His Pup, Her Secret

Chapter One

Zara's POV

I will stand in a lawyer's office on the forty-second floor of a building I could never afford to dust or so much as enter, three months from now, and I will sign my name to a piece of paper, selling the next year of my life to the most dangerous man in New York.

I will not cry. I will not tremble. I will not even so much as flinch. I will read every word. I will strike two paragraphs out and add a third, and slide it back across the desk as the deal of the lifetime has somehow become mine.

But that's three months away.

Now I'm on a sidewalk in Manhattan outside a wedding chapel with a battered suitcase and two moving boxes containing the total of everything I own in the world. The sidewalk is likely more per square foot than I could ever pay for the entirety of my apartment.

And I am fighting with everything I have against losing it all.

* * *

Beside a gallery filled with unnamed paintings stood the chapel, placed on West 57th Street just before a hotel charging more per night than my entire month's rent. From each windowsill, pink roses mixed with white lilies tumbled outward, unfurling into the street below. Those blooms - my favorites - had come up during our third meeting with Kaia Monroe, seated across from me at a booth in an Atlantic Avenue diner, her question lingering: what sort of person am I?

The sort that finds ease in little moments, those were the words spoken. A person drawn to quiet choices came to mind then.

It came back to her. Naturally, it did. Following that, they became part of the decorations at her wedding to another person.

For some time, I remained still on the pavement, eyes fixed upon the flowers. After that pause, the suitcase was lifted, posture adjusted, and movement began toward the entrance.

A figure appeared ahead, spotted at twenty feet. Tall. Dressed in dark fabric. Expression fixed, unmoving by design. Movement blocked suddenly, no speech offered.

"I need to see Kaia," I said.

"No, you don’t." His voice was flat and final. "Get out of here."

That glance told more than words could. A fast look, then silence. At the edge of his lips, a faint rise appeared. On my body: plain white cotton, denim split just above the knee, footwear worn thin from years. One piece of luggage moved unevenly, one wheel refusing to turn. Cardboard stacked closely, sealed with leftover adhesive - found buried behind cupboard dust.

That morning, reflection came in a diner’s restroom mirror. The locks on my apartment door had been swapped by the landlord at dawn. With no place left to turn, I ended up there, rinsing water over my skin. Appearance was clear to me - seen under flickering light above a chipped sink.

Yet I had taken a shower. Hair rinsed, clean. The scent lingered - strawberry, coconut - a brand bought since age sixteen, chosen for its price: three dollars, found at the drugstore. Effectiveness mattered. Dirt did not cling to me. The threat came from nowhere within. Only the lack of money shaped how that man saw me, as if his shoe had crushed something foul on the pavement.

"I’m not leaving," I said. "Not until I see her."

"Ma’am - "

"If you don’t let me in," I said quietly, "I will stand right here on this sidewalk where every single guest walking into this chapel will have to walk past me and my suitcase and my boxes. And I will make sure every one of them wonders why I am here."

Today, Kaia Monroe would find it unacceptable. Before the Voss family, above all others, such a thing holds no appeal. Not now - never under these eyes.

A quiet tension showed in his clenched teeth. For several seconds, he looked directly at me without moving. Only after that did he take the phone from his pocket.

* * *

Three minutes passed before the door opened again.

Inside the chapel struck hard. Heavy fragrance filled the air - rich, thick, stopping breath - one whiff said everything. Gowns on women priced beyond what my father owed anyone. Suits for men are usually found under glass in glossy pages. Not one fold out of place. A stray strand nowhere in sight. Each guest gleamed so sharply it turned my frayed denim into something almost rude by comparison.

Out of nowhere, a whisper cut through the air. Cream fabric hugged her frame while she spoke - not quite to me. The words hung there, thin and sharp. Was someone living on the streets nearby? That seemed to be what she meant.

Her friend spoke up. The scent was noticeable.

On I went. Head high, gaze ahead, refusing to let either one catch a single wince on my face. Yet I knew it was there. Deep inside. Like pressure building behind your ribs before the cut even registers, smooth and quiet until the chill settles, then the weight grows.

Strawberry sweetness mixed with coconut drifted from my hair. That scent, I was certain of it.

Some say poor folks carry a certain odor. To those with money, it hits their nose even from afar.

A hush fell as we reached the last door down a narrow hall. Underfoot, smooth stone stretched cold and wide. Overhead hung glass lights, dazzling, maybe worth every penny I once paid for school. Two raps came fast from his knuckles. The door swung open. He moved back without a word.

"Make it quick," he said.

* * *

I stepped inside.

Strange how the space felt. Thick white carpet, soft enough to silence the roll of my suitcase. Gold-framed mirror stretching nearly to the ceiling. Blooms arranged neatly - on tables, ledges, even beside the bed. The dresser held cosmetics stacked high, far beyond anything I’d ever collected.

There stood she.

Kaia Monroe.

There stood the woman, facing her reflection, wearing white silk stitched just for how she sits and moves. Not quite loose, not tight either - it hugged where it should. Up went her black hair, twisted high as the wind did it, though someone spent ages making chaos look calm. Blue eyes caught mine through the glass first thing, even before her shoulders swung my way.

Even after four years, her beauty stayed unmatched in my eyes. Time did nothing to fade it.

Zara. That tone again - measured, steady. The one she wore like armor during long conference calls, hiding every flicker of unease beneath calm syllables.

"Hello there, Kaia," I called out.

Out of nowhere, a comment meant to slice clean through the lace and roses, and that practiced stillness across her features. But what slipped out were just two clumsy words. There I stayed, gripping my suitcase as if dropping off a package at the wrong address.

Still, her face stayed the same. “This place isn’t meant for you.”

"You sent me a termination letter," I said. "By email. After four years."

"Zara - "

"I graduated top of my class," I said. My voice was steady. I had practiced this in the diner bathroom at six in the morning, speaking quietly to my own reflection. "I passed seven rounds of interviews. I hit every quarterly target. I earned that job. You know I earned it."

Back facing the glass now. Calm sat on her features. Too calm, that stillness burned.

"The company made a decision," she said.

"You are the company," I said. "You are the one who called HR. I know you did, Kaia. I need that job back. My dad’s debt. My grandmother’s medical bills. I have nowhere - " My voice cracked on the last word, and I hated myself for it. I swallowed and pushed through. "I have nowhere to go. You know that. You know everything about me, and you know what losing that job means. So I am asking you. Not as someone you used to be with. Just as a person. Give me my job back."

A pause stretched between us, her gaze fixed. Behind those eyes, a flicker - maybe regret, though Kaia Monroe didn’t strike me as someone who made room for it.

Not possible, she replied.

"Can’t or won’t?"

Back at the mirror, her hand moved toward the lipstick sitting on the vanity. The tube came into her grip without hurry.

"You need to leave, Zara. I’m getting married in ten minutes."

* * *

I left.

Back along the shiny floor I went, bag thumping step by step, packages stacked against my chest, cheeks wet with tears I couldn’t hold. The position wasn’t mine anymore. Truth hit right when I stepped through the door. Deeper than that - truth whispered in when the message landed late Tuesday night, just four sentences, no commas out of place, pure Kaia style. Sharp edges. Done before it could be discussed.

It was never about words. What mattered was her noticing me. Her gaze had to land on the wreckage left behind.

My hand brushed across my face, knuckles first. Around the bend, the hall stretched wide.

Then came the moment I stepped forward, only to meet a solid surface head-on.

Only it wasn’t brick or stone. A person stood there instead. When we hit, something hard sliced across my shirt - the corner of his jewel-tipped pin. Fabric split open fast, noise cracking low like crumpled tissue pulled apart by force.

Open went the front of my shirt.

Ah - " My fingers caught the cloth, shoving it shut while stuff spilled off my arms, crashing down. Eyes lifted. Floor scattered.

Standing there, he took up too much space. Above six feet, maybe more, towering in a way that made my neck ache just from being near. Hair black as ink, tailored coat hugging broad shoulders. A face carved sharply, one where balance mattered too much to be accidental. Then those eyes - light gray, almost washed out, like clouds heavy with rain - fixed on me without blinking, showing something quiet, something I did not recognize until later.

Fury never showed up. Shame stayed away, too.

Something more focused than either.

"I’m sorry," I said automatically. "I wasn’t - "

"Zara Ellis."

That word. Spoken like he’d known it forever. Not asked. Just given back, familiar.

I stopped.

This stranger stood in front of me like a shape from a dream I couldn’t recall. A face unknown, yet suddenly close. Never crossed paths until now. His presence felt odd, out of place. First time spotting him - right here, right now.

Down he stared, his eyes like clouds before thunder rolls. Silence came instead of words. Past his shoulder, figures in black coats kept space between them and us - not guards ready to step forward, yet ones trained well enough to fade when needed.

One hand held shut my split shirt while I stared at the man who spoke my name like he’d known me forever. Boxes spilled open on shiny stone tiles, their contents strewn without care. The suitcase leaned crooked, its balance lost long before this moment. Here in the hall of a wedding too rich for any guest list I belonged to stood me - wheel cracked, cloth torn, cheeks stiff from dried salt.

This man-whatever he turned out to be - held my gaze as if my presence fit a plan long made. He stood still, eyes steady, not surprised in the least.

"How do you know my name?" I asked.

For a while, he just looked at me, steady. Then - his lips shifted slightly, one edge lifting. Less like joy, more like a thought made visible. A gesture trimmed close, nothing wasted.

"I’ve been waiting for you to show up," he said.