Novels by Zyma Writes

Marcus Kane waits in the lobby of Sinclair Technologies like he owns the building.He doesn't. I do.Steel beams, glass panels, and lines of code running through the servers twenty floors up—they’re all mine.Built from nothing but ambition and spite and the burning need to prove that Adrian Kane destroying me was the best thing that ever happened to my career."Ms. Sinclair." He stands as I approach, buttoning his suit jacket in one smooth motion. Tom Ford. Probably the same tailor as Adrian. "Thank you for seeing me.""I didn't agree to see you. I agreed not to have security remove you." I gesture toward the elevators. "You only have five minutes."We ride up in silence.He studies his reflection in the polished steel doors—Victor's face, but sharper and hungrier.Where Adrian's edges have been worn smooth by guilt and therapy, Marcus's have only sharpened with resentment.I didn't offer him a seat. He takes one anyway. Crosses his legs. Makes himself comfortable in my space."I'll

It’s been four days, and I haven’t come up with an answer yet.Quarterly reports blur together after hour nine. Revenue projections. Market analysis. Competitive positioning. Numbers that should matter but feel increasingly abstract.My office clock reads 11:20 PM. Most of the building cleared out hours ago—just security making rounds, a few workaholics on the twentieth floor burning midnight oil, and me.I gather the files, balancing them against my chest as I head for the elevator. These need to be in the car tonight. Board meeting at seven AM. No room for excuses or delays.The elevator doors open.Adrian steps out.

Sofia is already dissecting her croissant when I slide into the booth at Balthazar."You're thirteen minutes late." She doesn't look up from her surgical butter application. "New record.""Ava wanted pancakes. Mrs. Patel was running behind." I flag down a waiter. "Eggs Benedict. Extra hollandaise. And whatever she's drinking.""Champagne. It's eleven AM on a Sunday, and I earned it." Sofia takes a long sip, leaving a lipstick print on crystal. "Fired three people yesterday. One cried. One threatened to sue. One asked if I was single.""Which one did you feel bad about?""The crier. He had student loans and a cat named Mr. Whiskers. Showed me photos." She tears off a piece of croissant. "The lawsuit guy can rot. And the single one had terrible shoes. Brown with a navy suit. Unforgivable."I almost smile. This is us—Sunday mornings, ridiculous gossip. We've been doing this since Columbia, when brunch meant diner coffee and stolen bagels from the student center."How's Daniel?" she asks,

I wake up tangled in Daniel's sheets.His penthouse bedroom overlooks the East River—floor-to-ceiling windows, minimalist furniture, everything expensive and tasteful and sterile. Just like him.No. That's not fair. Daniel isn't sterile. He's safe. Stable.The kind of man who texts ‘Good Morning’ and actually means it. The kind of man who stayed the night because I asked him to."Coffee?" Daniel appears in the doorway wearing boxer briefs and nothing else. His body is gym-perfect—the result of disciplined routine and controlled diet.Nothing like Adrian's broader frame. The way Adrian's shoulders—Stop."Coffee sounds perfect." I sit up, pulling the sheet around me even though he's already seen everything.He brings me a cup—black, no sugar. My work order, not my actual preference. I drink it anyway."Last night was—" He sits on the edge of the bed, his hand finding my knee through the sheet. "I've been wanting that for months.""Me too." The lie tastes like ash.His eyes search mine.

Cinnamon. I smell it the moment Marlene sets the cup on her desk. Oat milk latte, extra shot, cinnamon dust on top.Elena’s exact order from five years ago. The one I memorized after our third date when she mentioned—just once, in passing—that most baristas get it wrong."She's in meetings all morning," Marlene says before I can ask. Her tone is gentle. Pitying, maybe. "Then calls with Tokyo. Then a site visit."It's day four of this routine. I’ve been showing up at Sinclair Technologies at 7:47 AM with coffee she might not drink. "I'll just leave it, then."Marlene takes the cup but doesn't move toward Elena's office. Instead, she studies me for a while before speaking. "Mr. Kane, can I ask you something?""Of course.""Why coffee?""I'm sorry?""Why not flowers? Or jewelry? Some grand gestures men like you usually make when you're trying to win someone back."I consider the question. Down the hallway, Elena's frosted glass door stays shut. Her name etched in emerald letters. She's i

Adrian's hand burns against the small of my back.We're at the Metropolitan Opera's gala, our first public appearance as a couple and every eye in the ballroom tracks our movement like we're specimens under glass."Smile," Adrian murmurs near my ear. "They're watching.""Let them." I adjust my grip on my champagne flute. "That's the point."His fingers press harder against the emerald silk. Possessive. He has no right to touch me this way.I should pull away. Make a scene. Remind him that proximity doesn't mean permission.Instead, I let him guide me through the crowd because these witnesses need to see us together. They need to believe Victor Kane's will is bringing us back together instead of tearing us apart in slow motion."Victoria Ashford," Adrian warns. "She's circling."Sure enough, Park Avenue royalty wrapped in Chanel glides toward us with a champagne flute and a predator's smile."Adrian Kane. Back from the dead." Victoria's eyes slide to me. "And with Elena Sinclair. How