Chapter 4

Old Wounds

Zariah’s Pov

“Your assistant let me in.”

Zariah's head jerked up, and the scissors were still in her hand. Her studio was usually her safe space as she designed dresses, and she was often surrounded by shredded fabrics, and sketches taped to the wall, and Andrea Bocelli playing in the background.

But standing in the middle of it all, far too large for the room, was Leonard Blackwell.

He wore a dark suit, which was crisp and perfect, but his tie was slightly loosened, like he had rushed. His eyes weren’t on the gowns hanging from the racks. They were on her.

“Business,” he said, moving slowly towards her. “I’m here for business.”

“Business?” she repeated flatly, setting the scissors down. “You don’t even know how to spell ‘hemline,’ Leonard. Don’t insult me.”

He walked over to the rack, sliding one suit-jacketed arm across a sequined gown as though he cared. He sniffed once and gave a short laugh that sounded like nerves. “You’ve done well. I’ll admit that.”

“Don’t you dare.” She could feel heat climbing her neck, but she kept her posture straight, her arms folded. “Don’t stand there like you had nothing to do with the woman I had to become.”

Leonard’s head snapped toward her, “Zariah, I never meant to…”

“Don’t lie.” She cut him off. “You meant every word and made me out to be a slut. I was everywhere. And when I left—” She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood. “You didn’t even notice.”

Leonard’s throat bobbed. He looked at her sketches pinned on the wall, then back at her. “I notice now.”

Her chest squeezed painfully. “Too late. You’re so full of shit. I’m beautiful, so you want me now, you want to take me on a date, but six years ago, you wouldn’t even want to be seen with me.”

He took a step closer, and for one dizzy second, she could smell him, and her heart stuttered traitorously. His hand lifted, almost like he wanted to touch her. “Zariah, please—”

She pulled back before he could close the space. “So, what business were you on about?”

His hand dropped slowly, his shoulders stiff. “I was going to take you out for lunch, so we can catch up. I tried to find you after college, but…”

Zariah laughed out loud. “Don’t lie, Leonard. It doesn’t matter now. I will never repeat the mistakes of my youth.”

Leonard still reached out and touched her arm gently. His touch burned on her skin, and a feeling she thought no longer existed bubbled inside her.

“At least give me a chance to prove myself.” He looked like he was in pain, and it made Zariah a little happy to see that.

Zariah turned away, her fingers were trembling as she rearranged fabric that didn’t need rearranging. “This is my place of work, and if you have nothing else to say, leave.”

Leonard stood there a beat longer, then, without another word, he turned and walked out. Zariah pressed her palms against the table, her body shaking, her throat raw. She hated that her hands weren’t steady, hated that he could still make her heart slam against her ribs.

****

Two days later, Zariah hosted a small fashion show in Manhattan.

Zariah’s gown was silver, which complemented her olive skin. It was a piece from her latest collection, as usual, and people started when she entered the event. She was talking to a curator about sponsorship deals when she felt a presence at her side.

“Impressive work.”

She turned, expecting another empty compliment. Instead, she found Damian Blackwell. He wore black like a second skin, his posture calm, his eyes fixed not on her body but on her face. The intensity of it made her chest tighten.

“Thank you,” she said carefully, searching his expression for mockery, but there was none. 

He gestured toward one of her pieces displayed on the runway behind them. “The lines remind me of early Renaissance architecture. Clean and balanced and almost mathematical.”

Zariah blinked. No man at these events ever bothered to ask about the art in her dresses. They were always eager to swipe their cards when she smiled at them. “You know art?” she asked, surprised. “And is crashing fashion shows a hobby of yours?”

His lips quivered just slightly. “Enough to keep myself entertained. Do you read?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Too much. I grew up hiding in books.”

He leaned closer. “Good. I feel your designs tell stories. And the models you use as well, take your designs to the next level.”

Her throat tightened unexpectedly. No one had ever described her work like that. Not even she had said it out loud. She let out a small laugh, rubbing her arm like she needed grounding. “You’re dangerous.”

“Why?” Damien cocked his head to his side, and a frown appeared on his face. 

“Because you make me feel…” She stopped herself, heat climbing her face. 

Damian didn’t push. He only nodded once, as if her not saying anything was enough. The room suddenly felt too warm. Zariah excused herself quickly, needing space, needing air. As she slipped outside, the noise of the gala muffled behind her.

She had survived Leonard’s rage, Adrian’s teasing charm, but Damian? He didn’t come at her with claws or games. He came at her with eyes that looked too deep. Like he wanted to know her.

She hated how much it shook her. In the cool night, she wrapped her arms around herself. She didn’t want to fall in love again.