Chapter 4 Inner turmoils

Zara – POV

I couldn't sleep.

The sheets smelled too crisp, too sterile. The silence was too thick. Even the pillow felt like it belonged to someone else's life-not mine.

Somewhere in the corner of the penthouse guest room, my wedding dress lay crumpled like a ghost. A reminder of vows never spoken, love never realized.

Charles hadn't even had the decency to tell me in person. A simple message delivered through his assistant. "He's not coming. He's sorry." That was it. Sorry. As if a decade of my life could be dismissed in two cowardly words.

But what haunted me most wasn't his betrayal. It was the way Leonel Wolfe looked at me when I stepped out of that cathedral.

He didn't pity me. He didn't comfort me.

He offered me a deal.

And like a fool-or maybe a woman reborn in fire-I took it.

I rolled over and stared at the ceiling.

I had signed a contract with a man who didn't believe in softness. Who didn't flinch when I spit venom or set boundaries. A man whose presence made my skin prickle in equal parts rage and heat.

And tomorrow, I'd move into his home.

As his fiancée.

Not his lover.

Not his wife.

But something much more dangerous: his equal.

The media would eat it up.

The world would never know the truth.

But I would.

And I'd be damned if I let this arrangement destroy what was left of me.

I climbed out of bed and paced the room barefoot, letting the cold floor remind me I was still alive. Still real.

Everything felt too perfect. Too silent. I was used to clutter-my tiny apartment, the smell of old coffee, the whirr of traffic outside my window. Not this.

Here, even the silence had weight. Like the walls were listening.

I ran a hand through my curls and walked to the window. The city sparkled beneath me, oblivious to the ruin of my life.

He was out there somewhere. Leonel. Probably reviewing another deal, another acquisition, another plan that involved people like me as pieces, not players.

And yet he saw something in me. Not weakness. Not fragility. But strategy.

I hated that part of me almost as much as I needed it. The part that agreed to this deal because I refused to be pitied. The part that couldn't stand the idea of crawling back to a life I'd already outgrown.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I flinched.

Leonel: "A driver will pick you up at 10 a.m. Pack lightly. Anything else you need will be provided."

No greeting. No goodnight. Just instructions.

I stared at the message for a long time before responding:

Zara: "Noted."

I didn't add a thank you.

He wasn't doing this for me. He was doing it for control. For narrative. For leverage.

And maybe... just maybe... so was I.

When I finally climbed back into bed, I didn't cry.

Tears were for endings.

This-whatever it was-felt like the beginning.

When I finally climbed back into bed, I didn't cry.

Tears were for endings.

This-whatever it was-felt like the beginning.

I must've drifted off at some point because when I opened my eyes again, light was spilling in through the curtains, soft and golden. For one disorienting moment, I forgot where I was. The bed. The room. The silence. None of it felt like mine.

Then I saw the folded dress across the chair and remembered.

Today, I moved in with Leonel Wolfe.

I sat up slowly, my body stiff with tension. I hadn't packed anything the night before. My bag sat open in the corner, untouched. What do you even pack when you're not really moving in as yourself-but as someone you've agreed to become for a contract?

After a shower that did little to clear my mind, I dressed in black jeans, a neutral blouse, and tied my curls back in a sleek ponytail. Minimal makeup. No drama. Just control.

At exactly 10:00 a.m., a knock sounded at the door.

The driver stood waiting, dressed in a black suit, polite but distant. "Ms. Whitmore?"

I gave one last glance to the guest room before I walked out, suitcase rolling behind me like a whisper of who I used to be.

The car was a sleek, black Maybach. Of course. Leonel Wolfe didn't do ordinary.

The drive was quiet. The driver didn't speak unless necessary. I spent the time watching the city blur past the tinted glass. Familiar streets. Unfamiliar emotions.

By the time we pulled up in front of Leonel's building, my spine was straight, my face composed. I'd worn this armor before. At galas. At business launches. During Charles's scandals. Now I was wearing it for survival.

The penthouse doors opened as we entered. A butler greeted us, his expression unreadable. He took my suitcase wordlessly.

Leonel wasn't waiting at the entrance.

Of course he wasn't.

I was escorted up the elevator again-only this time, it felt more permanent.

When I stepped into the penthouse, a rush of scent hit me-cedarwood and something sharper. Masculine. Clean. Powerful.

I was shown to a new room-mine, apparently. Elegant, minimalist, with pale tones and chrome fixtures. No clutter. No warmth either.

I ran a hand along the polished desk near the window. Everything here was curated, intentional. A stark contrast to my old life.

"Miss Whitmore," the butler reappeared. "Mr. Wolfe has requested your presence in the lounge once you've settled in."

Settled in.

Like this wasn't a transaction.

I smoothed my blouse, checked my reflection once, and walked toward the lounge.

Leonel was seated near the window, reading something on his tablet. He didn't look up immediately. Just finished whatever he was doing and then said, "You're punctual. I like that."

"I'm not here to impress you."

He finally looked at me. "No. You're here because we made a deal."

His eyes scanned me, not in a lecherous way-but in a way that made me feel like a dossier he was memorizing.

"You'll have a new wardrobe delivered this week. Appearances begin Friday. Charity benefit. I've already cleared the guest list and PR brief. You just need to show up. Smile. Be seen."

"Anything else?"

He leaned back, lacing his fingers together. "Yes. Stop looking at me like you expect me to apologize for this."

"I don't expect apologies," I said coldly. "Just honesty."

Leonel stood then. Moved closer.

"Here's the truth," he said, voice low. "I don't do this for fun. I chose you because you're not weak. Because the world already watches you. And because I need someone who doesn't flinch when they're bleeding."

I held his gaze. "You think I'm bleeding?"

"I think you're still standing. That's what matters."

Something in his tone sent a chill down my spine. Not fear. Not desire. Something deeper.

Respect.

For a moment, I forgot the contract. The headlines. The betrayal.

For a moment, it was just us.

Then the moment passed.

"Fine," I said. "Let's play our parts. Just don't forget-I might be acting, but I'm still watching."

Leonel's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Good. Keep watching, Zara. You might learn something."

And with that, we began.