The Worst Contract, The Perfect Match

2. A stranger

Zara Fox's POV

With a shattered heart and my dignity reduced to ashes, I wandered aimlessly, trapped by the echo of my own mistakes. I couldn't understand when my dreams had been trampled: I abandoned London, my home; I left behind my family, my pride, everything that defined me… for a man who turned out to be married, and then discovered that he never truly loved me, that he only used me as a means to climb the ladder.

The worst part is that my father was right. Because he had warned me.

"You don't know that man, Zara. You know nothing about him."

And I, for the first time, hadn't listened, hadn't wanted to.

I went into a modest hotel in downtown New York. Nothing luxurious, just enough to blend in. I paid in cash; I knew my father too well. If I used one of my cards, he'd find me without any trouble.

And at that moment, the last thing I needed was for Mr. Asher Fox to appear with his cold certainty and say, "I told you so."

That was my only consolation: at least, for now, my father didn't know where I was.

At some point, hunger won out over pride.

I forced myself out onto the street, aimlessly, without knowing exactly what I was looking for. I knew nothing… except one thing: if I didn't eat something soon, I was going to faint and end up in a New York hospital, the last place I wanted to be.

It was already late, so, as I wandered, I found a restaurant with bar service; just what I needed, because the only thing that could help me feel less miserable was a good meal.

I went in and sat at a table for two, next to a beautiful window.

The waiter handed me the menu and, with a thoughtful look, asked if I was feeling well. I looked at him, smiled… and replied, lying:

“Yes, perfectly.”

He nodded and took my order.

The food was delicious. Afterward, the waiter invited me to the bar area. I nodded; a drink wouldn't be bad, I thought. I accepted and followed him.

The bar was elegant, and the cocktail was impeccable. Honestly, I was starting to feel better.

Suddenly, the air grew heavier, an invisible force compelled me to look at the person about to cross the threshold.

A tall, blond man with intense blue eyes approached with a presence that was hard to ignore. I didn't know why he seemed familiar… until he turned toward the bar and the light fell on his hands.

Yes. His hands.

I recognized them before I recognized his face. I had seen them just a few days before, in London, at the private hospital where I was doing my residency.

That morning. In the emergency room, where I worked my last shift before boarding the plane.

A man had come in carrying a little girl, about five years old, in his arms. She had a fever, she was scared… and her eyes were the same deep blue as his.

The little girl clung to his neck, convinced it was the only stable thing in a world crumbling around her.

And he…

He held her with those hands that I now saw cradling a glass of amber liqueur. Large, firm, almost rough hands… and yet, capable of a tenderness that completely belied the coldness of his expression.

That detail didn't escape my notice.

I had treated that little girl.

"Alina," I whispered her name. I had heard it before, when a nurse was checking her charts. So, while I tried to bring her fever down with cold compresses, I stayed by her side, making up a silly story about giraffes who couldn't sleep unless they saw the stars. Now, remembering it, that moment returned with a soft, almost warm clarity.

He introduced himself as the father. He listened to my diagnosis without interrupting, nodded once, and left without saying thank you.

I don't usually remember faces. In the ER, faces become an indistinct sea. But that night… it wasn't his face that stayed with me.

It was only his hands.

And the way he, despite everything, held his daughter as if she were made of glass.

He wasn't wearing a wedding ring either. Not a single mark on his skin to indicate that he'd ever worn one.

Now he was there, three stools away, drinking slowly, his gaze lost somewhere that didn't belong in that bar.

Before I could think about it too much, I got up.

The impulse drew me to him.

"Excuse me…" I said, stopping beside him.

He turned his head slowly; any interruption seemed like an annoyance he assessed before tolerating it. His eyes rested on me without recognition, without warmth, only with a cold evaluation.

"Yes?" he said neutrally.

Nothing.

Not a spark. Not a trace of memory.

I felt a strange emptiness in my chest. Ridiculous, considering we had barely exchanged a few words days before. Even so, I opened my mouth, ready to remind him and ask about the little girl's health.

"I'm the doctor who treated your daughter…"

I didn't finish the sentence.

The door opened again, and this time she walked in.

Henry's wife.

I recognized her instantly. She was now wearing a perfectly tailored red dress and flawless makeup that made her look like a model off a magazine cover.

What was she doing there?

I didn't know.

But there she was, in the company of another woman.

She noticed me, strode toward me with determined steps and a blazing gaze:

"Do you really think you can come to my house?" she spat, her voice dripping with venom. "That you can come to my city and try to steal my husband from me?"

The waiter vanished. The ambient sound died away. Even the man next to me froze, her attention completely captivated.

I froze too. That woman was out of control.

"Do you know how pathetic you are?" she continued, moving closer until she was invading my space. "My husband only used you."

Every word hit its mark. Hearing them speak aloud, there, exposed and naked in front of strangers…

It was as if my skin were being ripped off.

I knew exactly what she expected: for me to break down, to cry, to run away.

But something inside me—something tired of losing—refused.

My hand, gripping the edge of the bar, loosened. It moved. And before I could stop myself, it closed around the wrist of the man beside me.

His skin was warm. His pulse, firm and steady. Even so, I felt it tense at my touch.

He turned his face slightly toward me, surprised by the intrusion… by the audacity.

And then I spoke.

“I think what you’re thinking is a big misunderstanding,” I said, looking directly at Henry’s wife. My voice was firm, calm, pretending not to crumble inside. "Let me make it clear that Henry isn't the reason I came to this country."

I barely squeezed his wrist under my fingers.

"The real reason is him..." I exclaimed, looking at the stranger, adding, "...my boyfriend...the man I'm going to marry."

The silence was absolute.

I felt the stranger freeze, trapped in that moment where he had to decide whether to back away...or play along.

The woman blinked, bewildered.

"With him?" she asked, incredulous. "You're going to marry a complete stranger to save your pride?"

Her laugh was brief. Cruel, pure mockery.

"It's not pride, it's love," I replied.

Hearing me speak, the man sat up straight enough to command respect effortlessly, without raising his voice, without losing that dangerous calm.

"Ma'am," he said, each syllable falling like a sentence. "The fact that your husband is a pathological liar doesn't give you the right to make a scene by defaming my fiancée."

He didn't let go of me. Nor did I.

He turned slightly toward me. His eyes assessed me again, but this time there was something different. "Interest."

He raised an eyebrow, almost imperceptibly.

And then, with a nonchalance that disarmed me more than anything else, he said:

"Shall we go, my love?"

He held out his hand.

"We have a wedding to plan."

Henry's wife's mouth fell open. The waiter dropped a glass. The owner let out a low whistle.

His fingers closed around mine with a firmness that wasn't tenderness.

It felt like a pact.

Without knowing it, I was about to sign the most dangerous contract of my life.

Not with a man who would lie to me.

But with one that would make me forget what it felt like to be broken.