Samir Powell’s face darkened with rage, his fingers digging into Zara Powell’s shoulders as he wrenched her around to face his icy, piercing glare. "You’ve got some real nerve, Zara. Since you love confessing so damn much, I’ll make damn sure you’ve got plenty to confess today."

With that, he wrenched her arm and dragged her roughly out the door.

Ailani Rivera’s eyes flashed with worry, and she hurried after them, pleading. "Samir, please, don’t do this. Miss Powell didn’t mean any harm. I’m really fine, you don’t have to do this for me."

Samir didn’t even hear her. Blinded by white-hot rage, he dragged Zara straight into the packed hall full of party guests.

Up on the stage, the host was in the middle of his speech for the Thanksgiving celebration.

Samir stormed right up, snatched the microphone out of his hand, and stared him down with a look that could freeze hell. "Move."

The host froze for a second, caught off guard, then quickly recovered and plastered on a smile for the crowd. "Let’s welcome Mr. Powell to say a few words!"

Shrinking under Samir’s unblinking, brutal glare, the host hurried off the stage immediately.

Samir hauled Zara to center stage.

Staring out at the sea of hundreds of staring faces, Zara dropped her head, breathing so fast her chest heaved, her face drained of every last drop of color.

She trembled, repeating the same lie over and over in her head to calm down: It’s okay, it’s okay, none of this is real, it’s all just an illusion.

Samir jammed the microphone right in front of her mouth, his voice cold as a grave. "Did you kill Watson Rivera?"

Zara whispered, "Yes."

Her voice was barely louder than a breath, but it boomed and echoed all through the vast hall.

As her amplified confession hung in the air, Zara’s heart lurched and quaked.

Samir ground his teeth, sneering. "Excellent. Did you do it on purpose?"

Zara’s nails dug so deep into her palms they drew blood. She kept her head bowed, and said nothing.

Hundreds of eyes burned into her back.

Samir pressed harder, spitting the words out. "Answer me—was it intentional, or self-defense?"

Her clenched hands shook. Finally, she forced the words out. "It was intentional."

"What do you mean by intentional?"

"I intentionally killed Watson Rivera."

The admission sent a shockwave through the crowd, and everyone gasped.

Chaos erupted instantly: people pulled out their phones to snap photos, shouted in shock, and half-assedly tried to hold back Cataleya Rivera, who was frothing at the mouth to get at Zara.

Samir slammed his fist down so hard on the podium the whole thing shook.

He grabbed Zara’s jaw in his bloodstained hand, snarl ing. "Then why the hell did the court rule otherwise?"

Zara lifted her head slowly to look at him, and his sharply handsome face filled her entire vision.

She thought, out of nowhere: if the baby I carried two years ago had been born, he’d be over a year old now. He’d probably look just like Samir.

Her empty, hollow gaze dropped again. A faint, bitter smile tugged at her lips. "Because I bribed my defense lawyer."

Samir’s grip on her jaw tightened so hard she thought he’d crush her bones. "How did you bribe him?"

Zara spoke without a single trace of emotion, like she was recounting some boring story that had nothing to do with her.

"I slept with him, and had his child."

*Crack.*

Her head slammed into the concrete wall behind her. Samir pinned her shoulder to it with one hand, wrapped the other around her throat, and squeezed.

His jaw muscles twitched, his eyes were bloodshot, and his voice seethed with unbridled fury. "How dare you! How fucking dare you!"

As the oxygen burned out of her lungs, Zara didn’t even struggle. She just stood there, letting him squeeze harder and harder.

Slowly, everything in front of her blurred. When her body went limp and started to fall, a strong arm caught her mid-collapse.

She hung suspended for a second, the roar of the crowd around her swelling, then fading to dead silence as everything went black.

When the pressure on her throat loosened, she dragged air back into her lungs bit by bit, and consciousness slowly crept back.

She forced her eyes open, and through the fuzzy blur she saw the back of a car seat in front of her. She was in a car.

A strange, hollow feeling washed over her—like she’d died, and just dragged herself tragically back to life.

For the last two years, this is how she felt almost every time she woke up.

Samir, half-unhinged with rage, saw she was awake and wrenched her upright, forcing her to face him.

He fisted a hand in her hair, staring so hard his eyes looked like they’d burn right through her. "Where’s the kid? Where is it?!"

Zara shook her head, slow and heavy. "It’s gone."

Samir’s dark eyes flickered. "You were never pregnant, were you? You lied to me?"

"I miscarried while I was in the psychiatric hospital," Zara answered softly.

It hit him like a needle to the heart, but that flash of pain was instantly swallowed whole by jealousy and hatred.

He shoved Zara away, hard, so that her head cracked against the car window. He glared straight ahead. "Uncle Finn, find the lawyer that defended her back then—I want him to see exactly how he…"

"He’s already gone," Zara cut him off. For the first time all night, something other than blank calm showed on her face.

A tiny smile touched her lips, and it hid all her despair, all her guilt, all her pain right in that faint curve.

Samir’s body went rigid. Zara spoke softly, gently. "He took my case, went against the law, faced all the public outrage, became a target. So he died." Public opinion is an invisible killer.

A weird, unnameable emotion twisted in his chest, and for a minute, he couldn’t speak.

Zara shifted a little, and lifted her eyes to his, pleading. "Mr. Powell, please just let me go. I have nothing left. The Powell family has nothing left."

Even sitting right beside him, not ten inches apart, it felt like there was an uncrossable chasm yawning between them.

For the rest of their lives, that chasm would never be closed.

Samir suddenly leaned in close, so close his cold breath fanned her face. His icy eyes looked like they could see straight into her soul.

"Let you go? Don’t even waste your breath thinking about it."

Zara’s lips moved, but no sound came out.

It was only when she noticed they were driving down a road she didn’t recognize that she spoke again. "I need to get back to work. Please let me out."

Her detached, polite tone stung him like a slap. Every word was a fresh jab to the chest.

His voice was ice. "Come home with me. You don’t need to go to work today."

Zara hesitated, then had to remind him. "Mr. Powell, I think you’ve had too much to drink. I have my own place. If my job bothers you that much, I’ll quit and leave."

Samir’s face was grim as stone. "Where do you live? Uncle Finn will drive you."

Zara’s heart trembled, and the words slipped out before she could stop them. "Thank you, but I can get back on my own."

Samir glared at her, intense and unblinking. "Zara, what are you trying to say here? Why do you have to act like you’re this wronged little victim?"

"Mr. Powell, you misunderstood. Your time is valuable, I can handle it on my own."

Samir finally snapped, unable to hold back his frustration any longer. "Get the fuck out!"

Uncle Finn hit the brakes fast. Zara immediately wrenched the door open and got out, then flagged down a taxi to get as far away as she could.

Back inside the car, Samir’s gaze was murderous as he gave a cold, sharp order. "Follow her."

The second Zara Powell slid into the back of the taxi, she spotted it— a car hanging right on their tail.

Even after the taxi turned onto a quiet back road with barely any traffic, that car didn’t fall back. Worry crept into her voice when she finally leaned forward, "Driver, can you speed up a little?"

The driver glanced at the flashy Mercedes in his rearview, then back at Zara, his brow furrowing with concern, "That car following you, miss?"

Zara bit her lip and stared at her lap, "No."

She didn’t even bother glancing over her shoulder to check.

The driver didn’t push. He just shook his head with a dry huff, "C'mon miss, look at this beat-up cab I’m driving, then look at that car behind us. I’d love to floor it, but this old thing just can’t pull it off."

He chuckled lightly, but the laugh died when he caught how tight her jaw was set. After that, he just drove in silence.

The taxi pulled up to a run-down old apartment building. Zara scrambled out and bolted straight into the complex.

Once she rounded a corner and was sure the tail was gone, she pressed her back to the drab, peeling brick, gasping for deep, shaky breaths.

She called her manager at the library to take the afternoon off, climbed the creaky stairs to the fourth floor, and jammed her key into the lock of her tiny rental.

*CRASH!*

The sound of porcelain shattering made her heart lurch into her throat. She dropped everything and sprinted straight for the kitchen.

Her mom, Jennifer Price, was leaning against the sink, a fork clutched in one hand, breathing hard like she’d run a mile.

Zara hurried to help her to the lumpy worn couch in the living room, rubbing her back to help her catch her breath.

"Mom, didn’t I tell you not to cook by yourself? You can just order in with the number I gave you," Zara said.

When Jennifer finally got her breath back, guilt softened her voice, "There were leftovers. I didn’t see the point in wasting money. Besides, takeout’s not that good for you anyway."

Zara sat down beside her, voice soft and steady, "I make enough money. The job Dr. Spencer got me is easy, and it pays great. Takeout doesn’t break the bank, I promise."

A pale, thin hand settled over Zara’s. Jennifer sighed, "Zara, baby… your mom’s just been such a weight on you, hasn’t she?"

"Don’t say that. I’ll cook, just sit here and rest, okay?" Zara slipped her hand out of her mom’s and headed back to the kitchen.

As she chopped vegetables, a sudden wave of dizziness washed over her. The knife slipped, nicking the tip of her finger deep.

She gasped, yanking her hand back and holding it under cold running water before wrapping it in a paper towel and going right back to chopping.

By the time dinner was on the table, she spotted a stack of vitamin boxes sitting by her mom’s plate. Her brow furrowed, "Mom, where’d these come from?"

Jennifer paused mid-bite with her fork, like she’d forgotten all about them, "Oh! Ethan dropped those off earlier. He even tried to give me a debit card, but I wouldn’t take it."

Zara took a bite of rice, chewed, and said after a minute, "I told you not to take anything from Dr. Spencer. These vitamins aren’t cheap, and he’s already done so much for us."

Jennifer set her fork down and scooted closer to Zara on the couch they used as a dining bench, "Zara, Ethan’s such a good man. You know he likes you, right?"

A heavy weight settled in Zara’s chest. She kept her eyes on her plate and kept eating, "I know. But I’m not good enough for him."

"What do you mean, not good enough?"

Indignation heated Jennifer’s voice, "You used to sell your paintings for thousands! You were the talented Powell girl, everyone in Brooklyn knew your name! That heartless bastard had every girl throwing herself at him, and he still picked you—"

"Don’t mention him!" Zara cut in sharply, her whole body shaking.

She forced herself to calm down, then lifted her eyes to meet Jennifer’s, soft voice steady now, "Mom, it wasn’t my paintings that were worth anything. It was the Powell name, back when we still had money. The Powells are gone now. There’s no such thing as a ‘Powell heiress’ anymore."

Jennifer’s eyes glistened with tears, "My baby’s talented. You’re gold— you shine no matter where you are. You deserve someone like Ethan, someone good—"

Zara put a flaky piece of white fish in her mom’s bowl, cutting her off gently, "Mom, that’s enough. Dr. Spencer is kind, he’s respectable, he comes from a good family. If I accept his gifts, or his feelings, it’s just taking advantage. Promise me you won’t take anything from him again, okay?"

Jennifer didn’t push it any further. The rest of dinner dragged by in thick, heavy silence.

After Zara finished washing the dishes, she walked back to the bedroom and found Jennifer sitting on the edge of the bed, staring down at a sheaf of papers. She quickly stuffed them behind her back when she saw Zara walk in.

Over the past two years, Jennifer had been plagued by one health issue after another. Zara knew exactly what those papers were the second she walked in the door.

"The diagnosis came back? Did Dr. Spencer bring it?"

Zara stepped closer, a cold sinking feeling settling deep in her gut.

She already knew it wasn’t good news.

Jennifer clutched the papers tighter behind her back, shaking her head nervously, "Everything’s fine, baby. All normal, nothing serious."

Zara nodded, looked away for half a second, then quickly lunged and snatched the papers right out of her mom’s hand.

When she read what was printed on the page, her face drained of all color, turning ashen as ash.

Jennifer reached out for the papers, then pulled her hand back. Zara’s face said it all— she’d seen the truth.

They sat in dead silence for what felt like an eternity. Finally, Zara whispered the word that hung over both of them like a shadow, "Leukemia?"

Jennifer grabbed Zara’s arm, anxious and rushing to soothe her, "Zara, it’s okay! Dr. Spencer said it’s caught early, it’s not that bad. We can just treat it with medication first."

Zara’s hand clenched the paper so tight her knuckles went bone white. After a long minute, she sat down next to Jennifer and met her eyes.

"Mom, we’re admitting you right away. No matter how much it costs, we’re going to get you better. In a couple years, when Dad gets out, we’ll all be healthy and whole again, just like before."

Jennifer’s voice choked up, tears rolling down her cheeks, "I won’t go. We’ve dumped every penny we have into hospitals all these years. You want to work yourself to the bone for me?"

Zara started folding clothes into a duffel bag, her voice calm and unshakable, "I’ll figure out the money. If I lose you, I really have nothing left to live for."

Once Jennifer was checked in, Zara sat down with Ethan. He told her medication and chemo would be the first step; if that didn’t work, they’d need a bone marrow transplant.

By the time all the paperwork and admissions were done, dusk had painted the sky purple and gold.

After Jennifer fell asleep after her initial tests, Zara left Ethan’s office and wandered to the big window at the end of the hospital corridor, staring out at the city lights twinkling below.

At night, this city was all glitter and grit tangled together.

Some people partied all night long, throwing money around like it was water. Other people fought just to make it to the next day, where even waking up breathing felt like a luxury.

Zara pulled her gaze away from the skyline, fished in the pocket of her jacket, pulled out the business card someone had handed her at the library, dialed the number printed on it, and waited for someone to pick up.

"Hello? Who is this?"

The voice on the other end of the line answers quickly. Zara Powell thinks it sounds different from the man she’d met at the library earlier that day. Her memory’s been spotty these past two years anyway—she’s probably just misremembering.

She glances down to double-check the last name printed on the business card, her nerves prickling as she speaks. "Mr. Zhao, hello. We met earlier at the library. I’m Zara Powell. You mentioned you were looking for an illustrator for a magazine, and suggested I throw my hat in the ring. You remember that, right?"

In the driver’s seat, Mr. Zhao puts the call on speaker. In the back, Samir Powell freezes mid-document, his hand hovering still over the page. He taps the car window once with his long, sharp fingers, and Mr. Zhao slams on the brakes immediately, twisting around in his seat with a respectful posture.

Samir’s expression doesn’t shift, not even a little. He types one quick line on his phone and passes the screen up to the driver. Surprised but quick to obey, Mr. Zhao relays: "Ah, yeah, I remember you. Let’s meet at the Grand International Hotel, Room 1808."

Even as he says the words, Mr. Zhao’s tone shifts. He’s sweating internally, waiting for the furious outburst that’s definitely coming. What the hell is the boss playing at this time?

There’s a beat of silence on Zara’s end before her surprisingly calm voice comes back. "Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Could you repeat that again?"

Uneasy, Mr. Zhao repeats himself: "It’s room 1808 at the Grand International Hotel. Don’t get the wrong idea, Miss Powell. I’m swamped today and can only meet during my lunch break, that’s all."

On the other end of the line, Zara’s lips go white. The man she met at the library didn’t strike her as the type to suggest something this skeevy. Her phone buzzes in her hand right then. It’s a notification for another overdue bill. She still hasn’t covered her mom’s latest hospital bill.

Her fingers press hard into the window sill, hard enough to crack a nail. Finally, she says, "You mentioned you pay two thousand up front."

Mr. Zhao glances back at Samir, sees him nod once, and replies: "No problem at all, Miss Powell. Send me your account details and I’ll transfer the money right now. I’m counting on you not to disappoint me."

Cold sweat beads in Zara’s palm. Two thousand pounds, added to what she already has scraped together, is barely enough to cover her mom’s next round of chemo and all the extra medical bills.

She presses her lips together tight and answers, "You can trust me. I just… I really need the money right now. But I swear I won’t let you down. I’ll head over right away."

The call ends. After Zara sends over her account information, a text ping comes through almost immediately: the two thousand pound deposit has hit her account. She grips her phone so hard her knuckles go white, her head spinning. She can’t believe it’s that easy… but part of her feels hollow, too, like she can’t even celebrate that she got the money.

She doesn’t have time to dwell. She pays the hospital bill at the front lobby right away, knowing time is tight, then swallows down the lump of anxiety in her throat and hails a cab to the hotel.

When she reaches the door of the top-floor room, she pulls out her phone to double-check the room number against the text. Then she adjusts her face mask and glasses—even though they don’t make her feel any safer right now. Her hand feels like it’s made of lead, hovering in the air halfway to knocking, when her phone beeps again.

She checks the message: "Door’s unlocked. Just come on in."

Before she turns the handle, she scrolls through her contacts, her thumb pausing over Simon Archer’s name. She doesn’t hit call. Her shaking hand keeps the phone pressed tight to her side, hidden behind her back.

The door creaks open slowly and she steps inside, repeating the same lie to herself under her breath: You’re overthinking it. That man at the library was polite, refined. He’s not that kind of guy. Two thousand pounds for a quick fuck… Zara Powell isn’t even worth that much, anyway.

Inside, the sprawling suite is completely empty. Her unease grows so thick it’s almost suffocating, and she aches to run. At least if there was someone else here, if they met in the hallway… this would be less awful.

She turns to leave, and a cold, biting voice snaps out from behind her: "You really are fucking despicable, aren’t you?"

Zara’s scream dies in her throat the second she recognizes that voice. Her brain feels like it’s exploding. A firm hand clamps down on her shoulder, yanks her around, and slams her back against the wall before she can move. Samir Powell has her pinned, his eyes blazing like a predator who’s finally caught his prey. He squeezes her chin so hard it aches, and snarls: "You want a man that bad? You’ll whore yourself out to any stranger for cash?"

How the fuck is this him? Zara can’t breathe, she’s too shocked. All she can do is stare up at him, her eyes swimming with fear. What is happening? Was the guy at the library all part of Samir’s plan from the very start? Why would he go through all this trouble just to trap her? What does she even have that he wants?

When she doesn’t answer, he squeezes harder, his jaw tight. "Answer me! Are you just disappointed it’s me instead of Simon Archer?"

Zara finally snaps back to her senses, and she shakes her head slowly. "I don’t know who you’re talking about."

Samir’s gaze cuts sharper than a knife. "Still playing stupid! You love money that much? You’d sell your body for a lousy two grand?"

Now Zara gets it. He set this whole thing up just to humiliate her, to prove she’d sell herself for cash. Her chin throbs where he’s holding her, and she forces a wobbly, strained smile. "My body isn’t even worth two thousand. You overestimate me, Mr. Powell."

Samir snorts coldy. "You’re right about that. You wanna sell? I’ll fucking give you what you want."

He moves so fast she can’t react. The silk blouse tears open down the seam with a sharp rip. It’s the blouse Ailani Rivera gave her to change into when she was at the old manor. Something tight snaps in Zara’s head. Her face goes deathly white as she swats his hand away from her clothes, trembling so hard her whole body shakes as she hugs her arms tight around herself to cover up.

Samir presses his fists to the wall on either side of her, caging her in as she crouches there terrified. He taunts, "What’s this? You came here to sell, now you’re playing hard to get? Or are you just picky about who buys you?"

Zara’s whole body shakes violently. It takes her a full minute to get her breathing under control, and when she speaks her voice is soft, almost broken. "Mr. Powell, you’re high status. You have everything. I’m nothing, dirty, not even worthy of your bed. I’m sure there’s someone much more suitable—"

"Get the fuck out!" Samir slams his fist into the wall so hard the plaster cracks.

Zara flinches, and she wriggles out from under his arm as fast as she can, clutching her torn blouse to her chest as she scrambles for the door. When she reaches the threshold, she pauses for half a second, and says quietly, "I’ll pay the money back."

The night air is cool. A light drizzle started falling while she was inside, and she didn’t even notice. Standing on the sidewalk outside the hotel, Zara stares at the raindrops splashing at her feet, and the helplessness in her chest grows heavier and heavier.

She already gave all the money to the hospital. She’s still got hundreds more expenses coming. Where the hell is she going to get two thousand pounds to pay him back?

The night wind wraps around her, cutting straight through her thin blouse and chilling her to the bone. Her phone rings. It’s the hospital.

Zara answers fast, and the urgent voice on the other end says, "Miss Powell, your mother collapsed. She needs an emergency blood transfusion. Her blood type is so rare, our blood bank is temporarily out of stock."

"I’m a match. I’ll be there right now." Zara’s heart leaps into her throat as she speaks, and she hails another cab immediately, scrambling inside.

---

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