The afternoon was a slow torture of anticipation. Zara spent the hours drifting through her apartment like a ghost, the silence of her own home feeling suffocating compared to the electric tension of Kian’s office. Every time her skin brushed against the emerald silk, the bite on her collarbone throbbed, a rhythmic pulse that kept the memory of his mouth fresh and searing.
She stood before her vanity, staring at the bruise. It was turning a deep, plum purple a loud, violent contrast to her skin. She reached for her concealer, intending to hide it, but her hand stopped mid-air. Kian’s voice echoed in her head: So everyone who looks at you today knows exactly who you belonged to.
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