The After

Zoe’s POV

I did not speak on the ride back. The silence in the car was so heavy you could touch it.

The black car sliced through the city like a whisper; I might have complimented the vehicle if I didn't want to avoid saying a single word to its owner. I had no idea what the brand or design was, but it wasn't loud and roaring like the cars men seem to like these days. The feature I appreciated most, however, was the tinted windows. They shielded me from the uproar outside: fans screaming, paparazzi lunging, and lights flashing.

Arman had offered me a ride, and my manager, M.J., had nodded like he’d just won the lottery. I hadn't objected then, but now I wished I had.

Arman leaned against the leather seat, trying to clear his head while keeping his eyes on the road and the kiss off his mind. His expression was controlled—that boyish, signature grin that charmed headlines, directors, and fans, but didn't seem to budge me. He controlled the wheel with one hand, a look girls usually have a soft spot for, and kept his free hand beside mine without touching me.

"That was a good moment," he said finally, breaking the silence with his scotch-smooth voice.

I raised a brow, not saying a word but clearly passing a message.

"The kiss," Arman explained. "You got a slice of me." He grinned.

I glared at him. "You don't know when to shut up, do you?" I had been quite satisfied with the silence.

Arman replied with a chuckle, his voice light and playful, “C'mon, it wasn’t so bad.”

I rolled my eyes. Why had I even accepted this ride? “I’d rather you didn’t touch me.” I just wanted to be at home, maybe call my mom and hope my parents were proud of the award I had won. My parents lived for excellence.

Arman read the look on my face and interpreted it as disgust; he hid his disappointment with a cool tone. “I would not have touched you if I hadn’t thought you were okay with it. We’re both actors; besides, it wasn’t our first kiss.” He hadn't intended it, but bitterness slipped into his last words.

“You thought wrong,” I said through my teeth. His words hadn’t been harsh, yet they stung.

It didn’t help that I could still feel the heat of his lips on mine and the taste of the champagne he had drunk earlier. It felt like a dream—the lights, the tingling. Yet he was right. We were both actors; our bodies belonged to the audience, and if the world demanded a kiss, we both had to deliver. Arman had been fulfilling a duty, but it was I who felt too much.

I shifted in my seat and stared at my shoes. What kind of Cinderella story was this? Neither shoe was missing.

“I wasn’t trying to offend you,” Arman breathed, breaking the silence again. I bit back a curse.

“I don’t get offended over trivial things. All you did was kiss me.” I shrugged; I could act unattached, too.

“You kissed me back, too,” Arman reminded me. He clearly didn’t like the direction the conversation was going; why was I acting like he had forced his lips on me against my will?

I closed my eyes, his accusation burning in my ears. “You always think everything is about you,” I scoffed, keeping my eyes shut. Seeing and hearing him while being this close was becoming too much.

“That’s rich, coming from someone who’s built an image out of being untouchable,” Arman bit out.

My eyes snapped open. What the freak?

Arman did not stop there. “You’re brilliant on screen, I’ll give you that, but off-screen? An ice block would do a better job of socializing than you do. All you do is ignore people and freeze them out like no one exists or matters except you.” He snapped at me. He had seen how people tried to approach me; men flocked around me like I was the only woman in the room.

“Oh really? I think that’s much better than being a fake-ass like you, always sucking everyone in.”

Arman’s smirk faltered, not from shock or the sting of my words, but because it was almost the first time he had ever seen me show an emotion that wasn’t for the camera. And it was he who had wrung that emotion out of me. He deserved an award for that.

We both fell into silence. I looked out the window. What was that look in his eyes? It wasn’t anger or even an emotion I could relate to in our war of words. Why was I still in this car, trying to decipher what Arman’s expressions meant?

A buzz from my phone made my back tense. It was from my mom. Disappointment soured my stomach as I read the contents: *“It’s not too late to start over. Come back home.”*

That was the answer I needed. The awards I had won had no worth to my family. I needed air.

“Can you drop me here?” I choked out. I would not dare cry with Arman as my audience.

“I don’t think it's safe.” Arman tried to tell me he couldn’t see why I had to leave in such a hurry; he could take me home.

“Why do you care? I’m not one of your projects; you don’t have to be nice and suck me in, as well. I don’t freakin’ want to be sucked in!” I snapped.

Arman frowned. “I don’t know why I tolerate you.” He swerved and parked the car angrily. “Next time, take the mic and tell the crowd that you’d rather die than kiss me.” Hell, Arman hardly ever lost his temper, but he seemed to be losing control over it.

I welcomed his anger—anything to get me out of his car. “I’m glad you figured that out yourself. I’d rather die than kiss you again!” I snapped as I got out of the car, slamming the door in his face.