Chapter 8

Helton James’s POV

Damn it.

Heat shot down my spine the moment her eyes found mine. Zenith’s expression was calm but curious, her posture confident as she walked down the hospital stairs toward me.

The wind caught strands of her hair, making them flutter like dark silk ribbons. A slow, unfamiliar ache started building in my chest.

Her hair. Was she some modern-day Rapunzel? Why did she keep it so long? It fell past her waist, thick and gently curled. Impractical, maybe even annoying, but to her, it looked… perfect.

She didn’t resemble her mother in the slightest. Clearly adopted, her features carried a mix of Arabic and Indian heritage. Olive-toned skin glowing in the last blush of sunset. Moss-green eyes that seemed to see straight through me.

Velhaven was a city full of colors and cultures, every street a melting pot, but even here, Zenith stood out. Not because she was flashy or sexy. She didn’t try to fit in. She just existed in a way that made people notice.

She wasn’t petite or fragile. Not some leggy socialite with fake lashes and fillers. She was five-foot-eight, grounded, confident, real.

I liked that.

No need to look down at her. No slouching. Not that I had thought about kissing her…

Okay, that was a lie. I had thought about it a lot, especially when her boyfriend, my brother, is around.

“Earth to Helton James.”

Her voice pulled me out of my thoughts. She waved her hand in front of my face, a teasing smile playing at her lips.

Shit. I’d been staring.

The words slipped out before I could stop them. “Why is your hair so long?”

She blinked. The smile faltered for a second, replaced by surprise. Her brow lifted.

I cursed under my breath. Smooth, Helton. Real smooth.

“Never mind,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. “That was rude. Sorry. Let’s get inside first.”

I moved quickly, opening the passenger door. She slid in without a word. I circled to the driver’s seat, silently beating myself up.

The car ride started quietly. Too quiet. Tension stretched between us like a thread pulled too tight.

Contrary to what people thought, I wasn’t calm, collected, and always put together. Well… I was rich. That was true. But the rest? Carefully crafted. Socially awkward was more like it. Being a social butterfly never came naturally. So I wore a poker face.

City lights blinked past the window as I drummed my fingers on the wheel. I searched for something, anything, to break the silence.

Her voice beat me to it. Soft, thoughtful. “What?” I asked.

“My hair,” she said. “You asked. I’m not sure why I keep it long.” She fiddled with a loose strand.

“My childhood… it’s mostly a blur. But I remember being told I wasn’t born here. That I came from far away. The orphanage ladies talked about it. Later, when Mom and I did a DNA test, we found out I’m mostly South and West Asian. Heavy Indian lineage.”

So my guess was right.

She glanced at me before continuing. “Mom was a bit heartbroken that I never got to experience that culture. She tried to bring little pieces into our lives, clothing, jewelry, food. In South Asia, long hair is a traditional sign of beauty. She asked if I wanted to grow mine.”

A small, nostalgic laugh escaped her. “And I said yes.”

I stayed quiet, watching her eyes soften, the quiet reverence in her voice. I didn’t need a long speech to understand why she’d agreed.

“So you kept it for her?” I asked, my voice low.

She nodded. “Yeah. She was always proud of it. Always told me I looked like a goddess.”

There was a pause. Then she added, almost bitterly, “Even though I wanted to look like her. Not like… strangers who never gave a damn about me.”

Her words lingered longer than they should have.

I shifted in my seat. “Well… just my opinion, but I think she just wants you to be happy. And as for being like her… I haven’t met her, so I can’t say. But since she raised you, I don’t think you need to worry about it.”

She turned to me, eyes narrowing slightly, thoughtful. A flicker of surprise. Curiosity. Something else I couldn’t name. I couldn’t help but smile.

She shook her head. “Nothing. It’s just… you’re really not like your brother, are you?”

I laughed. “Careful. You might end up catching feelings.”

She rolled her eyes. “You wish.”

The words were playful. But I felt them land heavier than they should.

Did I…?

No. Absolutely not.

Dating has never worked for me. I wasn’t built for it. Three tries too many, all ending the same: the spark fizzled, they got clingy, demanded more than I could give. Money wasn’t enough. Time wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough. They left, and I hated myself for it.

I knew I inherited some of that toxicity from my father. Just not cheating didn’t make me a good person. It was the bare minimum a woman deserved.

So I stopped. Stopped pretending. Stopped trying.

Kept it physical. Controlled. Agreements. Expectations were laid out before anything happened. I wasn’t wired for more.

And Zenith? She wasn’t the clingy type. I knew that. Independent. Strong. After what my brother had done to her, she wasn’t chasing hearts or romance.

She wanted security.

Perfect.

I could give her everything she wanted. And in return… I could have what I wanted too.

I’d kept these feelings under wraps, never letting them creep in while she was my brother’s girlfriend. Not that it would have lasted forever, my brother wasn’t built for relationships either. Healthy ones, long-lasting ones… they weren’t for him. So I knew this would happen, eventually.

And now, looking at her smile, those dimples, those bright moss-green eyes, I realized the truth: I wanted her…Wanted her.

Simple. Once we did it a few times, it would be out of my system, like every other attraction before. No strings. No illusions. I knew how this worked; I always got bored and moved on.

Once we sleep together, the tension between us will vanish. I will get her out of my head, and she will get what she wants. Mutual gain. Mutual benefit.

That’s what it was. Nothing more.