Chapter 42: What she outgrew

They returned to Manhattan the next day. Zara bought clothes for herself from the fancy malls on Oxford Street and collected a few antiques and artifacts—including a serpentine piece—as mementos of her trip to London. Nat, meanwhile, would cherish the haute suit he’d gotten from Kingsman on Savile Row.

The helipad where they landed the private jet was atop Nat’s office building. It was windy and cold when they stepped out. He dropped her off at home and insisted on coming along to see the new house he’d bought for her.

“Home!” Zara echoed loudly, her voice reverberating through the quiet house. She wheeled in her suitcases; Nat followed closely behind. She wore a jumpsuit and heels. Nat looked muscular in a grey suit, the shirt open at the neck, revealing a glittering diamond chain.

“Isla!” she screamed.

“Must be sleeping,” she said, turning to Nat as she climbed the stairs.

She opened Isla’s door and froze. To her greatest surprise, a man who looked nothing like Rodney lay there. He and Isla were intertwined, her head resting on his chest, their nakedness concealed only by white sheets.

“Zara—I didn’t know you were coming today,” Isla said shyly as she sat up. She slipped on a white robe. Slim—hot, young, and careless threw on his shirt, his bare buttocks shamelessly exposed. Zara cringed at the sight of his ashy, unattractive rear.

“Who’s he?” Zara quipped.

“How was the trip, Zara?” Isla asked, suddenly all smiles.

Zara blinked, thrown off by the non sequitur.

“Who?” she asked again, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Let’s go outside,” Isla said, tying her robe and taking Zara’s hand.

Nat met them at the door.

“Zara!” Slim said with delight, as if he’d just recognized her. He walked toward her. She noticed the Mandarin tattoo across his chest and looked him over, assessing him.

“You remember me?” he asked, eyes shining.

He looked incongruous—Zara couldn’t place him anywhere in the archive of her memory.

“Come on, Sin City. We fucked a couple of times,” he laughed, then sized Nat up.

The word “fuck” buzzed through the room like a burring, wheezing, piping sound of an alarm—like sheriff sirens slicing the air.

Nat stared at him, then at Zara. She bowed her head slightly, humiliation washing over her as a sad memory surfaced. She was awash with a great sadness that furred her, numbing the margins of her mind.

Slim laughed. “Wow, you look different. Cleaner, I think. Didn’t recognize you earlier—without the bikinis and your sexy ass on the strip pole.”

Nat lunged forward and slapped him. Slim’s face snapped sideways, suspended for a moment. He smiled faintly, pressed a hand to his cheek, and nodded slowly, accepting the blow as total humiliation—defeat.

Isla rushed to his side, instinctively defending her sugar baby.

“And you are her bodyguard?” Slim sneered. “Good upgrade—John Cena,” he mocked.

Nat looked like a wounded lion, ready to strike again.

Zara stood there, lost in confusion. Tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks.

“Get out of here!” Nat commanded.

“And you should know—she’s not who you knew,” Nat said, voice low and final.

“You don’t get to speak to her. Ever again,” he added, reclaiming his ground like the alpha he was, repelling Slim like a pest from her life.

Slim scoffed. “This isn’t over.” His bravado faltered; he looked pained, walking to the bathroom and picking up his black pencil jeans from the floor.

Isla stared at them in horror—as if they were strangers now. Her best friend and her man, unrecognizable. She felt disoriented, yanked from peaceful sleep into a chaotic morning. A wave of drama—caused entirely by Slim’s inability to keep his mouth shut. Though good in bed, he now seemed like melted wax, frayed plastic.

“Hey, why are you crying?” Nat asked gently, pulling Zara into his arms like a father comforting his child.

Isla stormed off.

Later, they sat by the pool. Nat held Zara and reassured her, telling her how silly people could be, how none of it was worth her precious tears.

Zara accepted his comfort and joined him in the pool, wearing an enticing green bikini. His dark skin shimmered beneath the pool’s blue light. The sky was dark grey, the air cool and fresh. The moon—full and radiant hung above them, surrounded by a constellation of stars. They gazed for a while, then raised glasses of sparkling champagne.

“To us,” Nat said.

“To us,” Zara echoed optimistically, recovered from the fog of shock and despair.

They hugged in the cool water and kissed. He teased her for being a soft crybaby. She teased him back, calling him her toy—her joystick firmly in hand.

“You’re not the first man I’ve had under my spell,” she said, smirking. “But you’re the most fallen prey—a worthy catch, too. A literal and figurative Wolfe turned puppet.”

She laughed at her own wit, playing on his surname.

“And you’re not the first woman to be hypnotized by my wood,” Nat shot back, grinning. “But you’re the most destroyed, disrepaired, disheveled.”

Nat plucked grapes from a silver tray brought by the chef and fed them to Zara.

Suddenly, Isla returned—driving manically, nearly crashing into the façade.

“Want to join us?” Nat called cheerfully, as if he hadn’t punched her man into submission just hours earlier.

Isla laughed. “I guess I don’t want to be the third wheel,” she said, heading back inside.

For hours, Nat and Zara indulged their forbidden desire by the pool. The warm water cooled their bodies but not their fire. Each thrust beneath the open sky pulsed with raw wanting.

Inside, Isla stared at her phone, deleted Slim’s number, and texted Rodney.