The Confrontation

"How dare you!"

Zara's mother's voice rang through the ballroom, loud enough to make several people stop what they were doing and turn in their direction.

Zara stood frozen, one hand pressed against her cheek where her mother's palm had just connected with her skin. The sting was almost unbearable, but the humiliation was worse.

Not here. Not in front of all these people.

She swallowed the lump forming in her throat, desperately fighting the tears threatening to spill from her eyes. The last thing she wanted was to give her mother the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

"There you go again, defending Zach and everything he does," Zara spat, her voice trembling with anger.

Her mother scoffed, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

"I am not defending him. So drop it before I hit you again."

Zara let out a disbelieving laugh.

Of course. Because that was how every argument with her mother ended. It didn't matter what had happened or who was at fault. Somehow, Zara always became the problem.

She had lost count of how many times she had found herself in situations like this, defending herself against a woman who seemed determined to misunderstand her.

And Zach? Zach could practically get away with murder.

Her older brother was thirty years old, unemployed and perfectly comfortable living off their mother. He contributed nothing to the household, made no effort to get his life together and somehow still managed to be the child their mother defended with her last breath.

But Zara was expected to understand. To be patient. To keep quiet.

Because Zach was her brother.

Because he reminded their mother of their father.

Their father.

The man they had lost when Zara was only ten years old. Zach had been fifteen then, old enough to understand what losing their father meant. Zara, on the other hand, had barely understood why the man who used to carry her on his shoulders wasn't coming home anymore.

She had lost her father, too. But somewhere along the way, her mother seemed to forget that.

Zach became the child who needed protecting, the child who deserved understanding, the child who could do no wrong.

And Zara?

She learned to fend for herself.

"Go ahead," Zara challenged, lowering her hand from her cheek. "Hit me again. Since that's the only way you know how to win an argument."

Her mother's eyes widened.

"You ungrateful little—"

"Good evening, ladies."

A deep, masculine voice interrupted them.

Both women turned towards the speaker.

Standing a few feet away was a tall, impeccably dressed man in a black tailored suit. His expression was calm, although his eyes moved briefly between the two women before settling on Zara.

"Is there a problem here?"

Jordan Harvey.

Zara's boss.

And the last person she had expected to run into at that particular moment.

"Is everything alright, Zara?" he asked, his tone surprisingly casual.

Zara opened her mouth to respond, but her mother beat her to it.

"Yes, she's fine. We're having a discussion, so you can leave us to it."

Her mother offered him a dismissive smile, clearly expecting him to take the hint.

Zara stared at her.

A discussion?

Was that what they were calling it now?

She almost laughed.

Her mother had just slapped her in the middle of a crowded ballroom, and now she was pretending they were having a perfectly ordinary conversation.

Jordan's gaze shifted towards Zara's mother.

"I see."

His response was short, his expression unreadable.

"Well, I wouldn't want to interrupt a family discussion. However, I believe Zara is perfectly capable of telling me whether she's alright herself."

Her mother's smile faltered.

"Excuse me?"

Jordan didn't answer immediately. His attention returned to Zara, whose hand had unconsciously found its way back to her cheek.

"Are you alright?" he asked again.

For a moment, Zara considered lying.

She could say she was fine, thank him for his concern and hope he would leave before things became any more uncomfortable.

But she was tired.

Tired of pretending. Tired of covering up for her mother. Tired of being expected to swallow every hurtful thing that came her way.

"No," she finally answered quietly. "I'm not."

"Zara!" her mother snapped.

Jordan's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

"Mrs...?"

Her mother gave him an irritated look. "What?"

"I believe I asked your daughter a question."

"Listen, young man. I don't know who you think you are, but this is a family matter. I would appreciate it if you stayed out of it."

A family matter.

Jordan almost scoffed.

He had seen enough of the exchange to understand that whatever disagreement had taken place, raising a hand against her daughter was not an acceptable way to settle it.

He particularly disliked bullies. It didn't matter who they were or how much authority they believed they had over someone else.

And he had very little tolerance for anyone who thought being a woman gave them the right to physically intimidate another woman.

His gaze briefly returned to Zara's reddened cheek.

Then he looked at her mother.

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

"And why is that?"

Jordan slipped one hand into his trouser pocket.

"Because I'm also family."

Silence.

Zara blinked.

Her mother frowned.

"I'm sorry?"

Jordan looked directly at Zara.

"We're engaged."

For a moment, the world seemed to stop.

Zara stared at him, certain she had misheard.

Her mother looked between them, her mouth slightly parted.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Jordan didn't blink.

"You heard me."