Collateral Hearts

Chapter Three

I steeled myself and continued moving, and with every step closer, he became more real. Dressed in a black suit, his hair slicked back, tattoos peeking from beneath his shirt—unmistakably him.

The shock gave way to betrayal, then to anger. I clung to that feeling, gripping it tightly. Any other emotion was unacceptable.

Standing at my father’s back—at his service, clearly—after what they did to me… after what they did to us, burned me.

I ignored him and looked instead at the people who had given birth to me—only to ruthlessly throw me away three years ago. My gaze lingered on them for a brief second too long, as if I were cataloguing strangers rather than family.

“Mr. Court,” I greeted, dipping into a slight, deliberate bow. Then I turned to my mother, offering a tight smile. “Mrs. Court. Nice party.”

“It was…” my father drawled, his jaw tightening as a deep frown settled on his face. His fingers tapped once against the table before he looked up at me. “…what are you doing here?”

“You invited me, remember?” I replied lightly, though my hand trembled as I pulled out a chair. I sat anyway, smoothing my gown with careful precision—even though every instinct screamed at me to turn around and run as far away as possible. “I got your email.”

“I didn’t think you’d show up.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Father,” I said, meeting his gaze evenly.

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped.

I watched as my mother immediately slipped her fingers around his arm, her touch soothing, possessive.

“People are watching,” she whispered, her smile never wavering. Then she turned to me fully. “We were surprised.”

“So was I,” I said quietly, my eyes drifting past them—pointedly returning the stare of the man I had once loved with my whole being.

My father’s lips curled into a smug grin when he followed my line of sight. Seeing the satisfaction etched into his face—knowing exactly what and who he was provoking—I had never felt so violently murderous toward another human being in my life.

“Hello, Rory,” Selene greeted, her voice warm, her eyes sweeping over me with unmistakable appreciation.

“Hello, Selene. Ethan,” I replied smoothly, inclining my head toward them. “You both look amazing.”

Before either of them could respond, my father cut in, his tone sharp and deliberate. “You could have had that as well.” His gaze flicked pointedly over me, assessing, judging. “But instead, you chose to waste away.” He shook his head slowly. “What a waste.”

My jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as I forced myself to remain seated. Without a word, I reached out and plucked a flute of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray. The glass was cool against my fingers.

I downed it in one swift motion, welcoming the burn as it slid down my throat.

“Mr. and Mrs. Court,” Liza chimed in, her voice bright—far brighter than I knew she felt. “Lovely party, I must say. You both look great.”

“As always,” my mother replied coolly, her gaze flicking over Liza with polite disinterest. “Do your parents know you’re here?”

“Nope.” Liza slid into the chair beside me, crossing her legs with ease as the murmurs around us grew louder. “Haven’t spoken to them since they blacklisted me.”

“If this is the kind of company you keep, Aurora,” my father remarked, his eyes dropping to my friend with thinly veiled disdain, “I’m not surprised by your actions.”

Liza merely smiled, serene and unbothered—though I could tell she was biting back a retort sharp enough to draw blood.

Thankfully, my parents were soon distracted by their business associates, drifting away with practiced smiles and empty pleasantries, leaving us momentarily untouched. The tension at the table loosened—just enough for me to breathe again.

Liza leaned in slightly, her eyes still fixed ahead, her expression carefully neutral.

“Are you okay?” she asked quietly.

I nodded, even though the answer felt more like a promise than a truth. “I will be.”

Her jaw tightened. “What is he doing here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did your sister know?”

My gaze drifted to Selene, who was engaged in conversation with a colleague, her posture relaxed, her smile effortless—too effortless.

“She would have said,” I murmured.

Liza’s eyes flicked to me, sharp and knowing.

“Would she?”

Suddenly… I wasn’t so sure anymore.

Minutes later, I found myself staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, searching my own eyes for answers—trying to understand how on earth I was supposed to navigate Zayn being back, and more importantly, why he was back.

And why Selene wouldn’t tell me this very crucial piece of information. She’d been talking to everyone at the event except me, keeping her distance despite the fact that I was here to save her neck. The more I thought about it, the less accidental it felt. I was beginning to suspect it was intentional. And suspicious.

I washed my hands and stepped out, wishing—desperately—that I was anywhere but here. Preferably curled up on my bed, binge-watching Friends, pretending my life wasn’t currently imploding in designer heels.

“Hello, Aurora.”

I stopped at the sound of my name. Counted from one to ten. Then, just to be safe, added another five before turning to face…

Him.

Zayn Alaric was a very fine man—the kind of fine that felt unfair, almost offensive, given the circumstances. He looked like he could step straight onto a runway and make actual models question their life choices. Dressed in a sharply tailored black suit, he leaned against the wall outside the bathroom with infuriating ease, as though he belonged there, as though he hadn’t just detonated my evening by existing.

His dark hair was slicked back neatly, exposing the sharp planes of his face, and the faint hint of tattoos peeked from beneath his open collar—familiar details my mind betrayed me by noticing. He was obviously waiting for me. Had followed me, even.

The audacity of it all burned.

It was a bold move, considering how murderous I felt toward him at that moment.

I ignored the familiar reaction his voice stirred in me when he said my name—that sinful, deep, raspy drawl that had no business still affecting me.

I crossed my arms, instinctively retreating into defense.

“Shouldn’t you be with your clients…? Hopefully they’re paying you enough,” I said, keeping my tone deliberately neutral.

Zayn didn’t move, just tilted his head, dark eyes catching the light, sharp and unreadable. The words sounded weak even to my own ears, and I knew it. We both did. This was never about money. Zayn had more than enough to last several lifetimes. An ex–military sergeant, retired with honors. A multibillionaire. The founder of an elite security firm with branches across the globe, its reputation for impeccability so untouchable it attracted celebrities, high-ranking officials, and anyone important enough to fear for their safety.

No—if Zayn was here, it was because he wanted to be. “You look beautiful… sleeping beauty.”

I stiffened, jaw tightening. “Don’t call me that. Why are you here?”

He shrugged, one hand tucked into his pocket, his stance casual yet controlled. “I have a job to do.”

The words were clipped, deliberate, and infuriatingly simple—but the way he looked at me, like he had memorized every detail of me in an instant, made my pulse spike. I hated that it affected me. I loathed it. And yet, beneath the anger and disbelief, there was something far more dangerous stirring.

I laughed, low and derisive, the sound bitter against the polished marble walls. “To protect my parents?” I shook my head, disbelief slicing through me. “Really?”

He didn’t flinch. Stared me down, calm and impossibly composed. I hated it. I hated that I couldn’t read him. That he could stand there, quiet and controlled, and make me feel like a wild thing on a leash. Zayn only ever lets you see what he wants you to see.

“The pay was generous,” he said, voice smooth, almost lazy—but there was a weight behind it, a subtle authority that made my stomach twist.

I clicked my tongue, my chest tight. “Was it also generous three years ago, when you left me waiting at the altar?”

My own voice echoed in my ears, sharper than I intended. I hated that it hurt so much to say it.

He straightened, imperceptibly at first, just enough to tell me my words had landed somewhere beneath the armor he wore like a second skin.

And I hated that, too.

Just then, a gunshot rang out—sharp, deafening, slicing through the hum of the party. My heart lurched, a jolt of panic shooting through me. Before I could react, more followed, rapid and chaotic, echoing off the marble walls.