CONTRACTUALLY STUCK.

CHAPTER 5: Collisions and Other Bad Timing

ZARA

If there is one thing Christmas teaches you, it is that unresolved family tension does not evaporate with leftover cookies and forced smiles. It marinates. It ferments. It waits patiently until January, when it can reappear as bitterness with a side of unsolicited opinions meant thinking. Thinking about my father’s words. About my mother’s careful silences. About money I was not supposed to worry about but somehow always felt pressing against my chest.

So I walked.

New York City mornings after the holidays have a strange energy. People move like they are recovering from something emotional. Shops reopen with hesitant optimism. Cars honk like they are reminding themselves how to exist again.

I ended up near a mixed use building downtown, the kind that tries to be everything at once. Offices above. Cafés below. Neutral colors. Expensive glass. A place where people wore confidence like perfume.

I was debating whether to buy coffee or save my dignity when I heard a voice that made my spine stiffen.

“You’re late.”

Oh no.

I turned slowly, like maybe the universe would change its mind if I did not acknowledge it.

It did not.

Julian Marcus Astor stood a few feet away, phone in hand, coat buttoned like winter personally offended him. He looked exactly like he had the last time I saw him. Controlled. Polished. Slightly irritated at the concept of existing.

Our eyes met.

The air thickened.

My first instinct was to walk away.

My second instinct was to stay out of spite.

I chose poorly.

“You again,” I said.

His gaze flicked over me, sharp and assessing, like he was checking for damage. “This city is smaller than I thought.”

“Or you just have bad luck,” I replied. “Have you considered apologizing to it?”

His jaw tightened. “I am not in the mood.”

“That makes two of us,” I said. “Congratulations. We are bonding.”

He ignored that. Of course he did. “What are you doing here?”

I laughed once. Short. Humorless. “Breathing. Walking. Existing in public spaces. All things I am still legally allowed to do.”

“Are you always like this?” he asked.

“Only when I’m provoked,” I said. “Or tired. Or dealing with men who think the world schedules itself around them.”

He stepped closer. Not aggressively. Deliberately. Like he knew exactly how much space to take without crossing a line.

“You seem to enjoy antagonizing me.”

“Incorrect,” I said. “I enjoy antagonizing arrogance. You just happen to be a very efficient delivery system.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Anger, yes, but also something sharper. Something personal.

“Still riding that moral high horse?” he asked.

I smiled tightly. “Still confusing money with immunity?”

Silence settled between us, heavy and humming.

I noticed then that he looked tired. Not in the dramatic, CEO way. In the real way. The way that settles under the eyes and stiffens the shoulders.

Christmas had not been kind to him either.

Good.

“Last time we met,” he said slowly, “you caused a scene.”

“You were rude to an old man,” I shot back. “You caused the scene. I just narrated it.”

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“And I don’t owe you respect,” I said. “Look at us. Equal footing.”

His lips curved. Not a smile. More like an acknowledgment of a problem he had not planned for.

“You’re very confident for someone who doesn’t know who she’s dealing with.”

“Oh, I know exactly who I’m dealing with,” I said. “A man who thinks being busy excuses being unkind.”

His eyes darkened. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“You’re right,” I said quietly. “But I know enough.”

That landed.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. Cars passed. Someone laughed nearby. Life continued, rude and inconsiderate.

He exhaled, slow and controlled. “If this is another lecture, spare me.”

“It’s not,” I said. “I’m done lecturing. I’m tired.”

Something in my voice must have shifted, because his expression changed. Not softened. Sharpened. Like he had just noticed a c***k.

“Tired of what?” he asked.

I raised an eyebrow. “Bold of you to ask personal questions now.”

He did not look away. “Answer it.”

I scoffed. “You don’t get to demand my vulnerability like it’s a boardroom report.”

“Then don’t pretend you know mine,” he said.

There it was.

Raw. Brief. Gone as soon as it appeared.

I crossed my arms. “Fair.”

Another silence. Less hostile. More dangerous.

“Why are you really here?” he asked.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I said.

“I work here,” he replied flatly.

“On a public holiday week?” I smirked. “You really are allergic to peace.”

Something like amusement flashed across his face. “Someone has to keep things running.”

“Must be exhausting,” I said. “Carrying the weight of capitalism on your shoulders.”

He almost smiled.

Almost.

“Are you always this insufferable?” he asked.

“Only around people who deserve it,” I said sweetly.

We stared at each other, locked in that familiar tension that felt like sparring without rules.

Then my phone buzzed.

I glanced down. A message from my mother. Short. Careful. Asking if I had eaten.

The normalcy of it hit me harder than expected.

Julian noticed the shift. “Problem?”

“No,” I said quickly. “Just life.”

He nodded, like he understood that more than he wanted to.

“Zara.”

The way he said my name startled me.

“Yes?”

“You should be careful,” he said. “The way you speak. The way you challenge people.”

I laughed, tired and sharp. “Is that a threat or advice?”

“An observation,” he said. “The world isn’t kind to women who refuse to shrink.”

Something in my chest tightened.

“And yet,” I said softly, “here I am. Still standing.”

He held my gaze, something unreadable passing between us.

“You’re trouble,” he said finally.

“Coming from you,” I replied, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

A beat.

Then, unexpectedly, he stepped back.

“This conversation is going nowhere,” he said.

“Most honest thing you’ve said all day,” I replied.

He turned to leave, then paused. Looked back.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, like the words tasted strange.

“Happy New Year,” I shot back. “Try being nicer in it.”

He shook his head, a breath of a laugh escaping before he could stop it.

Then he was gone.

I stood there for a moment, heart racing, mind buzzing.

Unplanned meeting. Unresolved tension. Zero closure.

Perfect.

As I finally turned toward the café, one thought settled deep and undeniable.

Whatever this thing was between Julian Astor and me, it was not finished.

Not even close.