Bride. Such a harmless word for something that feels increasingly like a weapon.
He goes on talking. Clauses. Liability. Public timing. Press management. All practical. All necessary.
And all I can think is that somewhere on this floor, Zatanna is probably still at her desk, still answering those women, still trying to solve me.
If I were a better man, I’d let her. If I were a smarter one, I’d fire her.
Instead, I pour a third drink while the attorney drones on about timelines and signatures and witnesses, and I stare at the city until his voice becomes background noise.
I know I’m running out of time. I know exactly what’s at stake.
But Zatanna has made every match impossible.
And if I don’t get her out of my head soon, she’s going to make one more thing impossible too:
Surviving this with any part of me still intact.
By the time I step out of my office, the floor has thinned to that late-evening hush corporate spaces get when ambition has gone home and only obligation remains.
I’m dressed for the date.
Dark suit. Fresh shirt. Cufflinks my grandfather used to wear when he wanted a room to remember his name after he left it. I know exactly how I look because I made sure of it. Controlled. Untouchable
It feels like armor. Useless armor but armor all the same.
Zatanna is at her desk with her screen glowing in front of her and three open windows on it. Calendar. Messages. A restaurant confirmation. She hears me before she looks up. Of course she does.
When she finally does look at me, it’s only for a second.
But that second tells me everything.
She’s upset.
Not theatrically. Not enough that anyone else would clock it. She’s too proud for that. Too good at pretending to be busy, to be competent, to be professional. But I see the slight tightening around her mouth, the way she straightens a fraction too much,the way her fingers pause over the keyboard before starting again.
She’s doing what I did in the hallway after the suite. And she’s better at hiding it than she should be.
“Your car is downstairs,” she says, voice even. “Adriana confirmed again. No dietary restrictions. She asked whether you prefer white or red wine, and I told her you can probably survive either.”
I stop by her desk. “Very reassuring.”
She keeps her eyes on the screen. “I do what I can.”
I should leave it there. Thank her, maybe. Walk away. Go be the man I need to be for the next two hours.
Instead, I keep looking at her.
At the soft line of her neck where her hair falls back from it. At the blouse she wore because it was office-appropriate and therefore had no business making me imagine my hands on the buttons. At the quiet determination in her face while she arranges my future like she isn’t bleeding a little over every piece of it.
And suddenly the office drops away.
Not completely. Just enough for a vision to hit me hard and whole.
Her in black silk and diamonds. Her at my side at the head of a table built for kings. Her hand resting on the arm of my chair like it belongs there. Men twice her age lowering their eyes when she speaks because she is mine and more dangerous for being soft. Zatanna in my home, in my bed, in my name.
My queen.
The thought is so immediate and so absolute it nearly knocks the air out of me. I blink once and the office comes back into focus.
