Zara Powell stared blankly at him, a faint smile tugging at her lips while her eyes brimmed with tears. Not a single one fell.

Finally, she spoke softly, calm as still water. "I was just careless."

Samir Powell laid a trembling hand on her shoulder. "Tell me. Who did this to you?"

Zara shook her head. This man—once the object of her wildest love and deepest hatred—had left her with nothing but bone-deep fear and the urge to run, after two years apart.

She smiled again and repeated, "No one did this. It was just me."

Samir’s eyes flushed pink, his gaze pinning hers in place. After a long beat of silence, he stood, lifted her clean off her feet, and carried her out without another word.

Zara didn’t struggle. She just stared up at him, terror sharp and hot in her bones.

Her eyes screamed the plea clear as day: Samir, please. Let me go.

Even when he settled her into the car, she said nothing. She shook uncontrollably, but didn’t make a sound.

It was useless. If he wouldn’t let her go, she couldn’t run. Not now. Not ever.

Samir clamped a firm hand on her shoulder, forcing her to face him, and ground out through gritted teeth, "I asked you who did this."

Zara’s gaze went vacant as she answered, "I’m not lying to you. It was me."

Fury and frustration coiled tight in his chest, and he punched the passenger seat hard enough to rattle the frame. His heart was being ripped clean in two, but he still forced the harsh words out.

"Don’t think this little act is gonna make me pity you and let you walk away."

Zara said nothing. She just inched as far away from him as she could, pressing her back to the window, and fought to rein in her trembles and her fear—hide them from him, like she’d learned to do.

Samir glared daggers at her. "Why’d you provoke James?"

Zara turned to him slowly, pure confusion clouding her eyes. "I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that."

Her gaze stayed calm, dead still, completely empty of any emotion. She looked at him like he was just some random stranger—no hate, no resentment, no anger. Nothing at all.

To Samir, that blankness was more unsettling than any scream could have been.

"James Dawson. Stop playing dumb. You went to North Haven’s fancy elite library to meet a guy, didn’t you?"

He’d goaded her on purpose, suddenly desperate to see some kind of reaction out of her. Anything but this.

Zara thought for a second, then shook her head. "I don’t know who that is."

She was like a broken robot, spitting out mechanical answers one after another.

Irritation gnawed at him until he couldn’t take it anymore. He wrenched her close, leaning in, and crushed his mouth to hers rough and hard.

Zara turned her head a little, but when his lips pressed harder, she stopped fighting.

Her expression didn’t change. She just stared up at him, like she wasn’t even the one being kissed against her will.

Her lips were ice cold. Up this close, he could see how deathly pale her face was—like a doll carved to look human, nothing more.

Samir pulled away and breathed her name, uncertain, "Zara?"

When he called her, she just looked up, waiting for him to say more.

In that second, it hit him like a punch to the chest: the Zara he’d known two years ago was gone.

It was like something he’d held so easy in his palm had just slipped away, leaving him with a cold, unfamiliar fear he’d never felt before.

He looked forward to the driver, jaw tight. "Take us to the estate. Let’s see how long you can keep this act up."

Zara kept her head down, quiet as a shadow. She didn’t even react when they pulled up the long driveway to the house.

"Get out. Follow me inside," Samir ordered, voice ice cold.

The quiet woman lifted her head, glanced at the guards posted by the gate, and asked soft as a breath, "Can I… not go in?"

Samir laughed, sharp and mocking. Of course she wasn’t as numb as she was pretending to be.

He stepped out of the car, and left a cold line hanging in the air behind him: "You know better than that. When you’re in my hands, you don’t get a choice."

Zara followed him into the Powell family estate.

It was the matriarch’s birthday party, the house packed full of guests. That included Ailani Rivera and the rest of her family—Samir’s fiancée and her people.

With every step she took, the urge to turn and run got stronger. Memories of the last year of torment, all at this man’s hand, played vivid and sharp in her head.

She wanted to run, but she didn’t dare.

A few guests drifted over, cornering Samir for small talk.

Zara’s trembling hand slipped into her pocket, pulled out a face mask and sunglasses, and pulled them on.

Everyone else was dressed to the nines, decked out in elegant Victorian formal wear, and it felt like every eye in the room had locked onto her, watching her every move, curious and judgmental.

Zara ducked her head lower. She felt like a mouse dragged out of its hole and thrown into the middle of a room full of staring cats.

Yeah. A mouse. That’s what she was. A killer. Acquitted, but infamous all across North Haven.

A hand reached out and stopped her before she could adjust her mask. Samir’s voice was flat, unfeeling. "You can’t wear that."

Zara silently tucked the mask back into her pocket. When she crossed the threshold into the main hall, the noise swelled, and the ringing in her ears got louder, sharp enough to make her teeth ache.

It was a warning sign. Zara clasped her hands tight together, cold sweat beading at her hairline.

Months of severe nervous breakdown and depression had left her terrified of noise, terrified of crowds, even terrified of bright lights. She couldn’t handle any kind of stimulation anymore.

After she got out of the psych ward, she’d lived alone in the dark, never gone anywhere near an event this big, this loud.

Probably leaving her behind on purpose, Samir was quickly surrounded by a group of men talking business, and they headed deeper into the house.

Now the CEO of Powell Enterprises, holding the whole group in the palm of his hand, of course he was the center of attention at this big party.

Zara edged along the wall, head down. All she could see was pairs of shoes—oxford leather and stiletto heels—and the suffocating panic coiled tighter and tighter in her chest.

She sped up her steps, desperate to find a quiet corner where she could melt into the wall, unseen, unnoticed.

But a pair of champagne-colored high heels stopped dead right in front of her. She stepped quick to the side to get around them.

The heels moved with her, blocking her path again.

After the fourth time, Zara lifted her head, gasping for air that wouldn’t come.

The woman blocking her way looked like she’d just won the lottery. Her voice went up sharp, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear: "Look, look! Isn’t this Zara Powell, North Haven’s very own? And what’s she wearing…"

She clicked her tongue all exaggerated, raising her voice even more to make sure no one missed it. "I heard Miss Powell went abroad to study for two years. Is this the latest fashion trend over there?"

Zara let out a ragged, wheezing sound of distress. When every eye in the room swung to her, her face went bone white, and big fat beads of sweat rolled down her neck.

The ringing in her ears turned piercing. Her brain felt like it was about to explode. She turned to run, but the woman stepped forward, her heel hooking the toe of Zara’s shoe.

Zara tripped, stumbling forward, and the woman faked a gasp of surprise, tossing the glass of mulled wine she was holding right all over Zara’s clothes.

Crimson liquid trickled down Zara Powell’s neck, soaking slow into the collar of her clothes.

That icy chill, tangled up in crippling fear, sent full-body shivers racing down her spine.

But she didn’t have time to fall apart. All she wanted was to get out. Her mind was already stretched thin, ready to snap.

Sharp whispers bit at her from every direction.

"Is that really Zara Powell from two years ago? Back then, her paintings went for half a million bucks easy."

"Unreal. One look and you’d think she’s some homeless beggar who snuck in, hahaha."

"Doesn’t matter how talented she was. She’s always been rotten goods. A cold-blooded killer like her doesn’t belong anywhere decent."

"And Samir only dragged her here to humiliate her, right? Look over there—he’s watching the whole show unfold."

Zara clutched her head in agony, shoving through the crowd desperate to leave.

But Samir’s cold indifference had already set the tone. Everywhere she turned, people stepped right in her way on purpose.

Jeers and insults bounced off the walls around her, and Zara’s sanity was already teetering on the edge of collapse.

*SLAP!*

A rough hand wrenched her hair back, and a second later, a palm cracked hard across her face.

Her vision and hearing blurred to static. Through the fog, she could just make out the furious woman who’d hit her—Cataleya Rivera, Ailani’s mother.

"You heartless monster! My son’s body isn’t even cold, and you have the nerve to show your face around here!"

The crowd, hungry for a spectacle, pointed and whispered their disdain.

Samir sprawled on a couch nearby, long legs crossed, watching Zara crumple to the floor. A cigarette burned between his fingers, its tip glowing faint crimson, and his dark giveaways revealed nothing—no anger, no pity, nothing at all.

Zara struggled and hauled herself to her feet. She didn’t bother with explanations, just babbled a hurried apology: "I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I’ll leave."

Cataleya’s eyes turned blood red. She kicked off her high heel and launched herself at Zara.

"See! You admit it! You killed my son on purpose! I swear to God, I’ll kill you today!"

She threw herself at Zara, scratching and punching with wild abandon.

Zara curled into a tight ball, wrapping her arms around her head. For a second, she was right back in that dark room a year ago, learning to take the blows from the orderlies and the patients. It was just the same old routine.

As fists rained down on her, a soft, smooth voice cut through the chaos: "Mom, that’s enough."

The second the sound hit her ears, Zara’s fists clenched for half a heartbeat before she went limp again, her face slipping back into that empty, lifeless mask.

Ailani Rivera glided in, all grace and poise. Her pale yellow Victorian dress shimmered under the chandelier light, like she was glowing from within.

She tugged Cataleya off Zara and chided gently: "Mom, this isn’t the place for a scene. Samir brought Zara here as a guest, and the court already ruled on what happened. We shouldn’t bring it up again."

Reluctantly, Cataleya shot a death glare at Zara, who was already trying to stand again. She huffed, catching her breath: "Ailani, you’re too nice to this wicked bitch. She needs to be put in her place!"

Ailani softy rebuked her again: "That’s enough. It’s Thanksgiving, we have guests everywhere. You’re making Samir look bad."

With that, she stepped toward Zara and slipped her arm through Zara’s: "Miss Powell, let me take you to change before you catch a cold from that wet dress."

Zara tried to jerk away, but when she caught Samir’s blank, indifferent gaze, she lowered her head and followed Ailani down the hall to a private room.

Once the bedroom door clicked shut, Ailani pulled a dress from the wardrobe and tossed it right on the floor at Zara’s feet. "Change into this."

When Zara bent to pick it up, Ailani’s stiletto slammed down hard on the back of her hand.

Zara looked up at her, her face calm as still water.

Ailani sneered: "Recognize this room?"

Zara said nothing. That blank, impassive expression only stoked Ailani’s jealousy hotter.

"This is Samir’s room. You used to live here, didn’t you? But now it’s mine. I’m the one who stays here with him. How dare you even set foot in here, you dirty street rat?"

Zara’s voice was soft, steady: "Do you have a long-sleeve shirt? I’m not comfortable in dresses."

Ailani’s brow furrowed so sharp it looked like it would crack. She dragged her heel off Zara’s hand: "Did you even hear a word I just said to you?"

Zara stood up, brushed the lint from her hand onto her stained dress, and nodded: "I heard you."

Ailani stormed back to the closet, yanked out a plain dark shirt, and stomped it into the carpet with her heel over and over.

She taunted, holding it out like garbage: "Fine. Wear this instead."

Zara walked over calmly, picked the shirt up off the floor, and turned her back to Ailani to change.

Ailani’s face twisted with disbelief. What the hell was this? Zara never would have taken this humiliation lying down before, right?

She ground her teeth and hissed low: "You’re just trying to win Samir’s sympathy, aren’t you? Pretty clever tactic, Zara. But let me save you the trouble—it’s never going to work."

Finished changing, Zara held her wine-stained old sweater and turned back around, still calm as anything: "Miss Rivera, may I leave now?"

This couldn’t be Zara.

Had that rotten whore sent a lookalike to sneak in here instead?

Furious, Ailani yanked hard on Zara’s collar, glaring daggers into her face: "Who are you really?"

Zara’s voice came out almost mechanical: "Miss Rivera, you know me. I’m Zara Powell."

"Impossible! You lying bitch! Tell me where the real Zara Powell is!" Ailani seethed, raising her hand to slap Zara again.

But Zara caught her wrist mid-swing.

She held Ailani’s gaze and said, flat and steady: "You can’t hit me." Anyone else could. But not you, Ailani. And definitely not Samir.

Ailani gritted her teeth. This bitch is just putting on an act!

She tried to yank her wrist free, but for all Zara’s calm, her grip was iron-tight. She couldn’t move an inch.

The door clicked open. The familiar thud of confident footsteps echoed across the hardwood.

Ailani gasped and threw herself backward dramatically, like Zara had pushed her.

Samir crossed the room in two quick strides and caught her, steadying her: "Are you alright?"

Ailani nodded, biting her lip, tears welling up in her big brown eyes.

Samir’s gaze snapped to the still, quiet Zara standing by the wardrobe. "Did you push her, Zara?"

In that split second, Zara remembered his words from two years ago, sharp as a knife to the chest: "Just because Ailani loves me, you tried to hurt her brother?"

Her eyes flickered, so fast no one could have noticed, before she answered: "I’m sorry. It was my fault."

Samir’s jaw tightened. He closed the distance between them, until he was so close Zara could smell his cigarette smoke: "Explain it to me. Tell me it wasn’t you."

Zara stood her ground, and shook her head just barely: "I shouldn’t have pushed her. I’m sorry."

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."