Wired to betray - between loyalty and you

CHAPTER 2

ZARA'S POV

I stared at my phone for nearly a minute before dialing.

I was dreading it.

But it had to happen.

"Hello, Daddy," I said, using the specific voice I reserved for moments when I'd done something wrong and desperately needed him not to notice immediately.

"What are you doing, Zee?"

I took a slow breath.

"How do I explain just how badly I messed up?"

A pause.

Then—and this was the thing about my father, the reason he was both the best and most terrifying person I knew—he laughed.

"How bad could you possibly mess up?"

"Very bad, Dad."

The laughter stopped.

"It's alright," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet tone that was somehow far worse than shouting. "Unless you've compromised the plan."

Silence.

"I... I'm sorry, Dad."

I heard him exhale. Slow. Deliberate.

"What happened, princess?" His voice softened just enough to make me feel worse. "Tell me."

"He bumped into me and I—I said some things, and he knows my name and—"

"Fix it."

Not loud.

Not a shout.

Just two words.

Quiet.

Absolute.

Then the call ended.

I sat staring at the blank screen long after it went dark.

Fix it.

Right.

Simple.

Easy.

Sure.

Panicked, I opened my laptop and logged into Imperial College London's student portal, the university's internal messaging system. My fingers trembled slightly as I navigated through the interface.

I found his profile almost immediately.

Derrick Zang.

Bold.

Unapologetic.

His profile picture looked effortlessly expensive—black shirt, Rolex on his wrist, one hand tucked into his pocket, the kind of smile that suggested the world had never successfully told him no.

I stared at it longer than I should have.

How do I fix this?

What do I even say?

I opened a message.

Typed.

Deleted it.

Typed again.

Hey, Derrick. It's Zara. We met yesterday... in the corridor.

I stared at the words.

My hands were still.

My chest wasn't.

Somewhere beneath my ribs, something was running calculations I hadn't authorised—assessing him, assessing me, assessing what this mission had just become now that his face had a name and his name had a face.

Neither of them was as simple as the file that sat in my father's office.

Before I could overthink it again, I pressed send.

Then I held my breath.

One minute.

Five.

Twenty.

Nothing.

No reply.

I placed my phone face down on the counter and did what any reasonable person would do while spiralling—I went looking for food.

The fridge was empty.

Not even eggs.

Not even something I could burn and blame on stress.

I shut the fridge with more force than necessary and stood in the middle of my apartment.

Hungry.

Anxious.

Completely out of options.

Stressed, frustrated, and exhausted, I decided sleep was the only sensible option left.

The moment my head touched the pillow...

I was gone.

FUCK.

That was my first coherent thought of the morning.

Not good morning.

Not today is a new day.

Just that.

Loud.

Capital-lettered.

Rattling around my skull at 4:30 a.m. while my alarm shrieked at me like it had a personal vendetta.

I silenced it with more aggression than necessary and lay there staring at the ceiling.

Yesterday had been a disaster.

A Grade-A, catastrophic, entirely self-inflicted disaster.

I should have apologized.

Picked up my notebook.

Smiled.

Said, "Sorry. My fault."

Mission intact.

Instead...

I'd opened my very big, very stupid mouth.

And now the entire plan was hanging by a thread.

I groaned into my pillow, long and dramatic, the kind of groan that deserved an audience.

The universe was personally, specifically, and deliberately against me.

I had evidence.

Eventually—because even self-pity has a time limit—I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower.

I stayed there longer than I intended, letting the hot water loosen the knot between my shoulders.

It didn't help.

The tension wasn't in my muscles.

It was in my head.

By the time I stepped out, wrapped in my white-and-gold towel, the clock read 5:41 a.m.

I stopped in front of the mirror and studied my reflection.

Okay.

Still me.

That was encouraging.

I had a rule.

No matter how badly a day began...

You looked the part anyway.

My mother taught me that.

"People see you before they hear you," she'd always say. "Make the first glance count."

So I dressed with intention.

A crisp white tailored shirt.

Fitted black trousers.

Black heels.

Simple.

Elegant.

Professional.

My long brown curls disappeared into a loose bun, leaving a few strands to frame my face in a way that looked effortless...

...and somehow took eleven minutes to achieve.

Makeup came next.

Concealer.

Mascara.

Lip gloss.

Nothing dramatic.

Just enough to remind the mirror—and myself—that yesterday hadn't beaten me.

When I finished, I stepped back and folded my arms.

I tilted my head to one side.

Then the other.

I clicked my tongue softly.

"Okay," I murmured to my reflection.

"Still got it."

Outside, London had decided to cooperate for once.

The heavy grey clouds had drifted apart, allowing pale winter sunlight to spill across the rooftops.

I checked the time.

If I left before 6:30, I could stop somewhere for breakfast.

My stomach had been filing formal complaints since yesterday afternoon, and I had ignored every single one.

Today...

I'd negotiate.

I grabbed my handbag, my car keys, and whatever remained of my dignity before heading for the door.

My hand had barely touched the handle when my phone buzzed.

I froze.

Slowly, I turned back.

One notification.

Derrick Zang.

For three full seconds, I simply stared at his name.

Then I opened the message.

It contained exactly one thing.

An address.

Nothing else.

No greeting.

No explanation.

No punctuation.

Just an address.

I frowned at the screen.

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

The university parking lot was already beginning to fill by the time I pulled in.

Students crossed between rows of parked cars with coffee cups in hand, some laughing, others too busy staring at their phones to notice the world around them.

Normally, I'd be one of them.

Today...

My mind was somewhere else.

My father's voice refused to leave me alone.

Fix it.

Those two words had been echoing in my head since yesterday afternoon.

As though it were that simple.

As though Derrick Zang came with an instruction manual.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.

Maybe I should've sent another message.

Maybe I should've apologized properly.

Which was why I almost drove straight into him.

My foot slammed on the brake.

The car lurched.

My heart stopped.

A figure stood directly in front of my hood.

Tall.

Dark coat.

Hands buried in his pockets.

Derrick Zang.

For one horrifying second, we simply stared at each other.

Then...

Very slowly...

One eyebrow rose.

I closed my eyes.

Of course.

Of all the people in London...

Of course it had to be him.