The city was quieter on the drive back from Willow's than it had any right to be.
Rooftops blurred into streaks of neon and shadow, reflections slicing across the windshield like memories that refused to stay buried.
The hum of the engine filled the silence between them — the kind of silence that didn't soothe but vibrated under the skin.
Zane kept his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, jaw locked tight.
The ghost of her kiss still burned against his mouth, a brand he couldn't will away.
When he pulled into his driveway, the Maserati purred down to a low, steady hush — the only sound left in a world that had gone utterly still.
He killed the engine but didn't move.
The house loomed before him, all glass and steel — immaculate, sterile, safe.
And yet, the longer he sat there, the less safe he felt.
Control — the thing he'd clung to all night — loosened just enough to let the truth bleed through.
That kiss hadn't been part of her plan alone.
He'd wanted it.
From the moment her fingers brushed his collar, from the moment she looked up at him with that impossible blend of defiance and hurt — he'd wanted her.
He'd wanted her long before tonight.
Back when she still belonged to Miles.
Back when every laugh, every glance, every accidental touch at company dinners had felt like trespassing.
He'd buried it under sarcasm, under ice.
Every clipped remark, every cool smile had been a leash around something feral inside him.
But tonight, that leash had snapped.
He leaned back, resting his head against the seat, staring at the faint outline of her window across the dark skyline.
His rational mind — the one that ruled negotiations and contracts — tried to dissect what happened with the precision of a surgeon.
Fact: She kissed him to make Miles jealous.
Observation: It worked.
Conclusion: She used him.
The logic held.
But logic wasn't what haunted him.
It was the way her breath had caught when he kissed her back.
The way her body stilled — not from fear, but from shock.
The lie had cracked in her eyes long before her lips left his.
He'd told himself his reaction was instinct. A reflex. Mercy, maybe — giving her what she needed to make her ex bleed.
But it hadn't felt like mercy.
It had felt like possession.
He closed his eyes and saw it again — her skin lit by citylight, her pulse trembling against his fingers, her scent winding through his head until he could barely breathe.
She was chaos disguised as calm.
A storm he'd mistaken for shelter.
And he'd stepped straight into it willingly.
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard, trying to shake the image — the tilt of her chin, the tremor of her lips, the wild, fragile ache that lived beneath her composure.
He told himself to stop thinking about it.
He told himself it didn't matter.
He told himself it was strategy.
But lies, even the useful ones, had weight.
He sat there for a long time, unmoving. The car's engine ticked as it cooled, each sound sharp against the silence.
His jaw flexed once, twice, before frustration finally broke through the fog.
He pushed the door open and stepped into the night air, the sudden cold biting against his skin.
The quiet suburban street looked too neat, too composed — a parody of control.
Zane locked the car without looking back and started toward the front door, his steps steady but his thoughts in ruin.
Every movement felt mechanical. Unlock. Step inside. Lights on.
But his mind was still on her — the taste of her defiance, the pulse of her mouth, the way his control had fractured with one calculated kiss.
He paused in the hallway, the silence of his home pressing in around him. Everything was perfect: minimalist décor, neutral colors, glass and steel that gleamed under dim recessed light.
It looked like success.
It felt like emptiness.
She wanted revenge — that much was certain.
She wanted to hurt Miles, to tear apart the illusion he'd built.
Zane could help her do that.
A dangerous thought took shape — sleek, logical, seductive.
If she wanted vengeance, he could make himself indispensable to it.
Guide her. Protect her. Be the steady hand steering her chaos.
And maybe — just maybe — she'd start to lean toward him.
Not from pity. Not from confusion.
But because he'd be the only one who understood what she really wanted: justice, power, release.
He smiled faintly — a smile without warmth.
He was good at strategy. Always had been.
This was simply another kind of war.
He'd help her destroy the man who broke her.
And in the process, he'd make sure she could never quite let go of him either.
The thought should have disturbed him. It didn't.
He moved deeper into the house, stripping off his jacket, loosening his cuffs. The air smelled faintly of cedar and iron — like control, like solitude.
Yet under it all, he still swore he could smell her perfume.
Her taste lingered too — subtle but haunting, a mix of defiance and something softer she hadn't meant to give away.
He'd kissed women before — neatly, efficiently, even passionately.
But this… this had been different.
It had been alive.
Unscripted.
Her fingers had curled at the base of his neck as if she didn't trust the ground beneath her. Her breath had trembled like something breaking free.
And for one reckless second, he'd wanted to pull her closer — to take, to claim, to forget everything except the sound she made when she stopped pretending.
The thought alone infuriated him.
He wasn't that man anymore.
Desire was distraction. Emotion was liability.
He'd built an empire on discipline — on the ability to want nothing he couldn't control.
And yet one woman — the wrong woman — had shattered that equilibrium with a single, deliberate kiss.
He stopped at the base of the stairs, staring at his reflection in the glass balustrade. His own eyes looked foreign — darker, hungrier.
He wanted her. Not kindly. Not safely.
Completely.
He wanted to strip away her vengeance and her lies until all that remained was the truth of what they'd both tried to deny.
For a heartbeat, he imagined her there — hair undone, voice low, the city outside fading to black. Her hand finding his again, this time not to provoke or punish, but to surrender.
The fantasy was so vivid it almost frightened him.
He forced it down, locking it behind logic and self-control — his twin gods.
If he lost control now, he'd lose her forever.
No. He'd wait.
He'd let her burn with the same curiosity, the same hunger that now consumed him.
He'd let it spread, slow and silent, until the only person she couldn't outmaneuver was him.
When she finally came to him — not out of anger, not out of revenge, but want — she'd understand.
What that kiss had really awakened wasn't guilt.
It wasn't payback.
It was ruin — shared, inevitable, exquisite.