Semua Bab The Vows We Fake : Bab 111 - Bab 120

The office wasn’t like Zane’s. That was the first thing I noticed. It wasn’t glass and steel and endless skyline views. This place was tucked away in the corner of a forgotten building downtown, a space you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it. The blinds were drawn, the lighting low, the furniture deliberately plain so nothing could tie it to anyone with power or money. Zane led me in first, his hand brushing lightly against the small of my back, guiding me with that subtle authority he carried even when silent. And then I saw Marcus. He was nothing like I expected. He wasn’t broad-shouldered or imposing like Zane, nor polished like the people Catherine surrounded herself with. Marcus was lean, wiry, dressed in a dark jacket that looked worn but intentional, as though he lived in the spaces between respectability and shadow. His hair was cropped close, streaked at the temples with gray, though he couldn’t have been more than his early forties. Sharp eyes flicked over me once, cata

The phone rang softly on the glass table beside Zane’s hand. We’d been stretched across the couch in the dim-lit office he used as a second hideout, surrounded by the faint smell of leather and aged wood, when he picked it up. Leah’s name glowed across the screen. For a beat, my stomach twisted. I hadn’t spoken to her since I left my apartment in such a rush. Part of me wanted to grab the phone, to assure her I was fine, that I hadn’t disappeared without reason. But when I reached for it, Zane caught my wrist in his large, steady hand and shook his head once, a subtle warning in his eyes. The pad of his thumb brushed over the inside of my wrist, slow and possessive, and heat rippled up my arm. He answered smoothly, his voice carrying that controlled calm that always made me feel as though he’d anticipated everything before it even happened. “Leah.” Her voice, warm but strained, spilled through the receiver. “Where’s Amara? I’ve been calling, texting. She hasn’t answered for days.

I woke to the faintest hum of city lights spilling through sheer curtains, a sound I didn’t recognize at first until I realized that I was back in Zane’s penthouse . The sheets beneath me were impossibly soft, the kind you could drown in. And looming beside me, half-shadow, half-guardian, was Zane. His chair was pulled close to the bed, his long body folded into it like he hadn’t moved all night. My chest tightened. For a moment, I thought he was asleep, but then his eyes snapped open the instant I shifted. “You’re awake.” His voice was low, rough, threaded with something that sounded too much like relief. I tried to sit up, but the world tilted sideways and my stomach lurched. Zane’s hand shot out, steadying me against the pillows. “Careful, Amara.” A man in a white coat appeared at my side, how had I missed him? A private doctor, of course. Zane wouldn’t settle for less. His gaze never left me as the doctor checked my pulse, asked me routine questions, pressed the back of his h

The first thing I became aware of was the steady beep-beep-beep echoing softly in the background. Then the faint tug in my arm, the slow drip of something cool sliding into my vein. I blinked, the sterile white light of the hospital room swimming into focus. And then I saw Zane. He was slumped in the chair at my bedside, his tall frame folded in on itself, his head resting on the edge of my bed. His fingers were tangled tightly with mine, as if even in sleep he refused to let go. His dark hair was tousled, his suit jacket discarded over the armrest. He looked nothing like the ruthless Blackwood heir the world feared. Right now, he looked… exhausted. My heart clenched. This man who commanded empires, who barked orders that toppled companies, had abandoned all of that to sit vigil beside me. My free hand trembled as I lifted it, brushing my fingers lightly through his hair. Soft, surprisingly soft. His lashes fluttered, and his head lifted slowly, those sharp grey eyes hazy with slee

I woke to the sound of soft clinking, porcelain on a silver tray. My lashes fluttered open, and there he was. Zane Blackwood, notorious billionaire, cutthroat tycoon, and the man who could make entire boardrooms bow with a glance, was standing at my bedside wearing nothing but gray sweats and a half-smile. “Good morning, love,” he murmured, setting the tray across my lap. The smell of warm croissants, scrambled eggs, and strawberries filled the air. A single rose lay across the plate like he’d stolen the idea from some sappy romance film. “You cooked?” My voice was groggy, but amused. I loved Zane’s cooking. “I ordered,” he confessed without shame, “but I plated it myself. That counts.” I laughed softly, shaking my head. “You’re ridiculous.” “Eat.” He sat on the edge of the bed, watching me with hawk-like intensity, as though the simple act of lifting a fork might exhaust me. He buttered a croissant himself, then held it to my lips. “Zane…” “Don’t argue.” He brushed crumbs from