It had been a topic of focus between my therapist and me before I moved out of state and found out that meant she could no longer see me. Abandonment wounds, she’s called them. Yet, no amount of psychological terminology or self-reflection managed to fix it.
Yup, we can add that to the list of shitty things in the life of Zara Cruz.
Before I got too deep into my spiral, the bar appears on the corner, with black iron signage and a gold cage emblem. Without thinking, I pushed the door open and dragged my suitcase inside.
A few heads turned as I entered, their glances like needles in my skin. A girl with a suitcase and a haunted expression probably doesn’t blend in with the after-work crowd in their blazers and heels.
Trying to hide, I found a stool at the far end of the bar, near the corner, where the shadows are thicker. I hoisted the suitcase next to me and let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding just as the bartender appeared from lining the shelves with bottles I couldn’t even afford to name. She’s maybe thirty, with short blonde hair and a nose ring. “Rough day?”
I laughed bitterly. “Rough life.”
She didn’t push. Just nodded before speaking. “What can I get for you?”
“I’ll take a spicy margarita,” I said. “But make it the cheap version, if you have one.”
She smiled, small and knowing. “I’ll take care of you.”
And when she walked away to make my drink, I was left alone with my thoughts.
Around me, the bar hummed with low conversation and clinking glasses, and I’m stuck wondering how I got here. How I managed to lose everything.
No savings. No security. No one who loves me.
I was so fucked.
Almost as a miracle, the margarita appeared in front of me, pale yellow with a single slice of jalapeno floating on top. The first sip wass tart and strong, burning down my throat in a way that almost feels good.
Unfortunately, it didn’t last long before I was back in my head, thoughts spiraling endlessly. I didn’t know what came next. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have a safety net. All I had was this drink, this stool, and the knowledge that somewhere in this city, there are people who wake up every morning feeling wanted.
And I’m not one of them.
I took another sip and let the burn settle into my stomach. The night stretched ahead like a dark road with no headlights. And I’d just have to keep walking.
The bartender glanced my way again, as if checking to make sure I was still breathing, and all I could muster is a weak smile.
I’m fine.
Well, I’m not really fine.
But I’m still here, for whatever that’s worth.
Chapter Two
Lorenzo
The door to my office flew open without a knock.
I don’t even need to look up to know who it was. I knew from the scent of his cologne and the way the weight of his presence filled the room like smoke. My father had never learned to enter a space without announcing his dominion over it.
“Lorenzo,” he said in greeting.
I finished signing the delivery invoice, setting down my pen as I leaned back in my chair.
He stood in the doorway, immaculate in a charcoal suit, his silver hair swept back, his jaw locked in that familiar mask of stern authority.
“Father,” I kept my voice flat. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
The door closed behind him—a deliberate motion, one that told me this wasn’t a casual visit.
