A line digs between her brows, revealing she doesn’t like that. “It’s her right to know.”
I close my eyes for a moment. “I know. But that man is stubborn.”
“Hmm, must run in the family.”
I chuckle, feeling more at ease. Her presence is the panacea for all my ailments.
She looks down, avoiding my gaze. “Now I feel bad.”
“Want to make it up to me?” I ask, only half joking.
She lifts an earnest brow at me, making me smile even wider. “You bought lingerie to torment me with.”
“Fine.”
I don’t know if it’s meant to distract me or help me process the impending loss, but she adds, “There are these see-through, leaving-nothing-to-the-imagination pieces. I was hell-bent on coming home, wearing one, and waiting for you only to leave you high and dry.”
“So cruel.”
“Effective.”
I cup the back of her head, brushing my nose against hers. “You make everything better, Zara. Thank you for finding your way back to me.”
She narrows her eyes at me, and I realize my slip. The lump in my throat threatens to choke me.
“I’m not her, Vian.”
“No, you’re not.” It’s not a lie. Her essence is the same, but she has changed, and so have I, yet our connection survived intact. Nothing could break our bond. Some connections run deeper, surpass time, and defy distance.
I am burning to reveal it’s her and that I’ve always been solely hers.
Her expression softens. “You’re hurting.”
“I’ve been hurting for a long time. So don’t fucking leave me.”
I slam my mouth onto hers, wanting to be close to paradise and as far away from the reminder of hell as possible. I am a man rising from the ashes to love her.
I don’t use her to distract myself from my troubles. I simply need her.
Need her like she’s a breath of fresh air, filling my lungs.
Need her like she’s life’s gift after enduring thousands of years of death.
She kisses me back with the same ardor. Her subconscious knows she’s mine, she just hasn’t caught up. Yet.
In the penthouse, she drags me toward the kitchen and pushes me onto a barstool at the marble island. She opens the fridge and takes out the dinner Chef prepared.
As she heats the meal, it feels like domestic bliss. I imagine coming home every night to my wife, our children running around. A dream I will do my best to fulfill or die trying. There is no in-between.
As she plates the food, I open a bottle of wine and pour two glasses.
“Who will take his place?” she asks, her brain switching to business mode.
I take it as a sign that she cares, aware of how volatile alliances are. That’s one reason she married me—to add more protection in case one fails.
“I don’t trust anyone else.”
She nods and takes a few forkfuls of food, seeming in deep thought. “What if I take his place?”
