Inside the idling car, Samir Powell tapped impatiently at his laptop keyboard, the sharp click-click-click filling the silence.

When Jackson Holt slid into the backseat, he pulled off his gold-rimmed glasses and flopped back lazily into the leather seat. Samir’s voice came out clipped and cold: "Next time you need something, drive yourself. You’re wasting my time."

"Hey, c’mon—" Jackson protested, one eyebrow shooting up. He dragged his words out as he glanced at the stone-faced man beside him.

"Like your time is that goddamn precious. Walk around with that stick up your ass 24/7, you gonna end up a human popsicle one of these days, you know that?"

Samir didn’t bother answering. He just kept working, fingers flying over his keys.

Jackson shrugged it off and turned his attention back to the sketch paper in his lap. Then he looked up at Samir’s driver, Zach.

"Hey Zach, didn’t your family just launch that small publishing house? I dropped ten grand today on a set of illustrations and handed out your business card."

Zach jerked the steering wheel so hard the car swerved a little. He flicked a surprised glance up at the rearview mirror. "Ten grand for illustrations? Mr. Holt, our company mostly uses digital art—we’ve got in-house illustrators for that. And besides, ten grand is… that’s way too much…"

A full year’s salary for one of their artists didn’t even hit that number.

Jackson cut him off quickly: "Zach, you’re missing the whole point! Digital can’t hold a candle to hand-drawn, right? It’s done deal. If she calls you, just let me know and I’ll handle all the negotiations."

Zach still looked stressed, and he checked the rearview mirror again. "Mr. Holt, I get what you’re saying, but we’re just a tiny shop. Hand-drawn is great, don’t get me wrong, but ten grand a set is really more than we can afford."

"Relax, I’m covering the cost—all you have to do is get the art through your door and…"

"Her?"

Samir stopped typing mid-tap. He glanced sideways, cutting Jackson off cold.

Jackson froze for a split second, then slapped his knee triumphantly and slung an arm around Samir’s shoulders.

"See that, Zach? Your boss gets it!"

Zach was still confused, couldn’t keep up with what was happening.

Samir’s voice dropped into a sharp, icy edge: "Get your arm off me."

Jackson yanked it back fast, eyes bright with excitement. "Sam, trust me—my gut’s never wrong about this. I’ve been watching her for days. Her clothes are nothing special, her figure’s just average, she’s got her face hidden behind a mask and glasses… but there’s something magnetic about her. Something mysterious. I know she’s a total stunner under all that!"

Samir’s eyebrows pulled in just a little. His voice softened, almost too quiet to hear: "You already spent money on her?"

Jackson waved the sketch paper right in Samir’s face. "Hell no! She hasn’t taken a penny, hasn’t even said yes yet. And c’mon—look at this. Could a con artist pull off work this good?"

"Playing hard to get," Samir muttered, frowning as he shoved the paper away from his laptop.

Jackson pulled the sketch back, shaking his head with a dramatic sigh. "You just don’t get it."

He went back to studying the drawing carefully, and his gaze landed on the tiny initials scrawled at the bottom.

"Z. P. Is that an address? A name?"

Suddenly, the paper was ripped right out of his hand.

Jackson stared at Samir, irritated. "I thought you weren’t interested?"

"Turn the car around. Go back," Samir’s voice went cold as ice.

The driver wrenched the wheel to U-turn immediately.

Jackson blinked, caught off guard. "Go back where? Grandma’s waiting for us for dinner, remember?"

The car pulled to a stop outside the old library. Samir’s tone was icy: "Pull over. Drop Mr. Holt off first, and have Mr. King come pick me up."

Before anyone could react, he stepped out, slammed the door hard behind him, and marched straight toward the library’s entrance with his jaw set.

His eyes were cold, but a sharp, bitter little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Nice work, Zara Powell. Two years gone, and you’re still playing the same old games. Flirting with every guy that crosses your path.

Samir searched the library, floor by floor.

On the fourth floor, he spotted her at a distant desk, completely absorbed in her drawing. She was dressed exactly how Jackson had described.

Just like Jackson said—even in the sweltering summer heat, she was wearing gloves and a hat indoors.

For a split second, something weird twisted in Samir’s chest. Then it was gone, swallowed up by a surge of hot, unnameable anger.

He walked straight up to her and wrenched her away from her sketchbook.

Zara Powell was caught completely off guard. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she forced herself to stay silent.

She looked up at the man towering over her.

Memories of that year—every day of agony, every minute of slow, biting torment—came flooding back, crashing into her all at once.

Fear swam in her eyes. Her whole body trembled. Her pale lips moved, but no sound came out.

Samir’s gaze darkened, something wild and unhinged curling in his chest. How could this timid, lifeless ghost possibly be the sharp, fiery, eloquent Zara Powell he once knew?

He let go of her shoulder and ripped her mask and glasses off her face.

That face—thin almost to the point of distortion—but every line, every feature confirmed it: this was really the once proud eldest daughter of the Powell family.

Zara’s face went bone white. She fumbled for her phone with shaking hands and dialed, her voice barely a croak: "M-Mr. King… there’s someone causing trouble here."

Samir snatched the phone right out of her grip and dragged her out of the library by her arm.

By the time he pulled her through the doors, the manager was already hurrying over.

When he saw who it was, his face went white. He rushed straight toward them.

Zara clung to him like he was her last lifeline, her voice shaking so bad it barely came out: "Mr. King, I don’t know him, I swear… I really don’t know him."

Mr. King stepped forward and bowed respectfully. "Mr. Powell. What brings you here today?"

Samir glanced at him, cold and indifferent, and dragged Zara straight past him into the waiting elevator.

Zara scrabbled desperately to get free, but the elevator doors slid shut before she could escape.

Her hands and feet shook so bad she could barely fumble to put her mask and glasses back on. She kept muttering over and over: "I’m not her… you got the wrong person… I’m really not her…"

Samir reached out, knocked her mask clattering to the floor, and wrenched her closer before yanking her glove off her hand.

"You don’t know me? You really don’t know me? Then what’s this?"

Zara suddenly screamed: "NO!"

But it was too late. Her glove fell away, revealing a pale hand where the ring finger was gone.

For a moment, the whole world went dead silent. The elevator doors dinged open behind them, but neither of them moved.

It felt like an eternity before Samir’s trembling voice finally cut through the quiet: "Your finger. What happened?"

Zara scrambled back, terrified, until she hit the far corner of the elevator. She stared at him like he was a ghost come back to haunt her.

Samir forced his feet to move, then crouched down in front of her, his breath coming hard and fast: "Zara. Your finger. Where is it?"

Zara Powell stared blankly at him, a faint smile tugging at her lips while her eyes brimmed with tears. Not a single one fell.

Finally, she spoke softly, calm as still water. "I was just careless."

Samir Powell laid a trembling hand on her shoulder. "Tell me. Who did this to you?"

Zara shook her head. This man—once the object of her wildest love and deepest hatred—had left her with nothing but bone-deep fear and the urge to run, after two years apart.

She smiled again and repeated, "No one did this. It was just me."

Samir’s eyes flushed pink, his gaze pinning hers in place. After a long beat of silence, he stood, lifted her clean off her feet, and carried her out without another word.

Zara didn’t struggle. She just stared up at him, terror sharp and hot in her bones.

Her eyes screamed the plea clear as day: Samir, please. Let me go.

Even when he settled her into the car, she said nothing. She shook uncontrollably, but didn’t make a sound.

It was useless. If he wouldn’t let her go, she couldn’t run. Not now. Not ever.

Samir clamped a firm hand on her shoulder, forcing her to face him, and ground out through gritted teeth, "I asked you who did this."

Zara’s gaze went vacant as she answered, "I’m not lying to you. It was me."

Fury and frustration coiled tight in his chest, and he punched the passenger seat hard enough to rattle the frame. His heart was being ripped clean in two, but he still forced the harsh words out.

"Don’t think this little act is gonna make me pity you and let you walk away."

Zara said nothing. She just inched as far away from him as she could, pressing her back to the window, and fought to rein in her trembles and her fear—hide them from him, like she’d learned to do.

Samir glared daggers at her. "Why’d you provoke James?"

Zara turned to him slowly, pure confusion clouding her eyes. "I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that."

Her gaze stayed calm, dead still, completely empty of any emotion. She looked at him like he was just some random stranger—no hate, no resentment, no anger. Nothing at all.

To Samir, that blankness was more unsettling than any scream could have been.

"James Dawson. Stop playing dumb. You went to North Haven’s fancy elite library to meet a guy, didn’t you?"

He’d goaded her on purpose, suddenly desperate to see some kind of reaction out of her. Anything but this.

Zara thought for a second, then shook her head. "I don’t know who that is."

She was like a broken robot, spitting out mechanical answers one after another.

Irritation gnawed at him until he couldn’t take it anymore. He wrenched her close, leaning in, and crushed his mouth to hers rough and hard.

Zara turned her head a little, but when his lips pressed harder, she stopped fighting.

Her expression didn’t change. She just stared up at him, like she wasn’t even the one being kissed against her will.

Her lips were ice cold. Up this close, he could see how deathly pale her face was—like a doll carved to look human, nothing more.

Samir pulled away and breathed her name, uncertain, "Zara?"

When he called her, she just looked up, waiting for him to say more.

In that second, it hit him like a punch to the chest: the Zara he’d known two years ago was gone.

It was like something he’d held so easy in his palm had just slipped away, leaving him with a cold, unfamiliar fear he’d never felt before.

He looked forward to the driver, jaw tight. "Take us to the estate. Let’s see how long you can keep this act up."

Zara kept her head down, quiet as a shadow. She didn’t even react when they pulled up the long driveway to the house.

"Get out. Follow me inside," Samir ordered, voice ice cold.

The quiet woman lifted her head, glanced at the guards posted by the gate, and asked soft as a breath, "Can I… not go in?"

Samir laughed, sharp and mocking. Of course she wasn’t as numb as she was pretending to be.

He stepped out of the car, and left a cold line hanging in the air behind him: "You know better than that. When you’re in my hands, you don’t get a choice."

Zara followed him into the Powell family estate.

It was the matriarch’s birthday party, the house packed full of guests. That included Ailani Rivera and the rest of her family—Samir’s fiancée and her people.

With every step she took, the urge to turn and run got stronger. Memories of the last year of torment, all at this man’s hand, played vivid and sharp in her head.

She wanted to run, but she didn’t dare.

A few guests drifted over, cornering Samir for small talk.

Zara’s trembling hand slipped into her pocket, pulled out a face mask and sunglasses, and pulled them on.

Everyone else was dressed to the nines, decked out in elegant Victorian formal wear, and it felt like every eye in the room had locked onto her, watching her every move, curious and judgmental.

Zara ducked her head lower. She felt like a mouse dragged out of its hole and thrown into the middle of a room full of staring cats.

Yeah. A mouse. That’s what she was. A killer. Acquitted, but infamous all across North Haven.

A hand reached out and stopped her before she could adjust her mask. Samir’s voice was flat, unfeeling. "You can’t wear that."

Zara silently tucked the mask back into her pocket. When she crossed the threshold into the main hall, the noise swelled, and the ringing in her ears got louder, sharp enough to make her teeth ache.

It was a warning sign. Zara clasped her hands tight together, cold sweat beading at her hairline.

Months of severe nervous breakdown and depression had left her terrified of noise, terrified of crowds, even terrified of bright lights. She couldn’t handle any kind of stimulation anymore.

After she got out of the psych ward, she’d lived alone in the dark, never gone anywhere near an event this big, this loud.

Probably leaving her behind on purpose, Samir was quickly surrounded by a group of men talking business, and they headed deeper into the house.

Now the CEO of Powell Enterprises, holding the whole group in the palm of his hand, of course he was the center of attention at this big party.

Zara edged along the wall, head down. All she could see was pairs of shoes—oxford leather and stiletto heels—and the suffocating panic coiled tighter and tighter in her chest.

She sped up her steps, desperate to find a quiet corner where she could melt into the wall, unseen, unnoticed.

But a pair of champagne-colored high heels stopped dead right in front of her. She stepped quick to the side to get around them.

The heels moved with her, blocking her path again.

After the fourth time, Zara lifted her head, gasping for air that wouldn’t come.

The woman blocking her way looked like she’d just won the lottery. Her voice went up sharp, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear: "Look, look! Isn’t this Zara Powell, North Haven’s very own? And what’s she wearing…"

She clicked her tongue all exaggerated, raising her voice even more to make sure no one missed it. "I heard Miss Powell went abroad to study for two years. Is this the latest fashion trend over there?"

Zara let out a ragged, wheezing sound of distress. When every eye in the room swung to her, her face went bone white, and big fat beads of sweat rolled down her neck.

The ringing in her ears turned piercing. Her brain felt like it was about to explode. She turned to run, but the woman stepped forward, her heel hooking the toe of Zara’s shoe.

Zara tripped, stumbling forward, and the woman faked a gasp of surprise, tossing the glass of mulled wine she was holding right all over Zara’s clothes.

Crimson liquid trickled down Zara Powell’s neck, soaking slow into the collar of her clothes.

That icy chill, tangled up in crippling fear, sent full-body shivers racing down her spine.

But she didn’t have time to fall apart. All she wanted was to get out. Her mind was already stretched thin, ready to snap.

Sharp whispers bit at her from every direction.

"Is that really Zara Powell from two years ago? Back then, her paintings went for half a million bucks easy."

"Unreal. One look and you’d think she’s some homeless beggar who snuck in, hahaha."

"Doesn’t matter how talented she was. She’s always been rotten goods. A cold-blooded killer like her doesn’t belong anywhere decent."

"And Samir only dragged her here to humiliate her, right? Look over there—he’s watching the whole show unfold."

Zara clutched her head in agony, shoving through the crowd desperate to leave.

But Samir’s cold indifference had already set the tone. Everywhere she turned, people stepped right in her way on purpose.

Jeers and insults bounced off the walls around her, and Zara’s sanity was already teetering on the edge of collapse.

*SLAP!*

A rough hand wrenched her hair back, and a second later, a palm cracked hard across her face.

Her vision and hearing blurred to static. Through the fog, she could just make out the furious woman who’d hit her—Cataleya Rivera, Ailani’s mother.

"You heartless monster! My son’s body isn’t even cold, and you have the nerve to show your face around here!"

The crowd, hungry for a spectacle, pointed and whispered their disdain.

Samir sprawled on a couch nearby, long legs crossed, watching Zara crumple to the floor. A cigarette burned between his fingers, its tip glowing faint crimson, and his dark giveaways revealed nothing—no anger, no pity, nothing at all.

Zara struggled and hauled herself to her feet. She didn’t bother with explanations, just babbled a hurried apology: "I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I’ll leave."

Cataleya’s eyes turned blood red. She kicked off her high heel and launched herself at Zara.

"See! You admit it! You killed my son on purpose! I swear to God, I’ll kill you today!"

She threw herself at Zara, scratching and punching with wild abandon.

Zara curled into a tight ball, wrapping her arms around her head. For a second, she was right back in that dark room a year ago, learning to take the blows from the orderlies and the patients. It was just the same old routine.

As fists rained down on her, a soft, smooth voice cut through the chaos: "Mom, that’s enough."

The second the sound hit her ears, Zara’s fists clenched for half a heartbeat before she went limp again, her face slipping back into that empty, lifeless mask.

Ailani Rivera glided in, all grace and poise. Her pale yellow Victorian dress shimmered under the chandelier light, like she was glowing from within.

She tugged Cataleya off Zara and chided gently: "Mom, this isn’t the place for a scene. Samir brought Zara here as a guest, and the court already ruled on what happened. We shouldn’t bring it up again."

Reluctantly, Cataleya shot a death glare at Zara, who was already trying to stand again. She huffed, catching her breath: "Ailani, you’re too nice to this wicked bitch. She needs to be put in her place!"

Ailani softy rebuked her again: "That’s enough. It’s Thanksgiving, we have guests everywhere. You’re making Samir look bad."

With that, she stepped toward Zara and slipped her arm through Zara’s: "Miss Powell, let me take you to change before you catch a cold from that wet dress."

Zara tried to jerk away, but when she caught Samir’s blank, indifferent gaze, she lowered her head and followed Ailani down the hall to a private room.

Once the bedroom door clicked shut, Ailani pulled a dress from the wardrobe and tossed it right on the floor at Zara’s feet. "Change into this."

When Zara bent to pick it up, Ailani’s stiletto slammed down hard on the back of her hand.

Zara looked up at her, her face calm as still water.

Ailani sneered: "Recognize this room?"

Zara said nothing. That blank, impassive expression only stoked Ailani’s jealousy hotter.

"This is Samir’s room. You used to live here, didn’t you? But now it’s mine. I’m the one who stays here with him. How dare you even set foot in here, you dirty street rat?"

Zara’s voice was soft, steady: "Do you have a long-sleeve shirt? I’m not comfortable in dresses."

Ailani’s brow furrowed so sharp it looked like it would crack. She dragged her heel off Zara’s hand: "Did you even hear a word I just said to you?"

Zara stood up, brushed the lint from her hand onto her stained dress, and nodded: "I heard you."

Ailani stormed back to the closet, yanked out a plain dark shirt, and stomped it into the carpet with her heel over and over.

She taunted, holding it out like garbage: "Fine. Wear this instead."

Zara walked over calmly, picked the shirt up off the floor, and turned her back to Ailani to change.

Ailani’s face twisted with disbelief. What the hell was this? Zara never would have taken this humiliation lying down before, right?

She ground her teeth and hissed low: "You’re just trying to win Samir’s sympathy, aren’t you? Pretty clever tactic, Zara. But let me save you the trouble—it’s never going to work."

Finished changing, Zara held her wine-stained old sweater and turned back around, still calm as anything: "Miss Rivera, may I leave now?"

This couldn’t be Zara.

Had that rotten whore sent a lookalike to sneak in here instead?

Furious, Ailani yanked hard on Zara’s collar, glaring daggers into her face: "Who are you really?"

Zara’s voice came out almost mechanical: "Miss Rivera, you know me. I’m Zara Powell."

"Impossible! You lying bitch! Tell me where the real Zara Powell is!" Ailani seethed, raising her hand to slap Zara again.

But Zara caught her wrist mid-swing.

She held Ailani’s gaze and said, flat and steady: "You can’t hit me." Anyone else could. But not you, Ailani. And definitely not Samir.

Ailani gritted her teeth. This bitch is just putting on an act!

She tried to yank her wrist free, but for all Zara’s calm, her grip was iron-tight. She couldn’t move an inch.

The door clicked open. The familiar thud of confident footsteps echoed across the hardwood.

Ailani gasped and threw herself backward dramatically, like Zara had pushed her.

Samir crossed the room in two quick strides and caught her, steadying her: "Are you alright?"

Ailani nodded, biting her lip, tears welling up in her big brown eyes.

Samir’s gaze snapped to the still, quiet Zara standing by the wardrobe. "Did you push her, Zara?"

In that split second, Zara remembered his words from two years ago, sharp as a knife to the chest: "Just because Ailani loves me, you tried to hurt her brother?"

Her eyes flickered, so fast no one could have noticed, before she answered: "I’m sorry. It was my fault."

Samir’s jaw tightened. He closed the distance between them, until he was so close Zara could smell his cigarette smoke: "Explain it to me. Tell me it wasn’t you."

Zara stood her ground, and shook her head just barely: "I shouldn’t have pushed her. I’m sorry."