POV

Zara

The second Zara Lane stepped outside the café, she regretted exactly nothing.

Well, maybe the wasted ice water. It had been a hot day, and she could’ve used it. But watching it trickle down that man’s smug face had been more refreshing than any drink.

She crossed the street with fire still blazing in her veins, her boots slapping against the cracked pavement, the red of her jacket catching the dying sunlight like war paint. She didn’t look back. Not once. Because if she did, she might’ve seen him laughing—and that would’ve pissed her off even more.

Men like that didn’t get to laugh after getting drenched in public.

And he had laughed. She’d heard it. Soft. Surprised. Like she’d just passed some kind of test.

Asshole.

She ducked into a corner alley, yanked her phone out of her bag, and swiped through the open apps until she found what she was looking for—his dating profile.

“Alec, 32. Writer. Just trying to find someone who doesn’t mind sharing fries.”

She rolled her eyes. His whole profile had smelled like artisan pretension. Quirky but safe. Sensitive but not too much. And yet—ugh—she’d still swiped right.

Why?

Because something about his eyes in that one photo. The way they’d looked—like he was holding back an entire story.

Turned out the only thing he was holding back was his ego and a condescending tone dressed in goodwill.

“You have no idea what hustling looks like,” she muttered under her breath, deleting his contact and the chat thread from the dating app in one angry swipe. “Go hustle some reality, Harvard.”

She didn’t know if he actually went to Harvard, but it felt like the kind of place a man like him would say he didn’t go to just to seem relatable—when he obviously did.

Zara tucked her phone back into her jacket and walked to the bus stop, refusing to let her thoughts circle back to him.

She had bigger things to worry about.

Like the overdue studio rent.

Like the invoices her last client still hadn’t paid.

Like the three orders for custom streetwear jackets she hadn’t even started because she ran out of thread and had to buy groceries instead.

By the time she reached the bus, her frustration had cooled into exhaustion. She took a window seat and stared out, letting the city blur past her, a living, breathing reminder that she couldn’t afford to be distracted. Not by smug smiles. Not by sharp cheekbones. And definitely not by a man who dressed down for the aesthetic of poverty while people like her were clawing through the dirt just to breathe.

The bus jolted to a stop, and she hopped off near her building—an old, chipping four-story walk-up with no elevator and a landlord who only answered texts after 11 PM, high. Her apartment sat on the third floor, and by the time she climbed up and pushed open the door, her legs were aching.

Inside, everything smelled faintly of fabric dye and lavender floor cleaner. Her living room doubled as her workspace. Bolts of cloth leaned against the walls like tired soldiers. A cheap mannequin stood half-dressed in one of her unfinished pieces, the pins still sticking out from the sleeves. Her sewing machine sat quiet on the desk, waiting.

She tossed her bag onto the couch, pulled off her boots, and collapsed beside them.

Then she groaned, dragged a hand down her face, and muttered into the ceiling, “What the hell was that today?”

Her phone buzzed.

Zara ignored it.

It buzzed again. She sighed and picked it up, half-expecting a text from her friend Layla asking how the date went.

But it wasn’t Layla.

Unknown Number:

So, is that how you usually end your dates? Or was I just lucky?

Zara stared.

Her thumb hovered over the screen.

She debated ignoring it.

But something in her twisted—something sharp, electric, and a little curious.

Zara:

Delete my number. Go iron your ego.

The typing dots appeared.

Unknown Number:

Ego’s still wet. Thanks for that, by the way.

She almost smiled.

Almost.

But no—she wasn’t going to flirt with someone who thought struggling was a personality trait.

She turned her phone off and tossed it to the floor.

Then she stood, walked to her machine, and powered it on.

The buzz of the motor was comforting, familiar. The needle clicked. Fabric shifted beneath her fingers.

This was who she was. Not some angry woman in a café. Not some pawn in a game she hadn’t agreed to play.

Her designs would speak louder than her temper.

And yet… as she worked, she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Not about the smirk or the stupid ripped shirt or the fact that he somehow managed to look hot even soaking wet.

It was the way he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t raise his voice.

Didn’t defend himself like every other man who’d called her “too much” or “intense” or “difficult.”

Instead… he laughed.

What kind of man laughed when a woman humiliated him?

A rich one playing poor?

A crazy one?

Or the most dangerous kind—the one who actually liked her fire.

Zara shook the thought loose and pressed her foot harder on the machine pedal.

There was no way she’d ever see Alec again. He’d probably already blocked her, labeled her as unstable, and told his friends about the psycho girl who bathed him in iced water.

Let him.

She didn’t care.

Except… maybe she did. A little.

Just enough to check her phone again before going to bed.

And just enough to reread his text twice before finally falling asleep.

Still not smiling.

Not really.

Just… wondering.