I thought about Nathan. About how he’d sat me down on the couch and told me he’d met someone else. Someone who “got him.” Someone whose father hadn’t abandoned her at eight years old and left her with a permanent hole in her chest.
I thought about my dad. About the way he’d walked out with a duffel bag and a lie—“I’ll be back, baby girl, I promise.” I was still waiting for that promise.
I thought about my mom. How disappointed she would have been if she saw me now. She worked herself to the bone, picking up double shifts at the diner and coming home with hands that smelled like coffee and grease, just to keep us fed and the lights on. I still remember her exhausted smile as she tucked us in, telling us we were tougher than we thought. She pushed herself until her body finally gave out four years ago, dying of a heart attack.
And now I was walking down a dark street in a city I barely knew, broke, broken, and utterly alone.
Ahead of me, the street curved; a row of brownstones loomed on one side, and a small park on the other. I kept walking, my footsteps echoing, my suitcase rattling.
“A block,” I muttered to myself. “Just one more block. Then another. You can do this.”
But my body was giving out. My legs were shaking. My chest ached. My throat was raw from holding back sobs. I stopped at the edge of the park, leaned against a lamppost, and let my head fall back.
That’s when I heard it.
Footsteps — steady, deliberate — coming from behind me.
I tensed. My hand tightened on the suitcase handle. The city was dangerous at night; even I knew that. I was a walking target: alone, female, crying, carrying everything I owned.
I turned my head slowly and made eye contact with a man walking towards me. He was tall, older, maybe in his early 40’s, but built like he spent hours in a gym. He looked lean, powerful, tension coiled beneath the deep blue designer suit he wore. His hair was dark and cut short, with a slight wave at the front, and tapered into his neatly groomed beard. He had a face that was handsome in the way a cliff face is beautiful: sharp, imposing, dangerous.
And his eyes.
They were dark, nearly black, and they were fixed on me.
He looked like money, like power, like the kind of man who never asked for anything because he was used to taking. A sudden shiver raced up my spine, mingling together sharp as the fear in my chest and the curiosity flickering low in my belly.
I didn’t know him. I’d never seen him before. But I could feel the pull of him, magnetic, dangerous, and for a split second, I didn’t know if I wanted to run or step closer.
He took a few steps before he stopped a few feet away. Close enough that I could smell him, something sharp and clean, like cedar and bergamot.
“You’re crying,” he said. His voice is low and rough. Like gravel cutting through the night air and wrapping around my spine.
He didn’t smile, didn’t soften. He just stared at me with that dark, unyielding gaze, and I felt like a rabbit caught in headlights.
I blinked. Then, out of instinct, I wiped at my face with the back of my hand.School your features, Zara. Don’t let anyone see you break.
I straightened my shoulders, lifted my chin, and tried to look like I wasn’t falling apart.
“I’m fine,” I said. The lie came out too fast, too brittle. Even I didn’t believe it.
Something flickered across his face. Irritation? Impatience? Then his jaw hardened.
“Where are you going?” he asked. No introduction. No, “are you okay?” Just a question, sharp and demanding, as if he had a right to the answer.
I stared at him. Who the hell was this guy?
“I—” I hesitated before continuing, “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
The words came out stronger than I felt, and for a second, I expected him to back off, to shrug, to walk away.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he stepped closer. Just one step, but now under the light, I could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes.
And my heart, stupid, traitorous thing, started to beat faster. A quick, skittering rhythm that had nothing to do with fear.
I had no idea why.
