A Knife Wound

Zara

Zara Lane wasn’t easily shaken.

She’d grown up dodging eviction notices, elbowed her way through fashion school on scholarships and side gigs, and built her brand from a secondhand sewing machine in a basement apartment with cracked windows. She’d stitched through heartbreak, hustled through rejections, and slapped labels on jackets while eating ramen three nights a week.

But Alec—that man—was a damn wrinkle she didn’t know how to iron out.

Three days since the market. Four since she threw water on him. And now he was texting.

Alec:

Do you always look that good in black, or was it just to make me suffer?

She rolled her eyes and tossed the phone onto the cluttered worktable in her apartment. Her studio doubled as her bedroom and tripled as a warehouse. Every surface was covered in fabric, pins, and chaos.

Pax barked from the couch, tail wagging as if he approved of the man behind the text.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, scratching behind his ears. “He’s rich-boy trouble. The kind that leaves lipstick smudges and heartbreak in a different borough every week.”

Pax whined.

Zara sighed.

Because the thing was—Alec was different. And that pissed her off.

Men like him didn’t show up twice. They didn’t flirt with handmade jackets or remember your dog’s name or make you feel like you were the only variable in their perfectly calculated lives.

But he did. And it was messing with her focus.

She glanced at her calendar: two custom orders overdue, rent due in five days, and her Etsy store hanging by a thread after the latest one-star review. Shipping was late. Jacket was too honest. Seller swears too much.

Zara smirked bitterly. “Too honest. Welcome to my life, Karen.”

Her phone buzzed again.

Alec:

Dinner. Tonight. Your terms.

Zara typed back before she could talk herself out of it.

Zara:

No suits. No pretense. You want dinner, you earn it. Meet me at Carmella’s at 8. And don’t be late.

⸻

Carmella’s was loud, cramped, and unapologetically New York. The kind of place where garlic hit you before the door did, and the waitstaff called you sweetheart no matter your gender.

Zara slid into a booth near the back, her red leather jacket draped over the seat and her boots kicked out. She wore ripped jeans and a black crop top that made her feel both powerful and exposed.

He arrived at 8:05.

Late.

On purpose?

Probably.

He was wearing a dark hoodie and black jeans, looking more like a struggling artist than a billionaire in disguise. Zara narrowed her eyes.

“You’re late.”

He held up a brown paper bag. “Bribery.”

“What is it?”

“Cannoli.”

Her lips twitched. “Forgiven.”

He slid into the seat across from her, setting the bag between them. “This place smells like heaven got hit by a pizza truck.”

She laughed. “That’s Carmella’s charm.”

“Do they know your name?”

“They know my hustle.” Zara leaned back. “I used to sell custom patches to the waitresses here on payday. They still wear ‘em on their aprons.”

Alec looked impressed. “Smart.”

“I survive.”

He studied her for a moment, too intently.

She folded her arms. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Stare like I’m a question you’re dying to answer.”

“You are,” he said simply.

Zara flushed. Dammit.

“You don’t play fair,” she muttered.

He leaned in. “And you like it.”

Before she could retort, Carmella herself waddled over—silver hair in a bun, apron stained with sauce, eyes sharp as razors.

“Zara, mi amore! Who’s this delicious dish?”

Zara smirked. “Carmella, meet Alec. Alec, prepare for judgment.”

Carmella gave him a slow once-over. “Hmm. Skinny. But the eyes—maledizione, the eyes will ruin lives. You hurt her, I spit in your wine.”

“I believe you,” Alec said solemnly.

Carmella grinned. “Good boy.”

They ordered quickly. Spaghetti for her, penne arrabbiata for him. No wine—Zara didn’t trust herself to drink around him.

“So,” she said once Carmella left. “You gonna keep playing poor boy, or you gonna admit you’re not who you say you are?”

He didn’t flinch.

Which made her uneasy.

“I never said I was poor,” he replied, shrugging. “You just assumed.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You dress like a subway musician.”

“I like comfort.”

“You paid $400 for a jacket without blinking.”

“Because I wanted it. And I wanted to support you.”

Zara tilted her head. “You’re smooth.”

“I’m honest.”

“That’s worse.”

Their food arrived before she could push further, but tension hovered between bites like static.

Alec watched her closely as she twirled pasta on her fork with practiced grace.

“You’re good at this,” he said suddenly.

“At what?”

“Acting like you don’t care.”

Zara froze.

He leaned forward. “But you do. You care a lot. About your work. About surviving. About people not seeing the cracks.”

She stared at him, something raw flickering in her chest. “Don’t pretend you know me.”

“I don’t,” he said quietly. “But I want to.”

She set her fork down, her appetite vanished. “Why?”

“Because you’re the only woman who’s ever thrown water at me and made me thank her for it.”

Zara laughed despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

He smiled. “And you’re unforgettable.”

Then the door slammed open behind them—and everything shifted.

Alec stiffened.

Zara turned just in time to see a tall woman in a tailored cream coat sweep into the restaurant, scanning the room like a drone. Blonde, polished, and sharp-eyed. The kind of woman who wore money like perfume.

She spotted Alec.

And strode over.

Zara tensed. “Friend of yours?”

“Not exactly,” he muttered.

The woman stopped at their table. “Alec. I thought you said you were in Dubai.”

Zara blinked. Dubai?

Alec stood slowly, his voice calm. “Marissa. What a surprise.”

The woman raised a brow, then turned to Zara with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “You must be the new charity project.”

Zara’s spine straightened. “You must be the ex who doesn’t take hints.”

Marissa’s smile widened. “Charming. Does she know who you are?”

“Marissa,” Alec said sharply.

But Zara had already stood.

“No,” she said coolly. “But I know who you are. You’re the type who walks in uninvited, drops bombs, and expects applause.”

Marissa’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“You’re excused,” Zara snapped. “But not welcome.”

The room fell silent.

Alec stepped between them, his voice low. “Marissa. Leave.”

She stared at him for a beat too long. Then turned on her heel and vanished into the night.

Zara grabbed her jacket. “What the hell was that?”

Alec ran a hand through his hair. “She’s a complication.”

“You lied.”

“I didn’t lie—”

“You let me believe you were some broke mystery guy. Meanwhile, you’ve got exes who show up dressed like a Vogue editorial and talk about Dubai.”

His jaw tightened. “I was trying to keep it simple.”

“Simple?” Zara laughed bitterly. “You stalked me, showed up at my stall, bought a jacket with cash, and made me feel like maybe, maybe I wasn’t just another messed-up chapter in someone else’s fairytale.”

Alec stepped toward her. “You’re not. Zara, listen—”

But she was already walking.

Fast. Boots hitting pavement like hammers. Fury building in her chest, hotter than anything she’d felt in years.

She didn’t stop until she hit the sidewalk, her heart racing.

Behind her, Alec stood in the doorway, jacket half-buttoned, expression wrecked.

“Zara, wait.”

She turned.

“I told you I wanted to see you,” he said quietly. “Not perform for you. Not impress you. Just… see you. And I wanted you to see me. Before the headlines. Before the past. Before the lies.”

Zara swallowed hard.

Then turned again.

This time, she didn’t stop.