A Fair Disguise

Alec

Alec Whitmore hadn’t laughed like that in months.

Not since his last acquisition—a chain of tech startups he’d bought, gutted, and rebuilt under one of his ghost companies. Not since the board threatened to question his mental state after he missed two quarterly meetings and took off to Costa Rica instead. And certainly not since Delilah.

But when that glass of ice water hit his face with precision worthy of a sniper, something in him had cracked.

Then something else: a spark. Sharp. Delicious.

Not humiliation—he’d grown up with far worse. Not rage—God no, that was for amateurs.

It was thrill.

He stripped out of the soaked white shirt in the back seat of his Rolls-Royce, running a hand through his drenched hair as his driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

“Should I get the backup shirt, sir?” Marvin asked, ever the stoic.

Alec chuckled under his breath and shook his head. “Leave it. I like the attention.”

Marvin said nothing. He was used to the eccentricities by now.

The car glided down Fifth Avenue as Alec leaned back against the leather seat, shirtless, droplets sliding down his abs. He tapped his phone open and stared at Zara’s profile again.

Zara Lane.

Fashion designer. Or something like it. Her bio had been sparse: “Sews like hell, curses like a sailor, hustles like rent’s due yesterday.”

It had made him laugh then. Now it made him curious.

He had dates twice a week—half of them setups, the other half personal experiments. He wanted something real, something unpolished. Everyone he met was too curated. Too careful.

And then she walked in like a five-alarm fire wearing black boots and a red jacket, and tried to set his ego on fire with water.

It had been glorious.

“You ever had a woman douse you with water, Marvin?”

Marvin blinked once. “Can’t say I have, sir.”

“Then you haven’t lived.”

Alec’s phone buzzed.

He unlocked it to find the short, furious text Zara had just sent.

Zara:

Delete my number. Go iron your ego.

He laughed again, quietly this time, and leaned forward as the car slowed near the Gala building.

“Cancel my meetings for the next two hours,” he said, slipping on a dry black button-down from the back compartment.

Marvin’s brow furrowed. “All of them, sir?”

“Yes. And tell Victor I need a file on a woman named Zara Lane. Fashion designer. Lives somewhere in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Sir…”

Alec glanced up, amused. “Yes?”

“She threw water on you.”

“And I’m still thinking about her.” He smiled, a sharp twist of lips. “That’s saying something.”

He stepped out of the car, tossed the wet shirt into a passing trash can, and disappeared into the marble lobby of Gala Enterprises—his empire, his playground.

Inside the top floor, his office looked more like an art gallery than a workspace. Clean lines. Black glass. Abstract sculptures. Minimalist decadence. Behind the sleek desk, Manhattan burned gold through floor-to-ceiling windows.

Victor, his assistant of five years, appeared with a file ten minutes later.

“Zara Lane. No priors. Runs a small custom clothing brand out of her apartment. No formal business registration until three months ago. Social media—minimal. Has a dog named Pax, a one-star review on Etsy for being ‘too honest,’ and she once keyed a guy’s car for ghosting her.”

Alec raised a brow. “Seriously?”

“She posted a selfie in front of the scratch with the caption, ‘Oops.’”

He grinned. “I like her more by the second.”

Victor’s eyes narrowed. “Sir, may I remind you, we’re supposed to be focusing on the Virelli merger, not tracking down—”

“She’s not a distraction,” Alec interrupted, standing and adjusting his cufflinks. “She’s a variable.”

“A variable, sir?”

“A woman who doesn’t give a damn who I am. Or who I’m pretending to be.”

Victor sighed like a man defeated. “I’ll make arrangements.”

“No arrangements,” Alec said. “No private dinners, no penthouse invites. I want to bump into her. Naturally.”

Victor looked appalled. “Naturally?”

“I need to see how she moves when she’s not being watched. That’s the only way to study chaos.”

Victor gave him a long-suffering look. “You mean women.”

“No,” Alec said, smiling faintly. “I mean her.”

⸻

Three days later, Alec was standing at a downtown street market in worn jeans and a faded leather jacket, holding a latte he didn’t want and pretending not to care.

He spotted her before she saw him—unsurprising. Zara was pacing in front of a pop-up stall with her name hand-painted in messy, bold letters. “ZARA LANE DESIGNS.” Her booth was a controlled mess of denim, studs, black lace, and unapologetic statements stitched across every piece.

She looked the same. Fierce. Focused. Stunning.

She was arguing with a customer—an older woman in pearls who was clearly not the target market.

“Ma’am, if you want something that says ‘Live, Laugh, Love’, I suggest the department store two blocks down,” Zara said flatly.

Alec nearly laughed.

The woman scoffed and walked off in a huff.

Zara turned, muttering under her breath, and that’s when she saw him.

Their eyes locked.

She froze.

Then—God, he loved this—her eyes narrowed. Like he’d interrupted her peace.

She stormed toward him. “Are you following me?”

He sipped his latte calmly. “I like farmers markets.”

“This isn’t a farmers market.”

“I stand corrected,” he said. “I like you.”

Zara stopped two feet away, her hands on her hips. “Let me guess. You’re about to tell me you just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

“I was. Technically.”

“Technically,” she repeated dryly.

Alec tilted his head. “Would it help if I apologized for the other night?”

She blinked. “You liked it.”

“I did.” He leaned in slightly. “But I like this more.”

“This?”

“You. Irritated. Suspicious. About to punch me.”

Zara stared at him like he’d grown horns. “You’re insane.”

“I’ve been told.”

“And persistent.”

“Also true.”

She looked away for a second, her lips twitching in a way that made him curious. Like she wanted to smile but didn’t trust herself to.

“You don’t know me,” she said finally.

“No,” Alec agreed. “But I want to.”

“I’m not some puzzle you solve.”

“I’m not trying to solve you, Zara.” He paused. “I’m trying to see you.”

She stared at him for a long moment. Then turned and walked back toward her booth.

Alec followed, stopping just short of her table.

She picked up a jacket—black denim, slashed at the sleeves, silver lettering stitched across the back: BURN THE BLUEPRINT.

He pointed to it. “That one’s yours, isn’t it?”

She raised a brow. “All of these are mine.”

“No. I mean—this one. This is you.”

Zara hesitated.

Then, against her better judgment, she handed it to him. “Try it.”

He did. It fit. Almost perfectly.

She stared at him in it and looked… conflicted.

“So?” he asked.

“I hate how good it looks on you.”

He smiled.

Zara grabbed the price tag. “Three-fifty.”

He blinked. “For a jacket?”

She shrugged. “Hand-stitched rebellion doesn’t come cheap.”

Alec pulled out his wallet, handed her four crisp bills, and didn’t wait for change.

She stared at the cash.

Then back at him.

He leaned closer, his voice lower now. “This doesn’t mean I’m going away.”

“I figured,” she said coolly.

“Good,” Alec murmured. “Because I haven’t even started yet.”

He turned and walked away.

Behind him, Zara stood with the bills still in her hand.

And for the first time since she’d thrown water in his face—

She smiled.