Say it

Say it
ZAYN

The silence was the first thing that caught my attention.

The bed beside me was empty, the warmth on the sheets already fading. I stretched an arm over the space he had occupied and found only cool linen.

Rome isn't in the room with me. And all I could hear was the faint sound of the bathroom faucets running.

I grinned.

So he did survive the night.

Like smoke, the memories of last night enveloped me; they were sweet, all-consuming, and slightly jagged. With my eyes still closed and the smile pulling at my lips completely unrepentant, I let out a breath into the pillow.

Have I taken things too far?

The bruises, the way he clawed at my shoulders, gasping threats that melted into moans… no.

No, he asked for it. Begged, even.

Maybe not with words, but with the way his body moved, how he gave in even as he glared at me like he wanted to kill me. Rome was never good at pretending he didn’t want something. Especially not me.

He deserved it.

I heard the gentle scrape of the shower shutting off as the water stopped. The door cracked open, and there he was. Half-clothed and bruised, Rome resembles a goddamn work of art etched in agony and necessity.

His fiery, dark eyes scanned me as if I had betrayed him and was the cause of all his pains.

I said nothing, allowing him to process everything.

His eyes fell upon the mirror, catching the strewn-about, uneven, blotchy bruises. He let out a low-pitched curse that I could hear.

“You son of a…”

I let the grin spread across my face, arrogant and unapologetic. "What a magnificent night," I said, my voice low and steady.

Though his jaw tensed and he remained motionless, he maintained his position like the vicious jerk I knew him to be.

I could see the storm that was building behind those eyes, the mixture of rage and something more sinister. Lust? Resentment? A little of both.

A pillow flew through the air, soft and light, but it hit me square in the back.

“You son of a bitch!”

Instead of flinching, I simply turned and pretended to sleep, my lips quivering with smug satisfaction.

Typical Rome. Always the fire, always the fight.

His words were filled with raw and genuine anger as he swore under his breath.

And then there was the knock. It reverberated as if to remind us that the world beyond this battered haven was not entirely gone.

He backed off, his groaning resonating as he headed for the door. Poor thing, half-naked, with his neck painted in my fingerprints.

The door opened, and I could hear Rome's startled "Jesus! What the hell… ?" followed by a squeal loud enough to make me wince.

“ROMEO?!”

Oh, hell.

“Harris,” I muttered under my breath, sitting up.

Like a man under a spell, my best friend barged into the suite. I could picture the entire performance without even seeing him: hands on heart, curls bouncing, eyes wide with glee.

Harris had no volume control or shame.

“You’re real,” Harris was practically cooing. “Flesh and blood. And shirtless.”

Rome’s deadpan was palpable. “I… what?”

“Zayn!” Harris shouted. “You didn’t tell me this was the level of commitment! You went from ‘we’re going to be married for a year’ to honeymoon bruises?”

I dragged a hand down my face. “Stop yelling.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, were you not going to tell me the love of your life came back from the dead and now lives here like it’s normal?”

“I was asleep.”

“You’re a liar.”

I rolled out of bed and dressed quickly, just enough to avoid giving Harris more fuel. When I joined them in the living area, Rome had retreated slightly, arms crossed, gaze sharp.

He still had no shirt on, and my marks were all over his body.

Excellent.

“You always talk like that?” Rome asked Harris with all the patience of a man on the verge of homicide.

“No,” I answered before Harris could. “It gets worse when he’s excited.”

“Excuse me?” Harris gasped. “I come bearing gifts and this is what I get?”

I snatched the folder from his hand. “You came uninvited.”

“And bearing gifts.”

“Which I am grateful for,” I said, opening the cover. “Now shut up.”

The file was thick and I had my brows furowed. Despite the fact that many people think Harris is a bit too upbeat and does not have the same level of energy as me, Harris had done his digging to assist me.

The thick folder contained old contracts with watermarks, faded edges, and sealed and stamped documents. My request had been straightforward: find anything about the Calloway Family, both old and present.

My suspicions were based on bits and pieces that did not fit the story we all knew. But I never expected this.

Rome's eyes were tracking the pages as I turned them. Even though I knew I ought to have moved, I just kept on with my activities.

Though not quickly enough, I was able to see the content of the page I was looking for before Rome did.

He took a step forward, his gaze catching the handwriting as if it had seized him.

"Elena Whitlock," he said out loud, his voice growing icy. “That’s my mother.”

He snatched the document before I could close it. He gripped it as if it would pierce his flesh.

“Where did you get this?” he demanded, not even looking at me. “Where the hell did this come from?”

Harris, for once, seemed to sober. “Registry archives. Old city files. Not easy to find.”

“This is her signature.” There was a slight crack in Rome's voice. “This is her signature. Why is it here?”

If I was going to accomplish my goal during our marriage, I had no reason to lie to him, so I didn't.

"Because Calloway Industries was co-founded by your mother," I said plainly.

He whipped his head in my direction.

“That’s her handwriting on the original business plan. Her notes. Her projections. Your father had the confidence. But she had the vision.”

"This is not common knowledge."

“No,” Harris said carefully. “It was buried. Name removals. Power plays. There were a lot of hands moving things around in the early years.”

Rome's mouth tightened. “You knew.”

"I had a suspicion," I said. “I didn’t want to say anything until I had proof.”

“You kept it from me.”

“No.” I looked him in the eye without blinking. “I waited. Because if I was wrong, it would’ve been worse. For you. For all of this.”

It did not make him feel better. I saw the change in his eyes, that nagging, sour sensation.

He took another look at the paper, focusing on his mother's name and the signatures. "Fuck," he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. "So I was unaware that my mother was a co-owner of the Calloway industry?"

My lips formed a slow smile as I drew the final few inches closer to him. My fingers brushed his arm, light enough to tease, firm enough to remind him I was here.

"Just say the word, Rome," I said, lowering my voice. “just say it.”

I could feel his pulse fluttering against my fingers. I could sense his stutter and saw the glimmer of struggle in his eyes, which were equal parts distrust and desire.

His jaw moved once and twice, as though he was considering every response, and his heartbeat buzzed beneath my palm.

I leaned in and touched his temple with the tip of my nose. “Don’t fight it,” I murmured. “Say it,” I whispered again. “And I’ll give you everything.”