ZLA: Just call your hotel and ask them to let me into your room. I’ll get ready for you.
Fuck.
I swallow, as an image of a naked Zlata in my bed covered with red rose petals, flashes in my head.
FAB: Now, I won’t focus at all.
ZLA: Screw focus, Fabio, you won it all. Whatever you say, they’ll write celebratory articles, praising you in every way. No matter what you say.
Fair point.
FAB: Hotel, Bellavard.
FAB: I’ll call the reception desk to let you into my room.
FAB: I’ll be there after lunch. I think.
I hit send before I can overthink it and tuck my phone away before she sends something distracting again. I have no idea what I’ll tell her when I see her. I haven’t had either the time or the energy to figure out who screwed up. I have no idea if I’m pissed or thrilled that she showed up here without warning.
I’m still pissed at her dumping me, but the hurt is softened by the fact that, if she hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t be giving interviews over the shiny glass trophy I dreamed of as a kid.
So, no, I still haven’t got a clue what I’ll say to her once I see her. But talking won’t be the first thing I do to her.
Chapter 20
The Final Crossing
ZLATA
I'm sitting at the edge of his bed, watching myself in the mirror.Hisbed.Hisroom. The receptionist had given me a knowing smile — the kind shared between women who understand exactly what's happening — before pressing the keycard into my palm.
And now I'm here. Waiting.
My fingers twist in my lap. I still don't know what I'll say to him. He might still be angry. The silence between us these past weeks has had teeth. But I've always been better atshowingthan telling, and if I can just get him close enough to remember — tofeel— why he fell for me in the first place, the words can wait. The words can wait a long, long time.
He just won the World Cup.
The pride that surges through me is almost violent in its intensity. Out of everyone in the finish, out of every person who wanted a piece of him tonight, he choseme. Textedme. Sentmethe room number.
But the warmth pooling low in my belly isn't just pride anymore.
He's the champion. The best in the world, at least for tonight — and tonight, he's all mine.
I cross my legs slowly and watch myself smile in the mirror. I uncap my lipstick — a deep, bruised red, the kind that leaves a mark — and lean toward the mirror. Slow, deliberate strokes. I line my eyes darker than usual, smokier, until the woman looking back at me barely resembles the one who drove here with her heart in her throat.
Good.
Then I stand, unbutton my jeans, and pull them down.
My clothes pool at my feet, and I step over them without looking down, keeping my eyes on the mirror. Because what's reflected there deserves attention.
The lingerie is black lace — the kind I spent forty minutes choosing in a boutique I'd walked past three times before going in. A balconette bra that lifts and frames without hiding, the lace so delicate it's nearly transparent, tiny satin ribbon threaded through the underwire. The matching high-waist briefs sit just below my navel, the lace overlay grazing the tops of my thighs, covering everything and concealing nothing. Thigh-highs, self-supporting, with a wide band of lace at the top that leaves a strip of bare skin. No garter belt — I'd decidedagainst it. Too complicated to remove. Too much like I wastrying.
This is meant to look effortless.
I turn slightly. The back of the bra is a single satin clasp. Easy. Intentionally easy.
Now. The pose.
