But it wasn’t.
Lorenzo didn’t text, didn’t call, didn’t do anything except exist somewhere in the city, running his empire, while I sat here pretending to care about quarterly projections and social media engagement rates.
By lunchtime, I’d gotten exactly nothing done.
Pushing my salad around the container, my mind drifted back to the text I’d received last night.
Jamie
Hey Zara, I saw on Facebook that you and Nathan split. That sucks. I know we haven’t talked in a while, but I’d love to take you out for drinks if you’re up for it. No pressure. Just thought you could use a friendly face in the city. Let me know.
I’d stared at that message for ten minutes.
Jamie and I, along with my ex, had all grown up together in the same town until he got a full-ride scholarship to NYU. We’d flirted a few times, although it had never been anything serious. He was sweet, harmless, the kind of guy who brought donuts on Fridays and remembered everyone’s coffee order. He always wore these scuffed-up Vans covered in ridiculous doodles—tiny planets and music notes he’d drawn himself when he was bored in class. The complete opposite of Lorenzo.
But… maybe that is what I needed.
Me
Sure. Tonight works. Send me the details.
He responded immediately with a time and a place.
Jaime
Koto, a little sushi restaurant and bar in SoHo. Eight o’clock.
My stomach twisted in anticipation.
Part of me knew this was stupid. I was married. Technically, legally. But what did a paper contract mean when the man I’d signed it with barely spoke to me, barely looked at me, and treated me like a possession he’d acquired rather than a person he’d married?
It was all fake.
So why did my chest ache when I thought of him? Why did I replay every second of our fight—the way his jaw set, the way his eyes went dark when I told him to leave—over and over until I wanted to scream?
Fuck it.
I didn’t owe anyone anything.
I pulled up Jamie’s text again and typed a quick reply.
Me
Looking forward to it.
Then I closed my eyes and tried to forget the weight of Lorenzo’s gaze on my skin.
The afternoon crawled by.
The agreement was supposed to fix everything—keep his family away, make sure I got a nice bed to sleep in and money for my future, if I lasted a year. If left too soon, I lost it all. If I broke the rules—no scandals, no other relationships, always available when he needed to parade me around—I could end up worse off than before.
But then he’d let his father talk to me like I was trash.
Then he’d come home and expect me to fall into his arms as if nothing had happened.
No, I wasn’t going to feel guilty about this. Lorenzo had made his choices. He wanted a wife who would smile, nod, and play nice with his awful family. He wanted someone who would be grateful for his money, his penthouse, and his cold, empty attention.
That’s what I agreed to.
