His Ex Mistress, His Enemy
Once convinced, he sat, powered on the system, and began typing at a speed that would make a concert pianist jealous.
I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, the image of that red-coated silhouette still carved into my mind. I knew that kind of gaze. Calculating, deliberate. Not a fan, not the press. Something quieter. More controlled. A threat wrapped in stillness.
And it worked.
“You know,” Zach said without looking away from his screens, “sometimes I wish Zoe had been born a cat. Easier to control. Wouldn’t turn my cookie dough into a beauty product.”
“Zoe’s just life training,” I said. “Prepping you for every worst-case scenario.”
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