CHAPTER 4

ZENDAYA'S POV

The next two days were torture.

I tried to avoid Malachi, I really did. But living under the same roof made it impossible. Every turn I made, every room I wheeled into, he was there. In the kitchen making coffee in the morning. In the hallway carrying files to Adrian's study. In the living room reading through contracts with that intense focus that made my stomach flip.

And every time our eyes met, the air between us crackled with tension.

"Good morning," he'd say, his voice carefully neutral.

"Morning," I'd reply, wheeling past him as quickly as I could.

But I could feel his eyes on me. Could feel the weight of everything unsaid hanging between us like a storm cloud ready to burst.

The worst part was during meals. Adrian insisted we all eat together—breakfast and dinner at least. He was so happy to have both of us there, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension that made every bite of food stick in my throat.

"So Zendaya, I've scheduled your first board meeting for next week," Adrian said over dinner on the second night. "Just an introduction, let them know you're stepping back into your role."

"Already?" I asked, gripping my fork tighter.

"The sooner the better," Adrian replied. "We need to make it clear that you're serious about this. That you're ready."

Across the table, Malachi watched me with those dark, knowing eyes. "Are you ready?"

The question felt loaded with more than just concern about my CEO position.

"Of course she is," Adrian answered for me, smiling. "This is what she was born to do."

I forced a smile. "Right. Born to do."

After dinner, I retreated to my room as quickly as possible, claiming exhaustion. But sleep wouldn't come. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, my mind racing with thoughts of the upcoming board meeting, of stepping back into a role I'd abandoned, of proving myself capable when I still felt so broken.

And thoughts of Malachi. Always Malachi.

The next morning, I had my first official meeting as incoming CEO—a conference call with the company's top investors. I sat in Adrian's home office, my wheelchair positioned carefully at the desk, and listened to their concerns, their questions, their thinly veiled doubts about whether I was truly capable of leading.

"Ms. Morrison, with all due respect," one of them said, his tone suggesting no respect at all, "you've been out of the business for three years. The market has changed significantly. Are you sure you're prepared for this transition?"

I gripped the armrests of my wheelchair, forcing my voice to remain calm and professional. "I've been keeping up with market trends throughout my... absence. And I have full confidence in my ability to lead this company into its next phase."

"But given your... situation," another investor interjected delicately, "don't you think the physical demands of being CEO might be too much?"

My situation. My disability. The thing everyone was too polite to say directly but clearly thought disqualified me.

"My physical situation has no bearing on my mental capabilities or business acumen," I said coldly. "Unless you'd like to suggest otherwise?"

Silence on the other end of the line.

"Of course not," the first investor backtracked quickly. "We're just concerned about—"

"Your concerns are noted," I interrupted. "Now, shall we discuss the actual business at hand?"

When the call finally ended, I slumped in my wheelchair, exhausted. This was going to be my life now—constant questions, constant doubt, constant reminders that people saw my wheelchair before they saw me.

"That was impressive."

I jerked upright. Malachi stood in the doorway, his shoulder against the frame, his expression unreadable.

"How long have you been standing there?" I demanded.

"Long enough," he said, pushing off the doorframe and walking into the office. "You handled them well. Didn't let them intimidate you."

"Was there something you needed?" I asked, keeping my voice cool.

"We need to talk, Zendaya."

"No, we don't."

"Yes," Malachi said firmly, closing the office door behind him. "We do."

Panic fluttered in my chest. "Adrian could come back any minute—"

"Do you really feel nothing for me?" He cut me off, his voice low and intense. "Look me in the eye and tell me that night meant nothing. That you don't think about it. That you don't wonder what might have happened if you hadn't run away."

I opened my mouth to lie, to tell him exactly what he was asking for. But the words wouldn't come. Not when he was looking at me like that. Not when every fiber of my being screamed that I was lying.

"I..." I started, then stopped. "It doesn't matter what I feel."

"It's the only thing that matters," Malachi countered, taking another step closer.

"No," I said, my voice firmer now. "What matters is Adrian. What matters is not destroying his friendship with you because I'm too selfish to control myself."

"Is that really what you think this is? Selfishness?"

"What else would it be?" I challenged. "You're his best friend, Malachi. The person he trusts most in the world besides me. I can't—I won't—be the reason he loses that."

"What if we could make it work?" Malachi asked, crouching down so we were eye level. "What if we tried? What if we told Adrian how we feel and—"

"And what?" I interrupted. "He's made it clear how he feels about this. About us. He's told you to stay away from me how many times?"

"Because he's scared," Malachi said. "Scared of losing one of us if things go wrong. But what if they don't go wrong? What if we could build something real, Zendaya?"

My heart ached with how much I wanted that. How much I wanted to say yes, to lean forward and kiss him, to let myself feel everything I'd been suppressing for four years.

But then I looked down at my wheelchair. At the prison that confined me, that made me less than whole. How could I give Malachi anything when I was like this? Even if I revealed I could walk now, I was still damaged. Still broken. Still not enough.

"There's nothing to build," I said, the words tasting like ash. "That night was a mistake, and whatever you think you feel for me—it's just nostalgia. Just the appeal of something forbidden."

"You don't believe that."

"I do," I lied. "And even if I didn't, it wouldn't change anything. I'm not the person you think I am, Malachi. I'm not whole. I'm not—"

"Don't," Malachi interrupted sharply. "Don't do that. Don't use your wheelchair as an excuse to push me away."

"It's not an excuse," I said. "It's reality. Look at me, Malachi. Really look at me. I'm a cripple. I can't even walk. What could I possibly offer you?"

"Everything," Malachi said, and before I could process what was happening, he leaned forward and kissed me.

For a moment, I froze. Then my body betrayed me, responding to him the way it always had. My hands came up to his shoulders, my lips parting under his, and four years of denial shattered like glass.

The kiss was everything I remembered and more. Desperate and hungry and so right it hurt. I felt his tongue trail my bottom lip, asking for access and without thinking twice I opened up for him. He drank me like a man who had been denied thirst for years, and I his willing tap.

But then reality crashed back in. What was I doing? This was exactly what couldn't happen. This was—

I pulled away and slapped him.

The sound echoed in the office, sharp and final.

Malachi's head turned with the force of it, and when he looked back at me, there was a red mark blooming on his cheek.

"How dare you," I said, my voice shaking with anger and desire and fear all tangled together. "How dare you try that? After everything I just said? After I made it clear that nothing can happen between us?"

Malachi touched his cheek, his jaw tight. "Zendaya—"

"Get out," I said. "Get out of this office. Get out of my sight. And don't you ever—ever—touch me like that again."

Malachi looked at me for one more moment, something unreadable in his dark eyes. Then he turned and walked out of the office without another word.

The door closed behind him, and I sat there in my wheelchair, my lips still tingling from his kiss, my heart racing, and tears streaming down my face.