Her fingers curled lightly into my chest. “Leave for where?”
I shook my head once. “I’m not telling you.”
“That’s annoying,” Zara huffed a tired little laugh, and I held her tighter against me, unwilling to let even an inch of space exist between us tonight.
Eventually, exhaustion started pulling at her; her body grew heavier in my lap while the puppy snored softly between us.
I carried both of them to bed.
Zara curled instinctively against my side the second I laid her down, the puppy sprawled across her stomach.
Then, just as sleep started dragging her under completely, she shifted closer and murmured softly against my chest?—
“You don’t need to earn my love; you already have it.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper now. Sleepy, honest, vulnerable in a way she’d never be awake.
I stared at her for a long moment in the darkness.
At the woman who somehow walked into my life and made me want things I’d spent years convincing myself I didn’t deserve.
Chapter Thirty
Zara
The staircase to Lorenzo’s private jet felt like walking into another world.
I’d never been on a plane before. Not once in twenty-one years of existence. The closest I’d gotten to flying was watching planes streak across the sky from the roof of my ex’s apartment building, wondering what it felt like to be that high up, untouchable.
Now I was climbing into a private jet, my legs shaking beneath me.
Lorenzo’s hand pressed against the small of my back, offering subtle reassurance. He’d been quiet since we left the penthouse, his jaw tight, his eyes scanning the tarmac like he expected someone to jump out from behind the fuel trucks. But his touch was gentle, guiding me forward without rushing.
“Watch your step,” he murmured, his accent thickening the way it did when he was distracted.
I stepped into the cabin and stopped breathing.
This wasn’t a plane; this was someone’s penthouse apartment with wings attached.
Cream leather seats curved around a wooden table. Gold accents lined the cabinets. A flat-screen TV bigger than my old bedroom wall sat opposite a couch probably worth more than my wardrobe. On a plane.
“Welcome, Mrs. Falcone.”
I startled, turning toward the flight attendant standing near the cabin door—blonde, immaculate in a navy dress, holding a tray with two flutes of champagne.
“Please make yourself comfortable.” She continued, smiling warmly. “We’ll be taking off shortly. Would you like a refreshment before we depart?”
I stared at the champagne. “I… yes. Thank you.”
She handed me the glass with a graceful nod. “Enjoy your flight, Ms. Falcone.”
I sank into the nearest seat, heart fluttering, as I took a shaky sip of champagne.
Lorenzo settled across from me, stretching his long legs out as he watched me over the rim of his own glass, something dark and hungry flickering in his eyes. The distance between us felt intentional. Calculated. Like he was giving me space to breathe while still drinking me in.
I couldn’t help but smile.
It was ridiculous, really. Here I was —the girl dumped on a Thursday and thrown out with nothing but a busted suitcase—sitting in a private jet with a man who looked like he’d stepped out of a GQ spread. A man who’d married me in a penthouse with no guests and no warning. Who called me his wife, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“What?” he asked, his lips twitching.
