Chapter 3 Chapter Three
I managed to escape Lorenzo's Victorian Gothic mansion, heavily crammed with high security, with the help of Agnes—after much pleading and reassuring her that I’d owe her one, might I add.
After Lorenzo's departure earlier, I went downstairs to join Agnes in the kitchen, despite her reluctance to let me help.
She said that 'the boss' didn’t like it when his wife exerted force on anything, and I’m not even sure what she meant by that, since he wasn’t there with us, and it's not like I’ve ever helped Agnes out with anything before. ~Except he's not talking about you, love~. Yeah, whatever.
Nonetheless, despite Agnes's hesitations, I persisted and still assisted her with breakfast, even cleaning up afterward. We chatted and quickly got to know more about each other, and in no time, we turned into BFFs.
That’s because I was secretly building this connection with her, preparing for the moment I’d ask her permission to go out—since she’s the one in charge. And since Lorenzo made it explicitly clear that I’m not allowed to leave the house.
The plan was a success, but Agnes insisted I must be back home on time, which means I only have an hour or two grace period to see Zayn and explain everything to him.
"So, how do I locate you in case you happen to run away?" Agnes’s teasing voice permeates the quiet air inside the moving vehicle. Okay, I might have told Agnes earlier about being wedded to her boss against my will.
I turn from the window to face her, a smile tugging at my lips. "I won’t. And even if I do, you and I both know you can easily track me down."
She smiles as she navigates the wheel. "Glad we got that out of the way," she offers. "Want me to drop you off?"
Absolutely not.
I didn't exactly tell her I was going to see another man. Instead, I told her I was heading to grab some of my belongings I left behind at my father’s house.
"No, I’ll take a cab," I quickly reply as we pull up outside a grocery store. "Thank you, Agnes."
"You're welcome. Please be back on time."
I nod, unbuckling my seatbelt before pushing the door open. I step out of the car and watch her maneuver into the parking lot of the store.
Before she’s out, I’ve already hailed a taxi, heading downtown to see the love of my life. I didn’t bother texting him that I was coming—I wanted it to be a surprise. I doubt he even knows I’m back in the city.
I arrived from California yesterday, and my initial plan was to pay Zayn a visit, but I couldn’t after my family broke the news to me that Sky’s getting married last night. And guess who got cold feet in the bridal-prep room?
You guessed right.
Speaking of my sister, a smile pulls at my lips as I reach into my purse and fish out my phone, hoping to see a text from her—maybe a string of messages, considering the huge sacrifice I made for her last night.
To my utmost dismay, however, there's no new message—none from her, none from Zayn, none—even from my parents.
I frown at the familiar pang that constricts my chest, but I quickly push it aside.
Twenty-three years of living after Sky came along have taught me not to bother about my parents' lack of affection toward me.
So what if I sacrificed my happiness just to save Sky and spare my family the trouble?
None of it matters. I'll always be sidelined—for her. Not that I’m complaining or anything; I’m just stating the facts.
Sky has always been put first—before me—even though I am the eldest. Her happiness. Her priorities. Her affairs. Everything. I get the leftovers.
She's always the first—even when it comes to winning.
The one time I actually did win first cost her—both of us—something that day. It was a mistake, one I should never have attempted in the first place. It still haunts me to this day.
Sky still holds it over my head.
Our parents don’t know about it—about what I did—but if they did, the last shred of care they ever showed me would be gone in an instant. That’s why I’m hellbent on keeping it a secret. That’s why I agreed to Sky’s stupid blackmail. They can't know. I can't let it happen.
Now, don't get me wrong—I love my sister, probably one of my favorite people in the world—but sometimes, deep down, I just wish she never came into our lives. Yeah.
The cab slows to a halt outside a 12-story mid-rise apartment building.
I shake off my musings and peer out the window, realizing we've arrived at my destination.
Paying the driver, I exit the vehicle, stand outside briefly, and sweep my eyes across the modern building stretched out before me.
The thought that it harbors the love of my life in one of its many apartments fills me with so much excitement. I honestly can't wait to see Zayn. It's been a year since I last saw him—in person—because we only FaceTimed occasionally.
I slide my dark shades over my eyes and start walking toward the building. My whole body vibrates with anticipation, even as I step into the elevator and press the button for the fifth floor.
In a matter of seconds, I find myself standing face-to-face with Zayn's door. A rush of air escapes my nostrils as I remove my shades and smooth down my dress. I'm so full of excitement I could burst at any moment. I hope I don't, though.
My fingers lift to the doorbell. I press it, take a step back, and wait for an answer.
It doesn't take long before I hear his voice from inside the room, as if he's calling out to someone. "I'm going to get the door, I'll be right back!"
He has a guest inside?
I don't think much about it as the door swings open, revealing a man with messy brown hair and enthralling green eyes. Not just any man—MY man.
He's half-naked, his smooth, chiseled abs on full display, glistening with sweat—like he's been working out or exerting himself in some other activity. He looks so irresistible. So ravishing. And I'm just starting to realize how much I've missed him—his soft lips. His tongue down my throat. The gentle way he takes me in bed. All of it.
"What are you doing here?" His unexpected choice of inquiry pulls me from my thoughts.
I snap out of my haze, forcing my gaze back to his face. "Zayn. Baby, hi—"
His expression contradicts the genuine smile etched on my face. If anything, animosity radiates from him, confusing me.
"I asked, what the fuck are you doing here, Liora?" he repeats, cocking his brows in an unwelcoming manner.
"What do you mean, what am I doing here? I'm here to see you," I reply, my voice tinged with annoyance.
All the effort I went through just to see him, and now he's giving me this attitude? What the actual fuck?
Zayn's retort follows, "Oh really? Aren't you supposed to be at your husband's house or something?"
My heart twists instantly, a hard lump lodging in my throat as my eyes widen slightly. How does he know that? How—
Sky promised me she’d make sure he didn’t find out. It’s only been a few hours! How could she have failed at such a simple task?
"Tongue-tied?" Zayn scoffs, shaking his head derisively. "Fuck, I can't believe this."
"It's not what you think, Zayn," I reply desperately. I think he already knows. "Whatever you're thinking, I can explain. Please, it's not like that."
"Still lying to my face even though we both know the truth, I see," he says.
"Zayn, please. I am being serious, and I'm not lying to you," I try to explain.
"Oh really? Well, answer this then—did you or did you not marry the billionaire Mafia, Lorenzo Sorrentino, yesterday?"
My lips purse as my eyes implore him. "It's complicated. Please, just let me explain."
But he cuts me off, "When were you planning on telling me that all this time, I've been wasting my efforts, believing we were in a relationship..."
"Zayn, please. I did not marry him out of love..."
But he won't let me finish.
He fishes out his phone from his pocket, unlocks the screen, and shoves the device in my face as he roars,
"Who the fuck is that, Liora? What are you trying to explain? That all this time, you've been cheating on me?"
My vision blurs with moisture as I absorb his rage and the image displayed on his phone. It's a wedding photo of Lorenzo and I, sharing a kiss—and it's not just a simple kiss on the lips. The image was likely captured yesterday when Lorenzo was devouring my mouth like I was his custom-made dessert.
"Get the fuck out of my face, you deceitful bitch," Zayn sneers, withdrawing his hand in the air. "We're done."
No. No. My heart cracks open, as if a knife has been plunged into it.
I shake my head frantically, wiping away my tears. I need to explain. I need him to understand that the wedding was an act of sisterly love for Sky—that it means nothing.
I'm about to speak, but the words catch in my throat as a figure appears behind Zayn.
A woman dressed in nothing but a lingerie nightdress—feminine. Alluring. Familiar.
A smirk curled at the corner of her lips as she locked eyes with me.
"What's with the commotion? Can't a girl enjoy a quiet sleep after a long night of love-making?" Sarcasm dripped heavily from her voice and her hazel eyes gleamed with mischief.
By now, my heart has stopped. I can't believe what I’m seeing—my eyes flicker between the woman now standing there, her hand possessively wrapped around Zayn’s waist.
I want to believe this is just some
twisted hallucination I'm having. Or a fake scenario I'm creating in this moment.
But it’s not.
It’s her—my sister.
Skylar Fletcher. The girl who just made the sarcastic comment about 'lovemaking.’