Zane's study was always warm. The scent of cedar and old paper filled the air, the shelves lined with books he rarely had time to read anymore. Amara stood by the fireplace, watching the flames dance while Zane sat behind his desk, typing something she couldn't see.
It had been weeks since her return. Every day, she fed him softness—attention, care, smiles he'd nearly forgotten. Every word was a carefully chosen needle, stitching together the tattered fabric of their bond.
But this morning, something different hung between them. Something taut.
Zane finally leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing at her across the room.
"You've been... different lately."
Amara turned slowly. "Different how?"
"You're here," he said. "You ask about my meetings. You touch me again when we pass in the hallway. You made dinner last night. You haven't done that in—"
"Two years," she finished for him, her voice soft.
He nodded. "So, why now?"
She moved toward his desk, placing both hands on the surface. "Because I was foolish. Because I thought I wanted something else."
He didn't respond, just stared at her. So she leaned in closer, heart racing.
"I miss you, Zane."
A moment passed. Then another.
His voice, when it came, was quiet. "Why now?"
Amara smiled faintly. "Because something inside me finally woke up."
Zane studied her for a long time, then stood, walked around the desk, and stopped just in front of her. The tension between them was magnetic—old, broken longing wrapped in the threads of new curiosity.
When he touched her cheek, just briefly, she closed her eyes and leaned into it.
"I want to believe you," he whispered. "God knows I do."
Amara took his hand and kissed his knuckles. "Then do."
Later That Night
Amara stepped outside, pulling her shawl tighter around her bare shoulders. The silence of the night gave her no comfort. Her thoughts were spinning—Zane was almost convinced. He was opening again, letting her back in piece by fragile piece.
She couldn't afford a single misstep now.
But then—
A voice slid through the stillness like a blade.
"You're really selling this good-wife act, aren't you?"
Her heart lurched, but she didn't turn immediately. She knew that voice too well.
Darian.
He stepped into the moonlight, his designer suit sharp, the smirk on his face even sharper. There was something venomous in the way he carried himself—like a snake that hadn't struck yet, but wanted you to know it could.
Amara inhaled slowly, steadying the tremor in her spine. She turned, meeting his gaze without flinching.
"Don't speak to me like that," she said, her voice cool and clipped.
He gave a mocking chuckle, circling her with deliberate slowness.
"Oh, I think I will," he sneered. "You've been playing me, haven't you, Amara? look at you—playing house with Zane like nothing ever happened. What happened to the woman who said she loved me?"
He stopped walking, his eyes narrowing into something darker. Angrier. Possessive.
She tilted her head, lips curling into a sweet, deadly smile.
"Tell me something, Darian. How's your conscience these days?"
His jaw twitched. "Don't start with me."
There was warning in his tone—but also fear. She saw it, faint but flickering.
"You may have Zane wrapped up," he continued, "but I know you. I know what you're capable of."
Amara took a step forward, closing the space between them. Her eyes didn't waver.
"Then I suggest you start being very careful."
Darian blinked. Just once.
"Because I'm not the woman you think I am anymore," she whispered, voice low and fierce.
"And if you ever touch me again, you'll find out just how much I've changed."
She let the silence settle between them—thick, humming with threat—before turning her back and walking away.
Her heart was pounding. Her hands trembled beneath the fabric of her shawl.
But her spine was straight as steel.