Confusion
1368 Words
Carter’s voice turned harsh. “You should walk away, man. This isn’t your business.”
Zayn’s expression didn’t change, but the edge in his eyes deepened. “You should let her go.”
Instead, Carter’s grip on Lena’s wrist tightened. Pain flashed across her face, and she tried again to twist free. “Carter, please—”
That single word was enough.
Zayn stepped forward, his presence alone commanding space. “I said let her go.”
The pilot laughed—a sharp, intoxicated sound that didn’t reach his eyes. “Or what? You gonna play hero?”
Before Lena could react, Carter swung clumsily, his fist cutting through the air in a blur of bad coordination and too much alcohol.
Zayn moved like a reflex—no wasted motion, no hesitation. His hand caught Carter’s arm mid-swing, redirecting the force easily. Carter stumbled back, off balance, colliding with the wall behind him.
“Don’t,” Zayn said quietly. The word wasn’t loud, but it carried a weight that cut through the club’s noise.
Carter’s chest heaved once, twice, and then he looked away, muttering under his breath as he pushed past a few onlookers who had stopped to stare.
The music swallowed him whole a moment later.
Lena stood frozen where she was, her pulse racing in her throat, adrenaline and leftover tequila mixing until the floor felt slightly unsteady under her feet.
Zayn turned to her. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, though her hand throbbed where Carter had grabbed her. “I—I’m fine. I just—”
The words broke off.
The rush of noise, the flashing lights, the alcohol, the heat — all of it blurred together. She tried to take a step but the room tilted sharply.
“Lana.” Zayn’s voice cut through the haze.
“I’m fine,” she whispered again, except she wasn’t. Her body trembled, shock and exhaustion and alcohol crashing together. The world tilted once more—
—and went black.
Zayn caught her before she hit the ground.
For a second he just stood there, holding her, jaw tight, exhaling a long, controlled breath.
“Just great,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.
Without another glance toward the dance floor, he adjusted his hold on her, lifting her effortlessly into his arms. The crowd parted instinctively, sensing the authority in his stride.
Outside, the night air hit him like a wall of cold clarity. The neon lights of Toxic flashed behind him as he carried her toward his waiting car, his jaw still set, his expression unreadable.
--
Lena woke up to a pounding headache.
Every heartbeat echoed painfully inside her skull. She groaned, dragging an arm over her eyes to block out the stabbing sunlight filtering through unfamiliar curtains.
The sheets felt too soft, the air smelled faintly of cedar and something darker—expensive cologne. She blinked a few times, confusion chasing panic. This… wasn’t her hotel room. The décor was too masculine, too minimalist.
Her mind stuttered. Where am I?
She sat up quickly and regretted it instantly. The room spun, her stomach lurched, and she had to close her eyes for a second. Her dress was neatly folded on a chair nearby, replaced by an oversized black T-shirt that definitely wasn’t hers.
Her pulse spiked.
“What the—” she whispered, clutching the blanket closer as the door behind her creaked.
“Easy there,” a low voice said.
She froze. Slowly, she turned toward the sound—and her breath caught.
Zayn Specter leaned casually against the doorway, sleeves rolled up, a cup of coffee in his hand.
For a moment, she could only stare, her mind refusing to connect the dots between the memory fragments—the club, Carter, the confrontation, darkness—and waking up here.
“What—what am I doing here? What happened…?” she managed, her voice hoarse.
Zayn’s mouth curved, somewhere between a smirk and amusement. “Relax, I can assure you that I was a perfect gentleman. You passed out, and I wasn’t about to leave you in that place. You’re safe.”
Her cheeks burned as she clutched the blanket tighter around herself. “You brought me here?”
He nodded once.
She wanted the floor to swallow her whole. “I’m so sorry. I—I don’t usually—”
“Drink?” His voice was smooth, teasing. “Yeah, I figured from last night performance.”
Lena’s embarrassment only deepened.
Zayn pushed off the doorway and set the coffee down on the nightstand beside her. “Drink this. It’ll help.”
She glanced at the steaming cup, then at him. His blue eyes were calm but unreadable, the kind of gaze that made her pulse stutter again for reasons that had nothing to do with tequila or headaches.
“I should… get dressed,” she muttered.
“Good idea,” he said lightly, turning toward the door. “There are clean clothes on the chair. Once you’re ready, we need to talk.”
She frowned. “About what?”
But the last thing she was expecting was an ironic answer, “Curiosity killed the cat. Get ready.” as he exited the bedroom.
--
Lena frowned as she looked at the closed door, his last words still echoing in her mind. Curiosity killed the cat.
The teasing warmth she’d come to associate with Zayn Specter had vanished, replaced by something colder—something that prickled unease across her skin.
Her hands trembled slightly as she gathered herself, slipping off the bed and padding into the sleek ensuite bathroom. The mirror reflected a pale face framed by wild dark hair, her eyes shadowed with confusion and exhaustion. She turned on the tap and splashed cold water on her cheeks, whispering, You’re fine. You’re okay.
When she noticed the neatly folded clothes on the chair, she hesitated. A soft blue dress—long, flowing, the fabric whispering between her fingers. She checked the tag. Versace.
Her eyes widened. “Oh, great,” she muttered under her breath. “Just what I needed—to ruin a designer dress I can’t afford even to touch.”
Still, it was better than sitting wrapped in a blanket or last night’s disaster bandage dress. She slipped into it, the silk cool against her skin, and tied her hair back loosely. With a final deep breath, she opened the door and stepped out.
The next room caught her off guard—it wasn’t a bedroom but an office, all sharp lines and understated luxury. A massive wooden desk dominated the space, papers stacked with mathematical precision. And by the floor-to-ceiling windows stood Zayn Specter, hands in his pockets, looking out over the glittering city skyline.
The man radiated power even in stillness. His suit jacket was gone, his white shirt rolled at the sleeves, the morning light casting strong lines across his shoulders.
Lena swallowed, her voice small but steady. “Thank you, Mr. Specter, for helping me last night, but I really should go. My flight—”
“Sit down, Lena.”
The words sliced through her sentence, low and sharp.
She froze.
Gone was the easy smile, the teasing charm. His tone carried an edge of command that made her pulse quicken for all the wrong reasons.
“Excuse me?” she managed, forcing herself to sound composed even as her heart began to race.
He turned then, slowly. And the look in his eyes—icy, assessing, dangerous—made her instinctively take a step back. The warmth from before was completely gone.
Zayn’s jaw tightened. “Sit. Down.”
Something in his voice made her obey before she could think better of it. She perched on the edge of a leather chair opposite the desk, her fingers gripping the hem of her dress to hide their trembling.
“What is this about?” she asked finally, trying to sound firm. “If it’s about last night, I already thanked you. I—”
“I want you to stop sleeping with my father.”
The words hit like a thunderclap.
“What?”
- Writer
