“Don’t be.”
Leaning into him, I allowed my eyes to drift closed. The panic faded to a dull ache, exhaustion settling in, only to be broken by his phone ringing.
I watched him glance at the screen, his jaw tightening. He silenced it, sliding it back into his pocket, but it rang again almost immediately. And again.
“Go,” I said, surprising myself with the word. “It’s fine.”
He looked at me, dark eyes searching mine. “Zara?—”
“I mean it. I need a minute anyway.” I gestured vaguely at the penthouse. “To, uh, process.”
There was a beat of hesitation before he nodded, reaching out to brush his knuckles against my cheek. The touch was gentle, almost reverent, and it sent a confusing shiver down my spine.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said. “Carla is here if you need anything. And here.”
He pressed a heavy, black card into my palm. My name engraved in elegant script.
“Use it for whatever you want,” he said. “Anything.”
Then he was gone, the elevator doors sliding shut behind him, and I was alone in a penthouse that cost more than I’d earn in a lifetime.
I sat on the floor there for a long time, staring at the card.
Zara Falcone.
That was me now.
It still felt surreal. Just a few days ago, I was essentially homeless, and now I’m married, alone in a penthouse bigger than any home I’ve ever had.
I turned the card over in my hands. No PIN. No restrictions. Just a black card with my new name, linked to a man I barely knew.
What the hell am I doing?
I’d signed a contract. Said, “I do” in front of a judge. Let a stranger kiss me as if he owned me, hold me as I fell apart. And now I was sitting in his home—our home?—holding a credit card that could probably buy a small car.
I should have felt trapped.
Instead, I felt… nothing.
Or everything.
I couldn’t tell anymore.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, Marcus’ name lighting up the screen, and I fumbled to answer, desperate for a familiar voice.
“Hey, girl. Did you do it?” Marcus asked, his tone painted with excitement.
“I did.”
“Holy shit. How do you feel?”
I looked around the penthouse. At the dark marble floors. The floor-to-ceiling windows. The roses Carla was quietly clearing away.
“Honestly? I have no idea.” That was the most honest answer I could give while I worked through everything that had just happened.
Marcus and I talked for a while longer before we were interrupted by a call from my sister, Rowen. She was younger than I was, still in college, making far better decisions than I ever did. That’s part of why I had no interest in telling her how I just spent my morning. Even through the phone, I could picture her dorm room, stacks of textbooks, and the little reminders Mom used to send. She filled me in on her schedule, academics, and winter break plans, her voice bright and enthusiastic.
For a moment, I felt worlds away from her, standing barefoot in a penthouse with a brand new life she could never imagine. I almost told her the truth—almost. But I pictured the worry in her voice, the questions I couldn’t answer. Instead, I let her talk and promised to visit soon, her easy affection mixing with a tangle of guilt and relief. As I hung up, I wondered how long I could keep all of this to myself, and if I’d ever be brave enough to let her in.
