CHAPTER 8
1374 Words
ZARA'S POV
Holed up in my apartment, I was still shaken by what had happened with Derrick on Tuesday night.
The room had remained exactly as I'd left it two days ago.
Curtains drawn.
Dirty coffee mug abandoned on the bedside table.
My university bag tossed carelessly onto the floor.
The only thing that had changed was me.
I'd barely slept.
Every time exhaustion threatened to drag me under, memories of Tuesday night came rushing back, forcing my eyes open all over again.
I rolled onto my back and stared blankly at the ceiling.
I pushed myself out of bed with a groan and shuffled toward the bathroom.
The woman staring back at me in the mirror barely looked like me.
Dark circles framed my eyes, my hair was a mess, and exhaustion clung to my face.
I looked... human.
Pathetic.
As I reached for my toothbrush, my gaze caught on the faint bruise around my wrist.
My fingers froze.
Tuesday.
Derrick's hand had wrapped around my wrist before I lost my balance.
He hadn't grabbed me to hurt me.
He'd grabbed me to keep me from falling.
My thumb brushed lightly over the fading mark.
Before I realized it...
I smiled.
It was small.
Barely there.
But it was real.
The moment I noticed it, the smile vanished.
I snatched my hand away as though the bruise had burned me.
"Get a grip, Zara," I muttered to my reflection.
"He's your enemy."
The woman in the mirror didn't look convinced.
Neither was I.
How could I have been so careless?
Years.
It had taken years to become the woman my father wanted.
Years of learning not to trust.
Years of teaching myself to read lies before people spoke them.
Years of convincing myself that emotions were weaknesses waiting to be exploited.
And Derrick had dismantled those walls in a matter of days.
I laughed bitterly.
If Malik knew half of what had happened between us...
He wouldn't hesitate.
He'd put a bullet in my head himself.
The realization should have terrified me.
Instead...
I felt exhausted.
Yesterday's lectures had come and gone without me.
My phone had buzzed with messages from classmates asking where I'd disappeared to.
I ignored every single one.
My phone buzzed again.
A message.
Maya.
"You skipped class again."
Another one followed almost immediately.
Mr. Whitmore asked "where you were."
I stared at the screen without replying.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Then another message.
"Are you okay?"
A simple question.
One I didn't know how to answer.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard before locking the phone instead.
No.
I wasn't okay.
But people like me didn't get the luxury of falling apart.
Facing my professors sounded difficult enough.
Facing Derrick?
Impossible.
I buried my face deeper into the pillow.
Thank God he'd walked away when he did.
If he'd stayed another minute...
I honestly didn't know what would have happened.
The memory replayed against my will.
His hand brushing mine.
The concern in his eyes.
The way he'd looked at me—not with suspicion, not with pity—but with genuine worry.
No one had looked at me like that in years.
Maybe ever.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
"No..."
I whispered into the empty apartment.
Don't think about him.
Don't.
Because every time I did...
I found another reason to like him.
And that was dangerous.
Beyond the mission...
Beyond the lies...
Beyond the name Derrick Thomas...
He was simply...
Kind.
People dismissed him as Zang Thomas's irresponsible son.
The rich boy.
The flirt.
The playboy.
They saw expensive watches.
Sports cars.
Designer suits.
A charming smile.
I saw something different.
I saw the way he paid attention when people spoke.
The way he remembered tiny details everyone else forgot.
The way he'd noticed my limp before I'd even realized I was limping.
The way he'd recognized pain I'd spent years hiding behind carefully practiced smiles.
Most people saw coincidence.
Derrick saw people.
That scared me more than anything else.
Because people like him...
People who looked too closely...
Eventually found the truth.
I groaned and buried my face in the mattress before lightly banging my forehead against it.
"What the hell am I doing?"
Thinking about Derrick again.
"I don't care about him."
The lie tasted bitter.
"I don't care."
I repeated it again.
And again.
Until the words sounded completely meaningless.
Silence settled over the apartment.
The rain outside had started again, tapping softly against the windows.
London never seemed to run out of rain.
I dragged myself out of bed and wandered toward the kitchen.
The apartment felt strangely empty.
Cold.
Too quiet.
I switched on the kettle out of habit.
By the time the water finished boiling, I'd already lost my appetite.
The coffee went untouched.
I stood beside the window instead, watching people hurry along the streets below with umbrellas raised against the rain.
Normal people.
People whose biggest concern today was probably getting to work on time.
I almost envied them.
My phone vibrated.
The sound sliced through the silence.
I frowned.
The screen lit up.
Malik.
For several seconds...
I simply stared at it.
He hadn't called me in two days.
Not after our last argument.
Not after telling me I'd become an embarrassment to the family.
The phone continued vibrating.
I almost ignored it.
Instead...
I answered.
"Hello, sir."
Silence.
Neither of us spoke.
Even through the phone, his presence felt suffocating.
Finally—
"You're still angry."
It wasn't a question.
"You never apologized."
"I won't."
His answer came immediately.
"Because I meant every word."
The words landed exactly where he'd intended.
Straight through my chest.
Of course he meant them.
He always did.
No matter what I achieved...
No matter how many impossible assignments I completed...
No matter how much blood stained my hands...
I'd never be enough.
Something inside me quietly cracked.
"Why did you call me, Malik?"
The silence that followed felt endless.
When he finally spoke again...
His voice had become frighteningly calm.
"What..."
"...did you just call me?"
"Your name."
I leaned against the kitchen counter.
"Malik."
His breathing grew heavier.
"I see London has made you forget your place."
"No."
I smiled bitterly.
"You did that."
For a brief second...
Neither of us spoke.
Then he laughed.
It wasn't warm.
It wasn't amused.
It was the kind of laugh that warned people they were moments away from being buried.
"I didn't call to argue."
His voice became ice.
"I called because Rafe Orion arrived in London this morning."
Every muscle in my body froze.
"He'll finish what you couldn't."
Everything after that became distant.
Rafe Orion.
I'd only met him twice.
Twice had been enough.
He never raised his voice.
Never smiled.
Never celebrated victories.
Yet hardened killers lowered their heads whenever he entered a room.
He wasn't feared because he was loud.
He was feared because he was efficient.
Failure simply didn't exist in Rafe Orion's world.
And now...
He was here.
Cleaning up my mess.
Just like always.
"...ashamed..."
My father's voice echoed faintly through the speaker.
"...disappointment..."
I stopped listening.
He wasn't saying anything I hadn't heard a hundred times before.
Without another word...
I ended the call.
The apartment fell silent once more.
I stared at my reflection in the dark window.
For a long time...
Neither of us moved.
Then I walked into my bedroom.
Opened the bedside drawer.
Inside lay the pistol I'd promised myself I wouldn't touch unless absolutely necessary.
Beside it sat my forged passport.
A combat knife.
And a worn photograph I'd spent years pretending didn't matter.
I picked up the pistol.
Checked the magazine.
Loaded.
Ready.
Just like me.
Outside, rain continued to fall over London.
Rafe Orion thought he could steal my mission.
My father thought I wasn't strong enough to finish it.
They were both wrong.
Zang Thomas would fall.
And when he did...
It would be by my hands.
Knock.
I froze.
Knock.
My grip tightened around the pistol.
Knock.
Three slow, deliberate knocks.
Nobody knew where I lived.
Not my classmates.
Not Derrick.
Not even most members of the organization.
A chill crawled down my spine.
So...
Who the hell was standing outside my door?
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