I shiver despite the sweat forming on my brow.
Byron never explicitly discussed the physical aspects of this arrangement, but the implication is clear. A marriage needs to appear real. And real marriages involve intimacy.
I push away from the bag and grab a jump rope instead, trying to outrun my thoughts with each rapid skip.
Thwap-thwap-thwap-thwap—the rhythm of the rope hitting the floor matches my racing heart.
Could I really go through with it? Let him kiss me? Touch me? More than that?
I falter, the rope catching on my ankle, and I stumble. Sweat drips down my back as I untangle myself.
"Focus, Zoe," I mutter to myself. "Eyes on the end goal."
Revenge. Justice. Making him pay for what he took from me. That's what matters. Everything else is just... collateral damage. Including whatever dignity I'll sacrifice in his bed.
I grab a towel and wipe my face, catching my reflection in the mirrored wall. My eyes look hollow, haunted. Is this what my father would want for me?
No. Don't go there.
I can't afford doubts now.
I shower, letting scalding water wash over me like armor. Each precise movement—applying makeup, drying my hair, selecting jewelry—follows years of careful instruction.
The Chanel dress hangs on my closet door—elegant, understated.
I slip it on, feeling the silk against my skin. The diamond earrings and matching bracelet catch the light as I move.
My reflection stares back at me—blonde hair falling in soft waves, makeup enhancing my featureswhile appearing natural. I look exactly as I need to look: refined, educated, desirable. The perfect bait.
The clock shows 6:15. We need to leave soon to make our 7:00 reservation.
I slide my feet into the Louboutin heels—four inches of sleek black leather that make my legs look endless. Standing at my full height now, I take a deep breath and reach for the doorknob.
But my hand freezes inches away.
For a moment, I think I might be sick.
Get it together.
This is what you've been preparing for.
I take another deep breath, straighten my spine, and open the door. The familiar click-click of my heels against the floor echoes as I make my way toward the grand staircase.
Byron stands at the bottom, checking his watch. His tuxedo is impeccable, not a thread out of place. When he hears me approaching, he looks up, his critical gaze scanning every inch of my appearance.
I feel Byron's gaze move over me as I descend the stairs. His expression shifts into a smile of approval.
"Perfect," he says softly. "You look exquisite, my dear."
The town car waits outside, engine purring. Byron holds the door for me, a gentlemanly gesture that feels both familiar and hollow. I slide in, careful not to wrinkle my dress.
As we pull away from the mansion, Byron reaches over and pats my hand. His touch is gentle, so different from his rage yesterday.
"Are you nervous?" he asks, his voice unexpectedly soft.
I keep my eyes forward. "No."
"It's alright if you are." His tone shifts, warmer now. "This is what we've worked toward, but I understand the weight of sitting across from him."
