Zara stirred at the sound of soft breathing.
For a moment, she wasn't entirely sure where she was—or rather, when she was. The sheets smelled faintly of jasmine and cedarwood, her robe lay discarded on the carpet, and sunlight painted long gold stripes across the floor.
Then she felt the warmth of him.
Dylan.
He lay beside her on the chaise lounge—one arm tucked beneath his head, the other slung protectively across her waist. His bare chest rose and fell in even rhythm, peaceful in a way she hadn't seen in years. Not even in photos. Not even during the final months of their marriage.
Her wedding ring lay on the table, exactly where she'd left it the night before.
Zara stared at it for a long time. That small, stupid circle of gold. How could something so fragile hold so many sharp memories?
She turned slowly, just enough to take in his sleeping face. He looked younger somehow. Less guarded. There was a faint shadow along his jaw, and a fading bruise on his collarbone—her bruise. A soft blush crept up her neck, uninvited.
She should have felt regret.
She didn't.
She should have pushed him away.
She hadn't.
Zara shifted gently beneath the blanket, careful not to wake him. But the movement stirred him anyway. His eyes blinked open, heavy-lidded with sleep. For a moment, he just looked at her—like he, too, had to remind himself that this wasn't a dream.
"Good morning," he said, voice husky.
She gave a small nod. "You stayed."
"I wasn't going to leave you on the floor." His gaze softened. "You were burning up. Feverish."
She raised an eyebrow. "And sleeping beside me was part of the prescription?"
He smiled faintly. "You're welcome, by the way."
Zara gave a little exhale through her nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite scorn.
"I meant to leave after you fell asleep," Dylan added quietly, brushing a finger down her arm, "but I couldn't."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward—it was saturated. Thick with the weight of what they'd done… and what it might mean.
"I should get dressed," Zara said after a moment, voice composed again.
He nodded but didn't move.
When she sat up, the blanket slid down her back, and for a second, he reached for her instinctively—like he couldn't help himself. But he stopped short, hand frozen midair.
She didn't look back.
Instead, she stood, wrapped the sheet around herself, and walked to the far end of the room—where her robe now lay draped over the back of a velvet chair.
He watched her every step, like he was memorizing her all over again.
But he said nothing.
And neither did she.
Not yet.
Because the sun might have risen—but clarity hadn't come with it.
Not yet.
\---
By the time Dylan finished showering in the guest bathroom, Zara was already dressed and moving through her home like nothing had happened.
She wore tailored black slacks and a mocha silk blouse, her hair pinned up in a loose twist that exposed the smooth line of her neck. You'd never guess she'd barely slept. You'd never guess anything had shifted—except for the faint flush on her chest and the quiet in her eyes.
She was halfway through an espresso in the kitchen when he stepped in.
"Good morning again," he said, testing the waters.
Zara didn't glance at him. "Morning."
It was curt. Clipped. Perfectly neutral.
Back to business.
He rubbed the back of his neck, searching her face for something—anything. "About last night—"
"It happened," she cut in, folding her arms across her chest. "We don't need to dissect it."
His jaw tightened. "I'm not trying to dissect. I just think we should talk."
"Then schedule an appointment," she said coolly, sipping her espresso.
Dylan flinched—just slightly. "Is that how we're doing this now?"
Zara finally looked up. Her expression was unreadable. "You said we were still married. But you have a fiancée posting digs about me online. So yes, Dylan, this is how we're doing it."
Just then, a buzz echoed from the marble countertop.
Dylan's phone, still sitting where he'd left it the night before, lit up with a new message. Zara's eyes dropped to it, unbothered. She didn't mean to read it, but the preview glared up at her like an accusation.
CEL: "Where are you? You didn't come home. Hope everything's okay ❤️"
Zara's lips twitched.
Not quite a smile.
More like she'd tasted something bitter and swallowed it anyway.
Without a word, she pushed the phone gently across the counter toward him. "You might want to reply to that," she said coolly.
She set her empty espresso cup down with a delicate clink and picked up her bag.
"There's a board lunch and two department reviews today," she continued, straightening her sleeves. "If you have anything work-related to say, send it through the office line."
"Zara," he said again, voice low, unsure now. "Don't pretend last night didn't mean anything."
She paused—just for a breath.
Then turned, eyes cold and unreadable. "I'm not pretending. I'm prioritizing."
And with that, she walked down the hall, heels tapping with the finality of a closing door.
Dylan stood frozen in her kitchen, the weight of the phone in his hand feeling heavier than ever. Celeste's message glowed again.
He didn't open it.
Not yet.
\---
Celeste Hart had never considered herself the jealous type.
She wore confidence like couture—tailored, elegant, expensive. She didn't compete, she dominated. And Dylan Reid? He was the crown jewel she'd secured after years of being the girl other women envied.
But that morning, as she stood in her silk robe in her downtown apartment, staring at the still unopened message on her phone, the air tasted sour.
No response.
No good morning.
No voice note.
Not even a lame emoji.
Dylan always replied, even if he was tired. He was obsessive about communication—or so she'd thought.
She refreshed the chat. Still no blue tick.
Her perfectly manicured finger hovered over the "call" icon. She tapped it.
Voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
Celeste's jaw tightened. Her gaze shifted toward the large flatscreen on her wall, where an influencer's cooking vlog played in the background, unmuted. It showed couples making Sunday breakfast—laughing, touching, stealing kisses with flour on their noses.
Repulsive.
She swiped open Instagram instead. Maybe he'd posted a cryptic story or left a breadcrumb trail like he sometimes did.
Nothing.
Her eye twitched.
She hated this feeling. The not-knowing. The silent chaos that sat just under her skin. The last time she felt it was when Dylan disappeared for two days after that strange board meeting… the same week he'd mentioned a surprise merger pitch with some CEO. No names then. No details.
Now she knew. Zara.
Celeste's lips pursed like she'd sucked on a lemon.
It's not possible, she thought. He wouldn't go back to her.
He hated her. Loathed her. He'd told her so himself.
Still…
A slow, cold trickle of dread crept down her spine. She'd seen Zara's face at that event. Untouched by time. Distant. Dangerous. There was something about that woman—calm as poison in a crystal glass.
And Dylan? Dylan was a man full of pride and unfinished business.
Celeste threw the phone onto the couch and crossed the room barefoot, the marble tiles icy beneath her feet. She needed answers. Not guesses. Not silence.
She walked to her dresser, pulled out a slim tablet, and opened the GPS tracking app she secretly installed on Dylan's phone months ago—not because she didn't trust him, but because some women simply didn't leave when they were told to.
It took two seconds to load.
Her heart stuttered.
The location pin blinked.
Not at his apartment.
Not at his office.
Not even in transit.
The map zoomed in on a gated residential neighborhood in Westbridge Hills.
The exact same address she remembered from Zara's old business registration documents.
Her house.
Celeste's breath caught.
Her spine straightened like a whip.
So that's how we're playing now?
She closed the tablet with a soft snap and walked calmly to her closet, reaching for a fitted dress in a quiet shade of war.
\---