CONTRACTUALLY STUCK.

CHAPTER 18: What He Couldn't Control

JULIAN

I don’t believe in insomnia.

Some nights, sleep comes later than usual, yes—nights when my mind runs through contracts and contingencies and outcomes with ruthless efficiency. But insomnia implies restlessness. Discomfort. A lack of control.

I have control.

So when the clock on my office wall ticks past midnight, and I’m still seated behind my desk, jacket folded neatly over the chair, sleeves rolled to my forearms, I don’t label it anything more than a delay.

The engagement party went exactly as planned.

The press coverage was favorable. The board was satisfied. The Whitmore investment remained stable. The optics were impeccable. Zara performed flawlessly, even when she thought she hadn’t. Especially then.

I closed the file in front of me and leaned back, my gaze drifting to the city beyond the glass.

That’s when the problem surfaces.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Quietly.

Her face appears in my mind uninvited, not the version from the party with her practiced smile and polished poise, but the one from the end of the night. Shoes kicked off. Shoulders slumped. The faint crease between her brows she probably doesn’t know it appears when she’s exhausted.

I frown.

This is trouble.

I already accounted for her role in this arrangement. Planned for her resistance and measured her adaptability. There is nothing left to assess.

And yet.

My phone lies on the desk within reach.

I stare at it longer than necessary, irritation flickering beneath my calm.

I don’t need to call her.

There’s no strategic advantage to speaking to her now. No meeting to schedule. No narrative to reinforce. It’s late. Any competent partner would allow space.

The thought repeats itself several times.

It doesn’t stop my hand from moving.

The phone is cool against my palm as I unlock it. Her name sits there, unassuming, saved simply as Zara.

I hover for half a second.

Then I call.

The line rings twice before she answers.

“Hello,” she says, voice soft, unguarded.

Something in my chest shifts.

“You’re awake,” I say.

“Barely,” she replies. There’s a faint smile in her tone. “I was half-asleep already.”

“I can hang up.”

There’s a pause. Fabric rustles, like she’s shifting against pillows.

“No,” she says. “It’s okay. I was just… decompressing.”

I close my eyes.

“Long day?” I say.

“Long week,” she corrects. “Long… month.”

I picture her without meaning to. Curled somewhere comfortable. Hair loose. Guard down because she doesn’t think she needs it with me.

That should be enough to end the call.

Instead, I ask, “Are you tired?”

She laughs softly. “Is that a serious question?”

“You sound exhausted.”

Another pause. This one heavier.

“I am,” she admits. “I didn’t realize how much it took out of me until everything went quiet.”

“You held it together,” I say. “Most people wouldn’t have.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice pretending I’m fine.”

That lands deeper than I expect.

“You did well,” I say.

“Don’t,” she murmurs.

“Don’t what?”

“Turn it into performance feedback. Just… let it be.”

I almost smile.

We fall into a silence that doesn’t demand explanation. I listen to her breathing, slow and steady, the faint hum of the city behind her.

This isn’t how I usually speak to people.

“You didn’t have to stay as long as you did,” I say eventually.

“Yes, I did.”

“You could’ve left earlier.”

“And you would’ve answered the questions for me,” she says. “I know how this works.”

I exhale.

“You didn’t have to protect me.”

“I wasn’t protecting you,” she says quietly. “I was protecting us.”

The word settles between us, delicate and dangerous.

“I didn’t want to run,” she adds. “Leaving early would’ve felt like that.”

“That’s not a standard you should get used to,” I say.

She hums. “You’re still in boardroom mode.”

“Someone has to be.”

“Do they,” she asks softly, “even right now?”

I don’t answer.

“You know,” she murmurs, “I never asked how you were.”

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t ask for a status report.”

I close my eyes.

“It was a successful night,” I say.

“That’s not what I meant.”

There it is—the line I avoid.

“I’m not tired,” I say instead.

“You don’t sound tired.”

“No.”

“You sound like you’re thinking too hard.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.

“That’s not new.”

“It’s louder when you’re quiet,” she says. “Like you’re bracing.”

She’s not wrong.

“I’m glad you called,” she says suddenly.

“So am I,” I reply before I can stop myself.

Her breathing deepens.

“Julian,” she murmurs.

“Yes.”

Silence.

I listen.

Then I realize.

She’s asleep.

Still connected to me.

The smile comes before I can stop it.

That’s when it hits.

Not the call.

The smile.

I straighten, the expression vanishing.

This is inappropriate.

This is stress. Proximity. Circumstance.

Nothing more.

I end the call gently and place the phone face down on my desk.

I wanted to hear her voice without reason. Noticed her exhaustion without being told. Stayed on the line longer than necessary simply because she was there.

I liked it.

That’s the problem.

I turn off the office lights and reach for my jacket.

This is a complication.

And for the first time since this began, I don’t immediately know how to control it.