Zara lay still.
The warmth of his body behind her. The sound of his heartbeat against her back. The weight of his words—
It echoed in her chest like a quiet storm.
She turned in his arms slowly, eyes meeting his. "What is it?"
Aiden stared at her, his golden gaze unreadable. Then he exhaled through his nose, his grip loosening just enough to brush a thumb across her cheek.
> "I never planned to keep you," he said softly. "You were supposed to be a pawn. A name on a contract. A problem to solve."
Zara's chest tightened.
> "But?"
His jaw flexed. "But then you looked at me like I wasn't broken. Like I was… something more. And I didn't know how to stop wanting that."
She didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Because deep down, she knew this wasn't just about confessions. It was about undoing.
> "So what now?" she whispered.
> "Now…" He looked away. "Now I'm trying not to destroy the only real thing I've ever touched."
Silence again. Heavy. Fragile.
Zara reached up and placed her hand over his heart. "Then stop holding back."
Knowing too well he hasn't really said what was bothering him, She waited for the right moment.
Aiden stared at her hand like it might disappear if he blinked. "I don't know how."
> "Then let me teach you."
And in that moment, something inside him shattered—quietly, beautifully.
Not in anger.
But in surrender.
---
They didn't sleep after that.
They stayed curled together on the bed, talking in murmurs, sharing fragments of truths they hadn't dared to say out loud.
Zara told him about the day her father lost the company. About how it felt to watch her world collapse while wearing a dress too tight and a smile too fake.
Aiden told her about his mother. The real reason he never let anyone in. About the first time he learned love could be used as a weapon.
They didn't promise each other anything.
But they didn't have to.
Because in that space—no rules, no punishments, no collars—they were just two people.
Trying.
---
Morning came slowly.
Zara stirred against his chest again, groggy from emotion more than exhaustion. She blinked at the golden rays spilling across the sheets, only to realize Aiden was no longer beside her.
A frown tugged at her lips.
Then she heard the faint clang of metal downstairs.
Kitchen.
When she padded into the kitchen, Aiden was standing at the stove—shirtless, hair mussed, flipping pancakes with far too much concentration.
Zara leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
> "I thought you didn't cook."
He didn't turn. "I don't."
> "You're making pancakes."
> "I googled it."
She laughed.
> "What's the occasion?"
He turned then—pan in one hand, a very serious frown on his face.
> "You didn't run."
Her smile softened.
> "I told you, I wasn't the scared one."
> "Liar," he muttered.
She walked toward him slowly, sliding her arms around his waist from behind.
> "Even if I was… I'd rather be scared with you."
Aiden stilled.
Then he reached for her hand and laced their fingers together.
> "Breakfast first," he murmured.
> "Then what?"
He turned, meeting her gaze.
> "Then I show you exactly what it means to be mine."
The pancakes burned.
Of course they did.
Aiden was many things—ruthless CEO, cold strategist, expert in control—but flipping pancakes while being hugged by a half-naked Zara?
Not one of his stronger suits.
She giggled as he swore under his breath and scraped the blackened batter from the pan.
> "You gonna fire the pan now, Mr. Knight?"
> "Tempting," he muttered. "This is why I delegate."
> "Or maybe… you just need supervision." Her smile was lazy, teasing, as she plucked the spatula from his hand. "Go sit. Let me."
He blinked. "You cook?"
> "Not pancakes." She grinned. "But I'm a fast learner."
She shooed him toward the kitchen stool and took over like she belonged there. The way she moved—barefoot, hair messy, wearing nothing but his shirt—felt like something dangerous and precious all at once.
He watched her flip the batter like it was nothing, humming quietly to herself.
> "I like this version of you," he said quietly.
> "Which version?"
> "The one that steals my shirt and makes fun of my cooking."
> "You're the one who burned breakfast," she said, glancing over her shoulder.
> "Still blaming the pan."
Zara laughed, and it hit him like a punch to the gut—how natural she looked here. In his kitchen. In his space. In his life.
Like she'd always belonged.
---
They ate at the counter, knees brushing under the island.
Aiden cut into his pancake. "You didn't ask what I was going to tell you last night."
Zara looked up, brow raised. "Because I knew you'd tell me when you were ready."
He nodded slowly. "It wasn't about the contract. Or Camille. Or anything you've seen."
She waited.
> "It's about my father."
Zara froze, fork mid-air.
He never spoke about his family. Not once. Not really.
Aiden looked down at his plate, not eating. "He wasn't the man people think he was. He didn't build this empire with honor. He built it with control. With fear. And when I was old enough to understand that, I swore I'd never let anyone control me again."
Zara reached across the counter, laying her hand on his.
> "But you do control people."
> "Because it's safer than trusting them."
His voice was flat. But not empty.
She squeezed his hand. "You're not him, Aiden."
> "I know. But sometimes, I catch myself… reacting like he would have. Especially with you."
> "Then react differently," she said softly. "With me, you can."
---
Later, they lay sprawled on the couch in the sunroom—Zara between his legs, her head on his chest, his fingers tracing idle circles on her thigh.
> "What happens after the contract ends?" she asked quietly.
He didn't answer right away.
Then—his voice, a murmur against her hair:
> "We rewrite the rules."
She smiled.
But neither of them noticed the buzz of Aiden's phone on the coffee table.
A new message lighting up the screen:
From: Unknown
> Camille's been talking. You should clean this up before it gets messy.
Zara didn't see it.
Aiden did.
And just like that… the peace cracked.
---