Zara's POV
The motel room smelled like cigarettes and bleach. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the stain on the carpet that looked like someone had spilled coffee, or blood, or something worse. The neon sign outside flickered red through the thin curtains. On. Off. On. Off.
Three days since I'd left the mansion. Three days since my entire life had fallen apart. I'd packed one bag. That was all I could manage before my hands started shaking too badly to fold clothes. I'd taken my car, my phone, and the emergency credit card I'd hidden in my jewelry box. The one Jason didn't know about.
My mother had given it to me on my wedding day. "Just in case," she'd whispered, pressing it into my palm. I'd laughed then, and told her she was being dramatic. Jason loved me. We were forever. How wrong I'd been.
The credit card had exactly three thousand dollars on it. Enough for this disgusting motel and cheap takeout for maybe a month if I was careful. After that, I had nothing. No job, no savings, no friends who weren't sleeping with my husband.
Ex husband.I needed to start thinking of him that way. My phone buzzed for the hundredth time. Jason. Again.
We need to talk.
You're being irrational.
Come home, Zara. We can work this out.
I'll give you one more chance. Don't throw away everything we built.
I deleted each message without reading them fully. But they kept coming, relentless as waves against rocks. The walls started closing in. The room was too small, too dark, too quiet except for the sound of my own breathing getting faster and faster.
Not again. Please not again. But my body didn't listen. My chest tightened, ribs crushing my lungs. The air turned thick like trying to breathe underwater. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision.
Panic attack. The third one today.
I stumbled to the bathroom and turned on the cold water, splashing my face, counting backwards from ten like the therapist I'd seen years ago had taught me. Before Jason convinced me I didn't need therapy, that talking to strangers about our problems was a betrayal.
Ten. Nine. Eight.
My reflection in the mirror looked like a stranger. Hollow eyes with dark circles. Tangled hair I hadn't brushed in two days. The red dress was gone, replaced by an old college sweatshirt with holes in the sleeves.
Seven. Six. Five.
Slowly, the panic receded. My breathing evened out. The crushing weight on my chest lifted enough that I could stand upright.
I needed food. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten something that wasn't stale crackers from the vending machine.
The grocery store was six blocks away. I could walk it. Fresh air would help.
Outside, the city felt foreign and hostile. I'd spent five years in that mansion, isolated from everything, and now the real world seemed too loud, too bright, too much. Car horns blared. People rushed past without looking at each other. A homeless man shouted something at the sky. I kept my head down and walked faster.
The store was crowded. I grabbed a basket and wandered the aisles, picking up bread and peanut butter and instant noodles. Food that wouldn't go bad, that was cheap, that I could eat without thinking.
At the checkout, my card declined.
"Try again," the cashier said, bored.
I swiped it twice more. Declined. Declined.
"I don't understand." My voice shook. "There should be money on this."
The people in line behind me sighed loudly. Someone muttered about holding up the line.
"You got another card, honey?"
I didn't. I had nothing.
"I'm sorry, I'll just.." I abandoned the basket and fled the store, my face burning with humiliation.
On the sidewalk, I pulled out my phone and checked my bank account. Zero balance. The credit card had been frozen.
Jason.He'd found it somehow. Cut me off completely. A new message appeared.
Come home and we'll talk about your allowance. Otherwise, you're on your own.
Rage bubbled up hot and fierce in my chest. Allowance. Like I was a child. Like I hadn't given up everything for him.
I typed back with shaking fingers.
I'd rather starve than come back to you.
His response was immediate.
That can be arranged. You have no money, no job, no references. I'll make sure no one in this city hires you. You'll come crawling back within a week.
The phone slipped from my fingers and clattered on the sidewalk.
He was right. He had all the power, all the connections. I had nothing. I bent to pick up my phone, and someone grabbed my arm.
"Hey beautiful. You dropped something."
A man. Thirties, maybe. Greasy hair and a smile that made my skin crawl. His fingers dug into my arm.
"Thank you, I've got it." I tried to pull away.
"Don't be like that. I'm just being friendly." His grip tightened. "You look like you could use some company. Some help, maybe?"
"Let go."
"What's the magic word?" He leaned closer, his breath reeking of alcohol and cigarettes.
"I said let go!"
"The lady asked you to release her."
The voice came from behind me, cold and sharp as a blade.
Cassian.
He appeared beside me like a shadow materializing from nothing. He wore all black, his hands in his pockets, his expression utterly calm. But there was something in his eyes that made the man's smile fade.
"We're just talking," the man said, but his hand dropped from my arm.
"No. You were leaving." Cassian stepped between us. "Weren't you?"
The man looked at Cassian, really looked at him, and whatever he saw there made him back away quickly, hands raised.
"Yeah, man. Sorry. My mistake."
He disappeared into the crowd.
I stood there trembling, my arms wrapped around myself.
"What are you doing here?" My voice came out smaller than I wanted.
"Following you."
"That's not creepy at all."
"Would you prefer I let that man drag you into an alley?" Cassian's gaze swept over me, taking in my appearance. "You look terrible, by the way."
"Thanks. That's exactly what I needed to hear."
"When's the last time you ate?"
I didn't answer.
"That's what I thought." He took my arm, gentler than the other man but just as firm. "Come on."
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
"Yes, you are. Because you're about ten seconds from passing out on this sidewalk, and I'd rather not explain to the police why Jason Hartley's wife collapsed outside a grocery store."
He was right. The world was tilting again, my vision going fuzzy at the edges.
Cassian led me to a black car parked illegally at the curb. Inside, it smelled like leather and that same woodsy cologne from his room. He drove in silence while I pressed my forehead against the cool window.
We didn't go back to the mansion. Instead, he pulled up to an upscale restaurant, the kind with cloth napkins and waiters in suits.
"I can't afford this," I said.
"Good thing I'm paying, then."
Inside, he ordered for both of us without asking what I wanted. Soup, bread, pasta, things that were easy to eat. When the food came, I realized how hungry I actually was. I ate mechanically, not tasting anything. Cassian watched me the entire time.
"Jason froze my credit card," I said finally. "I have nothing. No money, no job. He's threatening to blacklist me from getting hired anywhere."
"He would do that."
"You don't seem surprised."
"I'm not. Jason's specialty is control. He needs everyone dependent on him, desperate for his approval." Cassian leaned back in his chair. "It's how our father raised him."
"And you?"
"Our father didn't raise me. He abandoned me and my mother when I was five. Jason got the mansion, the trust fund, the name. I got nothing."
The bitterness was back in his voice, sharp and acidic.
"Then why are you here? Why live in that house?"
"Because it's mine too, legally. And because nothing irritates Jason more than having me around as a constant reminder that he's not as special as he thinks he is." Cassian's smile was cold. "Stay away from him, Zara. Completely. He'll try to manipulate you back, make promises he won't keep. Don't fall for it."
"I won't."
"You say that now. But he's good at finding weaknesses, exploiting them. And you're vulnerable right now."
"I'm not weak."
"I didn't say weak. I said vulnerable. There's a difference." His gray eyes locked onto mine. "Where are you staying?"
I didn't want to tell him, but what choice did I have?
"A motel. The Starlight, off Route 9."
His jaw tightened. "That place is a dump."
"It's what I can afford. Could afford, before Jason froze my card."
"You'll stay somewhere else."
"I can't accept your help."
"You don't have a choice." He pulled out his wallet and placed several hundred dollar bills on the table. "This is for food and a better hotel. Don't argue."
Pride wanted me to refuse. But survival won. I took the money with shaking hands. Over the next week, Cassian appeared everywhere. At the coffee shop where I sat trying to fill out job applications. Outside the slightly better hotel he'd insisted I move to. Once, inexplicably, at the library where I'd gone to escape my own thoughts.
He didn't always talk to me. Sometimes he just watched from a distance, a dark presence I couldn't shake. It should have terrified me. Instead, I felt safer than I had in years.
Jason's messages continued, growing more desperate and angry.
You can't survive without me.
This is embarrassing for both of us. Come home.
I'll forgive everything if you just stop being stubborn.
Fine. Ruin your own life. See if I care.
I ignored them all. But the stress was eating me alive. I couldn't sleep, could barely eat. The panic attacks came more frequently. My hands shook constantly. I was in my hotel room when it happened.
The ceiling started spinning. My heart raced so fast I thought it would explode. I tried to reach for my phone, but my legs gave out. The last thing I remembered was the floor rushing up to meet me.I woke to bright lights and the steady beep of machines.
Hospital.A nurse smiled down at me. "Welcome back. You gave us quite a scare."
"What happened?"
"You fainted. A hotel employee found you and called an ambulance. You've been out for a few hours."
"I'm okay now. I can go home."
"Not quite yet. The doctor needs to speak with you." Something in her expression made my stomach drop. "He'll be right in."
Five minutes later, a doctor entered, holding a clipboard. He was young, with kind eyes that looked shocked.
"Ms. Hartley, I'm Dr. Morrison. We ran some tests while you were unconscious, standard procedure for fainting episodes."
"And?"
He hesitated, his eyes scanning the paper again as if he couldn't quite believe what he was reading.
"Ms. Hartley, you're pregnant."
The world stopped.