Page 59 of Oliver
I forced myself to move, to shower, to erase every last trace of her touch from my body. My reflection in the mirror looked back at me, sharp-eyed, unsmiling, detached.
This was business. This was the deal.
And now, it was time to reinstate the mask and hold up my end of the bargain.
And tonight? I still hadn’t figured out what to do about tonight. Same room. Same bed. Same woman who had just reminded me exactly what I would never get to keep.
Sleeping on the floor felt dramatic. Pretending nothing had happened felt impossible.
And talking about it?
That felt dangerous.
The elevator doors slid open, and Zahra stepped out, looking effortlessly perfect.
Simple pale blue sundress. Loose updo. A small gold necklace.
Like nothing had happened.
Like she hadn’t spent the night falling apart in my arms.
My eyes instinctively searched her exposed neck, hunting for the mark I’d left, proof she was still mine in some way.
Gone. Covered.
It hit me harder than I wanted to admit.
"Hey," I greeted her, keeping my tone light, searching for any sign that she was as affected as I was.
"Hi." A polite smile. “Sorry I’m late. Had some last-minute wedding details to take care of.”
Liar. But I nodded anyway, going along with whatever game we were playing now.
"No problem." I hesitated, then gestured toward the garden doors. "Shall we?"
We fell into step, careful inches of space between us. I felt her presence like a physical force, the same magnetic pull that had driven me to pin her against our hotel room door less than twelve hours ago now manifesting as acute awareness of her every movement.
Then we stepped into the garden, and everything changed.
The moment we were in public, Zahra’s hand found mine, like clockwork. I linked our fingers, and she leaned in, flawless in the lie.
I should have been relieved. Instead, I felt something crack in my ribs.
"There they are," Parisa called, waving us over and snagging two mimosas off a passing tray.
I clocked the looks immediately. Knowing smiles. Teasing glances. A couple of groomsmen elbowing each other, whispering with deviant smirks and snickers.
Zahra went tense beside me.
“What’s going on?” I murmured.
She laughed—too highpitched, too forced.
“They, um…” She cleared her throat, followed by a sharp exhale. “They heard us.”
“Heard us?” My brow furrowed. “Heard us doing wha… Oh.”
They'd heard us.
