Chapter 10

LIAM:

The first thing that hit me was the pounding in my skull.

The second was the dry taste of whiskey still coating my mouth.

I groaned, dragging a hand over my face, half-buried in the sheets. Morning light bled through the curtains, too sharp, too unforgiving. My body felt heavy, my thoughts sluggish, but something kept gnawing at the edges of my memory.

I pushed myself upright, wincing. My shirt was wrinkled, tie discarded on the floor, and my shoes,when the hell had I even taken them off?

And then I looked up.

The photo on the wall stared back at me.

Her.

Zara. The younger version of her, smiling, alive, before everything went to hell.

My stomach twisted, the fragments of last night flashing in broken pieces. The hall. Stumbling. A face,her face,clearer than any drunken haze should've allowed.

And then-her lips.

My breath caught, my hand tightening on the sheet. I remembered leaning forward, desperate, reckless. The warmth of her mouth against mine, even if just for a second, before…before what?

I frowned, trying to chase it down, but the memory frayed at the edges. Did she push me away? Did I dream it? God, had I imagined all of it?

"Zara…" I whispered her name, the sound foreign and raw on my tongue after so many years.

But she wasn't here.

Only the photograph. Only the echo of a kiss I couldn't trust was real.

And the hangover from hell.

I scrubbed a hand through my hair and swung my legs over the bed. Whatever happened last night, one thing was certain: I was losing my grip. Because either I'd kissed a ghost, or she was standing under this roof, alive, and I was too far gone to tell the difference anymore.

I dragged myself into the bathroom, feet heavy against the tiles. The mirror didn't do me any favors, bloodshot eyes, jaw shadowed with stubble, a stranger staring back at me.

The water hissed on, steam filling the room as I stepped beneath the spray. Heat scalded my skin, but it wasn't enough to wash away the fragments of last night.

Her face.

Her voice.

Her lips.

I clenched my jaw, water running down my hair and shoulders as I leaned against the slick wall.

Had it happened? Or was it just whiskey-fueled madness stitching together old grief with a face I couldn't let go of?

But it had felt real. Too real. The way her breath caught against mine, the split second before she shoved me back. I could still taste it if I let myself try.

I exhaled hard and shoved a hand through my wet hair. No. No, stop.

I couldn't afford this. Not now. Not when everything around me was unraveling and my father was pulling strings I couldn't cut. Obsessing over a ghost , or worse, believing she wasn't one ,would break me.

So I shoved it down. Buried it beneath the pounding spray, beneath the ache in my head. By the time I stepped out, toweling myself dry, I forced my mind blank.

Suit. Tie. Watch. The armor of the day.

Last night?

Imagination.

Alcohol.

Nothing more.

At least, that's what I told myself as I straightened my cuffs and walked out of the room, trying not to look at the photo on the wall.

The door clicked shut behind me, and I was already pulling my cuffs straight when I froze.

She was there.

Lauren. Masked. Already in her jacket, boots polished, every line of her posture sharp and professional ,the perfect soldier my father had brought into this house.

But her eyes.

God, her eyes.

One look, and every thought I'd shoved down in the shower came roaring back, louder, sharper. The kiss. The photo. The way her hands had steadied me last night when I could barely stand.

I couldn't breathe past it.

My steps slowed without meaning to. She inclined her head politely, the way she always did, like I was just another assignment. But up close, I could see it,the faint shadows beneath her eyes, the strain in her shoulders. She hadn't slept. Not really.

Why?

Why the hell did she look like someone who'd been up all night fighting her own ghosts?

And why, looking at her now, did I feel so sure ,too sure ,that I wasn't imagining anything at all?

My throat tightened. My mind tripped over itself. Is she…..:could she be?

Zara.

The name burned in my chest, but I didn't say it. Not yet. Not when one wrong word could break everything.

She broke the silence first, voice calm, detached. "You have a meeting with your father in an hour. I'll be posted outside the study."

Professional. Distant. Like last night hadn't happened.

Did it even happen?

But my pulse wouldn't slow. My questions wouldn't stop.

Who was she?

Why did she carry Zara's eyes?

And why, after all these years, did it feel like she had barely survived the same storm I hadn't stopped drowning in?

She moved to step past me, all clean lines and calculated distance, but the words slipped out before I could stop them.

"Are you okay?"

She froze. Just for a second.

Her hand, mid-adjustment of her jacket cuff, stilled. Her shoulders locked in place. It was so subtle anyone else would've missed it , but not me.

I saw it.

Felt it.

She turned her head slightly, not enough to meet my eyes, just enough to acknowledge I'd spoken. "I'm fine, sir."

Too quick. Too flat. A reflex, not an answer.

My chest tightened. Sir. That wall she kept between us, thick as steel. But the shadows under her eyes told a different story. The heaviness in the air between us told a different story.

I almost said the name. The one I'd buried. The one that was burning a hole in my throat now.

Instead, I swallowed it down, my voice quieter, rougher. "You don't look fine."

That time, she did look at me. A flicker of something sharp and tired in her gaze ,before she masked it again, before she stepped back into the soldier she wanted me to see.

"I'm exactly what I need to be," she said.

"And about last night..."

"There's no need to talk about it sir, I was just doing my job."

And with that, she walked away, leaving me standing in the hallway, more certain than ever that she wasn't just Lauren.

She was Zara.

Or a ghost wearing her face.

Whoever this lady was, I had to find out.