Chapter 6

Helton James' POV

The first time I laid eyes on her, she was covered in mud.

It had been a rainy afternoon, the kind that turns sidewalks into slick death traps and makes the city smell like wet asphalt and headaches. I was leaving my favorite coffee shop, the one with floor-to-ceiling windows and the best caramel Frappuccino in the entire city. Extra sugar, extra syrup, extra everything. I needed it that day. My father was in town, and anytime that man got within ten miles of me, my blood pressure doubled.

I stepped out, half-lost in thought, my drink in hand, when she collided into me.

No warning.

Just a flash of flailing arms, flying hair, and a breathless, “Oh crap!”

The frappuccino exploded across my chest like a sugar bomb, soaking into my tailored coat. I froze, sticky and seething, as she looked up at me from the wet pavement.

“Oh my god! What the hell, dude?” she barked, shielding a canvas bag like it contained the holy grail.

I blinked, trying to process her audacity. “Excuse me? You’re the one who ran into me.”

She gave me a look like I was the idiot. “Because you showed up out of nowhere! And why the hell wasn’t your drink covered while you were walking?”

I scoffed. “BECAUSE I WAS DRINKING IT!”

A blaring horn interrupted our exchange. She let out a strangled noise and scrambled to her feet. “Oh no. No, no. I’ll be late!”

And then she took off, chasing the departing bus, her bag bouncing against her hip, her shoes squelching in puddles.

She never looked back. Not once. Not a single apology.

I stood there, fists clenched at my sides, muttering a string of unspoken curses. I was soaked, irritated, and now late for my meeting.

The next time I saw her, she was in my father’s living room.

Three months later.

I froze the second I walked in. I expected her to recognize me immediately—to look away in embarrassment, to stammer out some awkward apology.

Instead, she greeted me like I was a total stranger.

“Hi there! I’m Zenith,” she said, extending her hand, all dimples and warmth. “You’re Dexter’s brother, right? So nice to meet you!”

She didn’t remember me.

Not even a flicker of recognition in those moss-green eyes.

I didn’t take her hand. I just stared at her, incredulous.

Her hair was down that day—long, thick, cascading in waves past her waist. It should’ve looked ridiculous, like something out of a fairy tale, but on her? It worked. She was tall, maybe five-seven or five-eight, and she held herself like she was on the verge of conquering the world, all while smiling like we were already friends.

Those damn dimples.

This was Dexter’s girlfriend.

I glanced at my very average little brother, whose smug grin reminded me far too much of our father. That same smirking arrogance, the kind that made you want to punch it right off.

I didn’t hate Dexter. I hated what he represented.

The byproduct of a man I despised and the woman who wrecked our home. A walking reminder that loyalty was just a word people liked to say but never meant.

Men like my father. Men like Dexter. They didn’t think twice before screwing over the women who loved them.

And maybe I could’ve turned out like them too, if I hadn’t grown up watching my mother drink herself to death over a man who never once loved her back. She wasn’t perfect—far from it. Selfish, destructive, unreliable. I tried. God, I tried. Countless times I told her to leave him, begged her to get help, pleaded with her to put herself first. But she always repeated the same line, like a mantra: “Family always comes first.”

Yeah, well. It did.

And look where that got her.

One day, when things had gotten too much, I tried to take her drugs away—but she lashed out without thinking. The scar on my back still ached when I remembered.

That wasn’t from some playground accident. That was from the day she snapped—high out of her mind—and shattered a bottle on the counter. The jagged glass tore into me before she even realized what she’d done, leaving a long, ugly scar on my back.

Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t forget it.

I stopped interfering after that. What the hell else was I supposed to do?

Did I blame her? Maybe a little—or maybe a lot. But it never would’ve gotten that bad if my father hadn’t been the selfish man he was. If he’d actually put his family first.

I snapped out of the memory as my phone buzzed. The surgeon called to confirm that the bypass surgery had gone well, though they’d monitor Zia overnight to be safe.

Good. That meant she’d be okay.

I stood by the large hospital windows, watching the sun bleed into the harbor, staining the city in gold and blood-red hues. The world outside never stopped moving, even when yours did.

Hours had passed, and I’d been lost in my head again. Sometimes I wondered how I’d managed to build an empire with my mind constantly at war. Too many thoughts, always chaotic. Peace didn’t come often. Not in a soothing way, at least.

I knew how to switch it off when necessary. Surgical precision. But it left me hollow afterward, empty for hours.

My therapist once said my wandering thoughts were a defense mechanism. Something about my eidetic memory and unresolved trauma giving my brain a constant feed of distractions. I didn’t care about the science. I just knew it worked.

I picked up my phone.

“Get me the Tegal team,” I said into the receiver. “I want the marriage contract ready by six. One-year term. No extensions unless both parties agree. Full spousal protection clause. Medical and educational expenses handled. Cohabitation clause. Monthly allowance of ten thousand dollars, with flexibility for more if needed. All current debts cleared by me. She must accompany me to all public and social events deemed necessary. Five nights a week together are mandatory—the remaining two may not be consecutive. Exceptions only for illness or menstruation.”

My secretary confirmed everything.

“And make sure there’s champagne in the office,” I added. “Nothing cheap.”

I ended the call, slipping the phone into my pocket as I headed to the changing room down the hall. I kept a wardrobe in nearly every place I frequented—a habit born of necessity. My life didn’t allow for delays.

Tonight, I needed something sharp.

I chose a black suit, tailored to perfection, with a deep crimson pocket square. Platinum watch. Subtle, intoxicating cologne. I adjusted my cufflinks and stared at my reflection.

This wasn’t just business.

It had never been, even if I told myself otherwise.

Because the truth was—

The moment she spilled coffee on me and ran off like a chaotic storm, she hadn’t just ruined my drink. She’d gotten under my skin.

And I hadn’t been able to forget her since.

Tonight, she would walk into my office not as Dexter’s girlfriend, not as the girl I’d first scolded and cursed at.

She would walk in as my wife.

And, God, I was looking forward to it.