Chapter Four– Breakfast with a Devil
1160 Words
Chapter Four – Breakfast with a Devil
I didn’t sleep a wink.
The couch was hard, my thoughts harder. I lay there, wrapped in a blanket that did little to fight the cold inside me, staring at the ceiling, wondering how I’d gone from a simple girl with dreams to a married woman with secrets. My life had turned into a tabloid headline—and I didn’t even get a say in the title.
How did it come to this?
My body ached from the rigid posture I had curled into during the night. Every time I closed my eyes, his face haunted me—Zayden’s cold stare, the cruel twist of his lips, the way he had gripped my wrist with terrifying control. I hated him. I hated this marriage. But most of all… I hated how a small, traitorous part of me still noticed everything about him.
His scent.
His voice.
His presence.
Morning light crept through the heavy curtains, slicing across the room in pale gold beams. I blinked at the sudden brightness, forcing myself upright even though my body protested. The faint aroma of something rich and warm drifted through the air. Coffee. It curled into my senses like a drug I hadn’t realized I craved.
I padded into the kitchen, each step dragging, my soul heavier than my body.
And there he was.
Zayden.
Shirtless.
Gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips like sin itself had dressed him. His back was to me, the muscles shifting as he poured coffee into a black ceramic mug. Every movement was effortless, practiced—like he knew exactly how devastating he looked and didn’t care.
His hair was damp from a recent shower, unruly in a way that should’ve looked messy but somehow made him more maddeningly perfect. He leaned casually against the marble counter, tapping something on his tablet, as if this morning was normal—as if everything about us wasn’t fractured beyond repair.
He glanced up. “You look like hell.”
I blinked at the insult and muttered under my breath as I reached for the water jug. “And you look like betrayal.”
He chuckled, the sound low and infuriating. “Fiery this early? You’re full of surprises.”
I avoided his gaze, pretending to focus on the water in my glass. But my traitor eyes dropped—just for a second—to the V of his abs. I cursed myself silently and pulled my gaze away.
“You always this cheerful in the morning?” I asked, voice sharp with exhaustion.
“Only when my charming wife graces me with her sleep-deprived presence,” he said, taking a sip from his mug.
I wanted to throw my glass at him.
“My father called,” he added, swiping across his tablet without looking at me.
My spine straightened. “What did you say?”
“That you’re adjusting well to married life. He was happy. Said he’s proud of you.”
Proud?
The word hit like a slap. My father—proud of this lie? Proud of the role I was playing to protect his reputation?
“Don’t involve my family in your twisted game,” I snapped.
Zayden’s brows lifted lazily. “This isn’t a game. You’re Mrs. Cole now. That makes you part of mine.”
“No. I’m part of a contract. Not your life. Not your world.” My hands shook slightly as I set the glass down.
“You really think you can keep that line between us forever?” he asked, turning to fully face me. “You’ve stepped into my world, Amira. You wear my name, my ring. Whether you like it or not, you're playing in my arena now.”
“And what an arena it is,” I shot back. “Lies. Power plays. Control. I didn’t sign up to be your puppet.”
He moved toward me, slow and deliberate. I could feel the shift in the air, like static before a storm.
“You could’ve walked away,” he said quietly. “But you didn’t. You said ‘I do.’”
I glared at him. “You blackmailed me.”
He tilted his head. “Semantics.”
I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. “Why me?” I whispered. “Why not some willing actress who would’ve played the perfect wife?”
Zayden stopped inches away, his gaze darkening. “Because they’re predictable. They come with scripts. You? You burn. You resist. You keep me guessing. That makes the story real.”
I swallowed hard. My voice was small when I spoke. “So this really is all about headlines.”
He leaned in, his breath brushing my skin as he murmured, “No. I married you because watching you squirm… is the best entertainment I’ve had in years.”
I recoiled, fury blazing in my chest. “You’re disgusting.”
“Maybe,” he said with a shrug, “but you’re still here.”
He walked past me, grabbing his tablet again, as if the conversation had ended.
But it hadn’t.
I stared at his back, my body trembling with something I couldn’t name. Hate. Frustration. A fear that I might never get out of this alive. A deeper fear that part of me didn’t want to escape at all.
He turned, as if sensing the turmoil swirling inside me. “Breakfast?” he asked casually.
I blinked. “What?”
He nodded toward the other counter. A tray was laid out with croissants, fruit, scrambled eggs, and two mugs. “I ordered room service. Figured you’d want to start adjusting to the perks of being a billionaire’s wife.”
“You think toast will fix this marriage?” I scoffed.
“No,” he said, smirking. “But maybe it’ll shut you up for five minutes.”
My eyes narrowed. “You're really pushing your luck.”
He leaned against the island, sipping his coffee again. “Good. Keep pushing back. I’m starting to enjoy our mornings.”
I stared at the food, then at him, and realized this was his tactic—confuse me, shake me, rattle my defenses until I didn’t know what was real anymore.
But two could play that game.
I grabbed a fork, cut into the eggs, and took a bite. Then I met his gaze, calm and cold. “Just so you know, I’m not breaking.”
He smiled. “We’ll see.”
He turned back to his tablet, but the energy between us buzzed like a live wire. I sat down across from him, eating slowly, deliberately, matching his calm with my own silent war.
Let him think he had the upper hand.
Let him think I was adjusting.
Because the longer he underestimated me, the more time I had to plan my next move.
And make no mistake—
I would have the last word.
- Writer
