CHAPTER 6
1691 Words
DERRICK'S POV
I saw a girl completely vulnerable for the first time.
Not the usual version of herself—always in control, calm, and composed. The woman everyone expected to have an answer for everything.
What fascinated me most wasn't that she was hurt. It was that she let me see it.
Most people try to hide their emotions. They bury them behind smiles, jokes, or silence. But for a split second, Zara's composure slipped.
She probably didn't even realize it.
We sat across from each other, staring in silence. Neither of us spoke. Neither of us moved.
Then, suddenly, something in my brain snapped.
What am I doing?
I pushed my chair back and stood abruptly.
"Goodbye."
My face remained expressionless as I walked away.
The surprise on her face was exactly what I expected.
She probably thought I would stay without saying a word.
I got into my car and drove off.
Home was where I intended to go—or at least where I should have gone. Instead, I found myself pulling into the parking lot of a bar.
I wasn't a bar person.
I hated the stench of alcohol. Maybe it was because I'd seen too many powerful men lose every ounce of dignity after a few drinks. Alcohol made people loud. Reckless. Unpredictable.
And yet, here I was, about to drink.
I tossed my keys to the valet and walked inside.
The first thing that hit me was the lighting. It wasn't warm or inviting. It was harsh enough to make my head throb.
I shut my eyes for a moment and repeated the same words to myself.
I can do this. It's just one night.
When I opened them again, I made my way to the counter and dropped onto a stool like a man whose world had suddenly stopped turning.
Before I could adjust to the atmosphere, deafening music erupted through the speakers. I winced.
"Goddamn," I muttered under my breath.
I motioned for the waitress to come over.
"Turn the goddamn music down."
She stared at me as though I had suddenly sprouted wings... or grown four heads like Brahma.
"If you don't like the music," she said, chewing her gum noisily, "get the f**k out. Nobody cares about you, Mr. Rich Boy."
My jaw tightened.
"Do you know who—"
"I don't give a f**k who you are, sir," she cut in. "You came in here looking troubled, looking for a drink. So get to it."
The words died in my throat.
One call.
That was all it would take.
One phone call to my father, and by tomorrow morning she'd be begging for another job.
Borrowed power.
The thought settled in my mind like poison.
I clenched my fists.
"I'm my own man," I muttered under my breath.
Even I didn't believe myself.
A bitter laugh escaped me.
I looked pathetic.
Zara would've handled this differently. She would've stared the waitress down until the woman looked away first. She never needed anyone else's influence to command respect.
Me?
I was a rich man's son pretending to be his own man.
Swallowing what little pride I had left, I turned back to the counter.
"Scotch," I said.
A few moments later, the waitress slid a glass in front of me.
"Neat," I reminded her.
The amber liquid caught the light, glimmering like molten gold. It smelled of smoke and oak.
I hated the smell.
I lifted the glass anyway.
I didn't deserve to be a Zane.
Maybe my father had known that long before I did.
Already in a foul mood, my expression darkened as thoughts of him forced their way into my mind.
Our relationship had always been an illusion.
To the public, we were the Zanes—the untouchable family every newspaper wanted on its front page. At charity galas, business dinners, and award ceremonies, he'd rest a hand on my shoulder and smile for the cameras like I was the son he was proud to have.
The moment the cameras disappeared, so did the smile.
I couldn't remember the last time he'd called me by my name. It was always, "Boy."
Never "Well done."
Never "I'm proud of you."
Only criticism.
"Stand straighter."
"Speak less."
"You're embarrassing me."
No matter what I achieved, it was never enough.
The first time I won a national debate competition, he asked why I hadn't won it sooner.
When I graduated at the top of my class, he merely nodded before asking what my next accomplishment would be.
Every conversation felt like an interview for a position I'd never be qualified for.
I spent years trying to earn his approval.
Better grades.
Better manners.
Better clothes.
Better posture.
Nothing worked.
Birthdays were celebrated by assistants carrying gifts they'd chosen.
My father never remembered what I liked.
Family dinners felt less like meals and more like board meetings.
I wasn't allowed to ask questions.
I wasn't expected to speak.
Only listen.
Only obey.
Sometimes business associates would joke that I didn't have my father's spine.
They'd laugh.
My father laughed louder.
I laughed too.
What else was I supposed to do?
There were entire wings of our house I wasn't allowed to enter.
Conversations that stopped the second I walked into the room.
Phone calls that ended the moment they noticed me standing there.
Whenever I asked why, the answer never changed.
"You're not ready."
Ready for what?
No one ever told me.
Sometimes I wondered if I was adopted.
Not because we looked different.
Because no father should be able to look at his own son the way mine looked at me.
Like I was an obligation.
A responsibility he'd been forced to carry.
Never someone he loved.
Maybe that was why Zara fascinated me.
She walked into every room like she belonged there.
Like she had nothing to prove to anyone.
I'd spent my entire life trying to earn a place in a family that already had my name.
The realization made my chest tighten.
Borrowed power.
Everything I had...
The money.
The cars.
The respect.
None of it belonged to me.
Without my father's name...
Who was Derrick Zane?
I stared at the glass of Scotch in front of me.
For the first time in my life...
I didn't know the answer.
I stared into the amber liquid with more force than necessary
My entire life had been built on certainty.
I always knew the right thing to say.
The right expression to wear.
The right fork to use at dinner.
The right answer in every boardroom conversation.
The right smile for every camera.
The right lie when the truth wasn't convenient.
Control.
That was all I'd ever known.
Even when my father tore me apart with a few careless words...
I remained composed.
When reporters shoved microphones in my face...
I smiled.
When people mocked me for living under my father's name...
I laughed with them.
No matter how hard life became...
I never let it show.
Because losing control wasn't an option.
It was weakness.
And weakness wasn't something a Zane could afford.
...
Then Zara happened.
For the first time...
Someone had walked into my life and completely dismantled every answer I'd spent years memorizing.
She wasn't impressed by my name.
She didn't care about my money.
She didn't fear me.
She simply...
Existed.
And somehow, that was enough to make me question everything.
I reached for the glass.
My hand trembled.
I stared at it.
It had never trembled before.
Not during presentations.
Not during negotiations.
Not while standing beside my father.
But now...
Because of one woman...
I couldn't even hold a drink steady.
Why do I react so deeply to her?
Even though she infuriated me, I always found myself wanting to be in her presence.
That was the part I couldn't understand.
I'd asked her to meet me today for business—or at least that's what I'd convinced myself. But somewhere between sending that message and watching her reaction, I'd realized the truth.
I hadn't gone there because I needed answers.
I'd gone because I wanted to see her.
I wanted to watch the way her eyes lit up whenever something genuinely amused her.
The way the corners of her lips trembled when she was trying not to laugh.
The way she'd tilt her head whenever she thought someone was lying.
Even the way she'd narrow her eyes whenever I irritated her.
It was ridiculous.
Every little thing she did replayed in my head like a song that refused to end.
When had I started noticing things like that?
When had I become... this?
I scoffed at myself.
Pathetic.
The waitress's voice dragged me back to reality.
"You okay?"
I looked up.
She was staring at me with wide eyes.
Only then did I notice the empty glasses lined up in front of me.
Sometime during the last two hours, I'd been drinking one glass after another without even tasting them.
I reached for the last one, swallowed it in a single gulp, and pushed the empty glass across the counter.
"Another."
The waitress didn't move.
Instead, she folded her arms and looked me over.
"You've had enough."
I glanced at the empty glass in my hand.
It suddenly looked too small.
Too empty.
Maybe I'd finally lost my mind.
Or maybe I'd left it back in that house with Zara.
"I came here to drink," I said, my voice low and impatient. "Now serve me a drink."
"You came here to drink, not die," she shot back without missing a beat.
For a moment, I considered arguing.
Instead, I let out a frustrated grunt and leaned back against the stool.
She wasn't the reason I was angry.
And she wasn't going to bear the weight of it.
I rubbed a hand over my face and closed my eyes.
Somewhere in London, Zara was probably sleeping peacefully.
Meanwhile...
I couldn't even get her out of my head.
Across the room, a man in a black coat stood and walked out after making a phone call.
"He's here."
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