Zane In Real Life Novels & Stories

There's no room in my world for anyone but you. He paused and kissed my forehead. "I'll pick up the ring now. It's freezing outside, so stay home and wait for me. I'll be back to keep you company soon." I pulled my hand back and replied in an unnervingly calm voice, "Go ahead." The moment Zane left, I picked up the phone and checked the resale platform transaction history. The seller's name was Cassie Tate, and the address was a luxury apartment in Westfield. Zane had once pointed at a billboard for that apartment and told me, "Sadie, I bought a small unit here for you. You now have a quiet place to paint!"

Because every real man would love this kind of thing. "I prefer you like him!" Zane stared at the figure in front of him with furrowed brows. He was about to swear, but when he looked at the suit of clothes, shoes and the smooth, well-groomed skin of the man in front of him, Zane stopped him. She firmly believed that the man was very rich and it seemed that he had seen him too. But where? Zane did not remember where he had ever seen the figure in front of him. Naturally, Zane has a short term memory system. Because for Zane, it didn't matter at the time. Actually, not only that, the name of his girlfriend and future wife, Zane, often forgets. Yes, you know, they are not a priority for Zane.

What was the point in having survived so much if she didn’t move forward? “I’d like to stay with you,” she confessed shyly. He smiled, hands sliding from her cheeks to her shoulders. “Good,” he said. “I’ll give you the dime tour of our suite.” ~ Zane hadn’t gone inside after he left the garage. His feelings were too intense, and he’d needed air. He’d strode stiff-legged and stiff-cocked to their lagoon, a small manmade lake he and Trey sometimes rowed out on. The reeds at the edge were tall, the water wavery with moonlight. Zane calmed a bit as he stared at it.

“Who is the man in this picture?” I swallowed hard, the anger draining out of me for a fraction of a second as a dull ache settled in my chest. “That’s my father,” I said softly. “He died when I was very young. My mom kept that picture everywhere we moved.” Zane looked down at the photograph for a long, quiet moment, his thumb tracing the burnt silver edge of the frame. Then, he looked up, his gaze sliding past me to land directly on Andrew. “And for the record,” Zane added, his voice completely deadpan and dripping with aristocratic disdain, “my hair is naturally ginger. I do not 'dye' it, you insecure little man.”

At the wedding reception, every place card at the last table bore an online username instead of a real name. I turned to my husband and quietly asked who these people were. Before he could answer, a young woman at the table blinked at me and said playfully, "Hey, we're not strangers. I've been hiking with Zane for three years. Every time we go out, we sleep in the same tent." The others at the table burst out laughing. "Say it. Does Zane snore in his sleep?" I stood there frozen, wineglass in hand, utterly humiliated. To my surprise, Zane laughed along with them. "They're all my friends. I bought you tickets to Caldera Bay for our honeymoon, but I'm not going. I finally have some time