DANGEROUS TEMPTATION

Zara’s POV I hated myself for coming to this god damn party. Eldorra had promised me it would be fun, that the costume party at that downtown loft would be “amazing.” But as soon as I stepped through the door, I realized I was the only one pretending I hadn’t already lost my soul to exhaustion. My sexy nurse outfit didn’t make matters any easier, either. People turned to stare at me as if I had done something extraordinary. The music hit me first. Thumping, bass-heavy, vibrating through my chest. I couldn’t tell if it was the beat or the alcohol swirling in my veins making me dizzy. People laughed and shouted over the sound, their heels clicking against the polished concrete floor. “Zara!” Eldorra’s voice cut through the chaos. She was dressed as a flirty cat, mask perfectly in place, tail swishing with every step. “Finally! Where have you been?” I shrugged, tugging at the hem of my mini skirt. “Helping a drunk guy find his way to the bathroom. You know, heroic stuff.” I let out a small laugh, “El, we’re twenty-five, we should be worrying about work. Not partying all night dressed like…” I couldn’t find the perfect word to use, other than slut. And that’s not very appropriate, is it? She laughed, a little too loudly. “Screw that age stuff. Who says we can’t party? We are doing fine for our age already, you need to loosen up. Come on, we’re getting drinks.” I shook my head. “I’m fine. Really.” She rolled her eyes, grabbed my hand, and dragged me to the bar anyway. The bartender barely glanced at us before sliding two sparkling cocktails across the counter. I stared at the neon pink liquid, my stomach twisting. “You’re too stiff,” Eldorra said, nudging me. “Have one. You’ll feel better.” I hesitated. Then I raised the glass and took a sip. Sweet, too sweet, and it burned my throat in a way that made me cough. Eldorra laughed and shoved another shot toward me. A random guy came to sit beside Eldorra. I was expecting her to shut the guy off as she always did to every man coming close to her. To my surprise, they were flirting. I convo fed myself it was an alcohol effect because there was no way she could seriously be walking away with the man right now. They barely even got the time to get to know each other. Crazy. I felt a pair of eyes on me. My eyes lifted and caught a guy staring at me, shooting a dangerous smirk across his lips. His zombie costume made it more uncomfortable. Ugh! My heart pounded as he walked towards me. I turned my stool to the other side and sipped my cocktail. “Hey beautiful,” He said, reeking of alcohol. I ignored him still. Then, I felt his hands on my shoulder. I froze. I didn't know whether to hit him or just take my purse and leave. I didn't want to attend anyway. His hands brushed my hair before I could make a decision. My hands moved faster than my words to come out, they landed right on his cheeks. His eyes darkened, “You slapped me?” He clenched his jaw, his face turning red too. I didn't want to wait to see what he would do to me, so my legs moved slowly forward and pounded harder. Then I felt it. The rain. I had promised myself I’d leave before it started, but Eldorra had vanished somewhere between the dance floor and the balcony. I texted her. No reply. I called her. Straight to voicemail. Fine. I could handle it. I slipped out onto the street. The rain wasn’t heavy, just enough to soak the shoulders of my dress and cling to my hair. I shivered and cursed the platform heels I hadn’t needed to wear, wishing desperately that I had an umbrella or a car waiting. I pulled out my phone and called my father. I wasn’t sure I had the balls to walk into the mansion alone after I’d almost been assaulted. And yes, I still lived in his house. Not because I wanted to. I’d always dreamed of having my own place with a small studio with concrete walls I could paint into whole other worlds. Colors dripping, blending, becoming something that felt like mine. But instead, I ended up here, running the house every time he traveled, until it became routine. Until he insisted I stay. He’d already set a no-painting rule years ago. Said it was childish. Said it distracted me from the “real future” he planned, working at Petrova Industries in the corporate department. And the day I turned eighteen and became legally responsible for myself, he threw out all my brushes and canvases. Just like that. As if he could erase the magic from my hands. Sometimes I wasn’t even sure I remembered what a paintbrush felt like. My hands were shaking, and for a second, instinct took over, the kind that reaches for the parent who should make you feel safe, even when you’re too old to expect it. “Hey, Dad. I’m… I’m stuck outside the party. It’s raining. Can you maybe send the driver or,” “I can’t do that, Zara,” he cut in immediately, voice clipped and already somewhere else. “I’m in a meeting. Just… hold on. I’ll send someone.” “Someone?” I repeated, my stomach dropping. “Who?” “Just a friend. They’ll be there soon. Don’t do anything stupid.” The call ended before I could respond. Of course it did. I stood there with the rain trickling down my face, wishing he had said he’d come himself. Wishing he had sounded worried. Wishing he had sounded like a father. I hated that a part of me still expected anything from him at all. It wasn’t the first time. God, it wasn’t even the hundredth. Every clipped conversation, every canceled promise, every “I’ll make it up to you” that dissolved into silence… it all built the same truth: I wasn’t a priority. I was an obligation he tried to manage from a distance. I remembered my sixteenth birthday. The balloons my aunt had blown up herself, the cake she pretended he bought, and the strangers she’d invited to fill the room and hide the emptiness. I’d worn a silver dress and sat by the window for hours. He had promised he’d make it this time, swore it, even. I’d believed him. Like a fool. The only thing that arrived that night was a courier with a diamond bracelet and a note: Sorry, sweetheart. Business ran late. I never wore it. It felt less like a gift and more like a receipt for the father I never really had. Eventually, I stopped asking for anything at all. No dinners. No visits. No expectations. Silence hurt less than false hope. But the truth? The pathetic, buried truth? I still wanted him to show up. Even at twenty-five. Even after everything. Every time my phone buzzed, a small, stupid part of me wished it was him saying, “I’m coming home.” Maybe that was why I stayed at the damn party longer than I should have, hoping noise and alcohol would drown the emptiness he left behind. But now, standing in the rain, the ache was louder than any music, sharp and cold. I tried to pull myself together, smoothing soaked hair off my face. The heels were a punishment from hell, but I refused to sit on the curb like some abandoned stray. People passed in loud groups, laughing, sheltered by each other while I shivered under the streetlight. Time dragged. Eventually, I forced myself out from the awning and stepped into the open street to call a cab. I was done waiting for anyone to save me, especially him. But before I could open the app, a hand tapped my shoulder. I turned, and froze. It was the same angry face from inside. “What do you want with me?” I snapped, my clothes clinging to my skin. “You humiliated me in front of everyone,” he growled. “Now I’m gonna make sure no one ever hears of you again.” My heart lurched. I tried to run, but my damn shoes betrayed me. His fist curled. “Touch her, and you’ll never use those hands again,” a voice said behind me. Low. Sharp. Deadly calm. I turned to see who it was…