After Emyr left her sitting in jail, Zahara returns for revenge. But will she truly get back at him? Or will he manage to slither his way back into her life?
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ZAHARA
"YOU work fast." Kiyan's voice rang out the second she stepped through my door, eyes sweeping over the living room with exaggerated disbelief. "You've only been in here, what—one week? And it already looks like a damn catalog spread."
I laughed, taking the wine bottle from her hands before she dropped it. "Don't play. It's not that serious."
"Not that serious?" She kicked her sneakers off and flopped onto my couch like she paid the rent here. "Z, you got a whole furnished living room, plants in the window, and pillows that actually match. When I moved last year, I was living out of boxes and eating off paper plates for two months."
I rolled my eyes, pouring two glasses of wine. "That's because you're lazy." "That's because I'm realistic." She snatched the glass when I handed it over. "You? You're out here like you got something to prove."
She wasn't wrong.
I glanced around my apartment. It was small, yeah, but every detail screamed at me to make it mine. A beige couch with throw pillows I'd picked out in one impulsive Target run, candles burning on the coffee table, curtains I ironed myself. After five years of concrete walls and nothing that belonged to me, I'd needed this. To claim a space. To feel normal again.
"I'm not proving anything," I muttered, settling onto the couch beside her. "I just don't like clutter."
"Mhm." She gave me a look over her glass. "Or maybe you just can't sit still. Same Zahara as always."
That made me smile. Same Zahara as always. I wasn't sure if that was true, but it was nice to pretend.
We clinked glasses, the easy rhythm of our friendship slipping back into place. Kiyan had been there before everything went to hell, before the prison walls and betrayal, before Emyr. She was my constant, the one who never judged, never flinched at my mess.
"So," she said finally, tucking her legs under her. "First week back in the city. How you feeling?"
I took a sip, stalling. "Like I need more wine." She laughed, smacking my leg. "Stop playing. You know what I'm asking."
I sighed, staring into my glass. How was I feeling? Exhausted. Nervous. Angry. Free. Everything all at once.
But Kiyan knew me too well to settle for that. "You went back to dancing," she pressed. "Back on stage. How was it?"
A thousand memories slammed into me at once: the burn of the spotlight, the bass rattling through my body, the way the crowd's eyes clung to me like I was the only thing that mattered. And above it all, his eyes. Watching me from the shadows like he had every right.
