means you two need to attend the same meetings, make decisions together, and collaborate on everything."
My brain is screaming NO NO NO but my mouth says, "Of course. I'm happy to collaborate."
Ethan's eyes slide toward me. "How interesting. I've read about your... philosophy on love, Miss Kingsley. You believe in soulmates, don't you?"
There's mockery in his tone. Like he's daring me to defend myself.
"I believe in commitment," I say carefully. "In people choosing each other every day."
"Choosing." He says the word like it's funny. "Until they don't. Until someone better comes along. Or the passion fades. Or they realize they never really knew each other at all."
"You must be fun at parties," I snap before I can stop myself.
Dante laughs. "I like her, Sienna. She's got fire."
Ethan's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes. Amusement? Annoyance? I can't tell.
"So you'll do it?" Sienna asks hopefully. "Both of you? Together?"
I look at Ethan. He looks at me. The air between us feels electric with challenge.
"Yes," we say at the same time.
"Wonderful!" Dante claps his hands. "Let's discuss the timeline and budget. The wedding will be here in Manhattan, mid-December. We're thinking the Plaza Hotel. Two hundred guests. No expense spared."
For the next hour, we talk details. I take notes on everything—Sienna's vision, color schemes, flower preferences. Ethan sits beside me, silent, taking notes on his tablet. Every time I suggest something romantic, I feel his judgment radiating off him like heat.
Finally, the meeting ends. Dante and Sienna walk us to the door together.
"We'll have a follow-up meeting next week," Patricia says. "Same time. You'll both be there?"
"Absolutely," I say.
Ethan just nods.
We step into the elevator together. Alone.
The doors close.
Silence.
I can feel him looking at me, but I stare straight ahead at my reflection in the mirror.
"So," Ethan says finally. "The famous Zara Kingsley. The wedding planner who had her own wedding destroyed by her fiancé and her best friend."
My blood turns to ice. I turn to face him slowly.
His expression is neutral, but his eyes are sharp. Calculating.
"You know about that."
"I know everything about everyone I work with. Due diligence." He tilts his head slightly. "Tell me, Miss Kingsley—how does someone who was publicly betrayed at the altar still believe in happily ever after? Is it denial? Or just good acting?"
The words hit like a slap. All the pain from three years ago rushes back—Marcus, Vanessa, the tabloids, the whispers, the shame.
But I won't let him see me break.
I step closer to him, close enough to see the flecks of silver in his gray eyes.
"You want to know why I still believe in love, Mr. Cross?" My voice is quiet but fierce. "Because giving up would mean Marcus wins. It would mean letting one bad man destroy my faith in all the good ones. I refuse to become bitter just because I got hurt."
Something changes in his face. Just for a second. The coldness cracks, and underneath I see something raw. Something that looks almost like... pain.
Then it's gone.
"How noble," he says flatly. "We'll see how long that optimism lasts."
The elevator dings. Doors open to the lobby.
Ethan walks out without looking back.
I stand there, shaking with anger and something else I can't name.
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.
"Looking forward to working with you, Miss Kingsley. Don't be late to our meetings. I don't tolerate unprofessional behavior. - E.C."
I'm about to text back something angry when another message comes through.
This one is from Patricia.
"Miss Kingsley - one more thing I forgot to mention. Dante and Sienna are requiring both of you to attend their couple's therapy sessions starting tomorrow. They want you to understand their relationship dynamics. Hope that's acceptable."
I stare at the message.
Couple's therapy. With Ethan Cross. Watching two people talk about their deepest feelings and fears.
This is going to be a nightmare.
I'm about to text back "yes" when a third message appears.
From a blocked number.
"Saw you just came out of that building. Fancy. Working with celebrities now? Good for you, Zara. Hope this one doesn't end like the last time. -M"
The world tilts.
M.
Marcus.
He's watching me. Right now. Somewhere nearby, he's watching me.
I spin around, scanning the street. People everywhere. Cars. Buildings. Where is he?
My phone rings. Unknown number.
My hand shakes as I answer.
"Hello?"
Heavy breathing. Then his voice. The voice that still haunts my nightmares.
"Hello, sweetheart. Did you miss me?"