Why?

Why?
ROME

I stood there staring at the neatly written name and signature, unable to breathe. Like a ghost dragging its nails along my spine, the name that was inscribed on the paper gazed back at me.

Elena Whitlock, the co-founder of Calloway Industries.

My mother, Elena Whitlock.

I thought I was seeing things, but I could never forget that elegant handwriting and signature of my mother.

Her name was intended to be just a memory, one that is buried deep inside of me and from which I have yet to fully recover.

At first, it was just confusion and disbelief, but the anger came slowly, like boiling water under skin.

A dry and bitter question clung to my ribs: Why? For what reason was this kept secret? Why haven't I ever learned of this?

But then it came to me, sharp and overwhelming. He erased her, her name, her job, her rights, and even me, her son.

My father made certain that I was nothing to account for, a useless son who preferred dick to pussy.

I stood there, gripping the paper as if it would vanish if I let go. It was as if her name might disappear again.

My throat felt like it was choking my voice. Everything felt likd, and I couldn't help but wonder how Zayn had gotten this information in the first place.

The door behind me clicked closed, and Zayn's friend came in fully, his eyes searching the room as though he had just found something he should not have.

“Rome,” Zayn’s voice drifted in, smooth and low. He sounded too calm, too knowing, like this was just one of the ordinary things he came across by accident. He may think so, but to me, it feels like learning something that never should have happened. “So, did you like the surprise?”

I turned slowly. And there he was, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, that annoying smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

Like he hadn’t just split open my chest and exposed what I wasn't supposed to find out.

That smug tilt of his mouth. That look in his eyes… part challenge, part amusement. He was always like this: untouchable, arrogant, and cold.

“I’m not going to ask for your help,” I said, my voice flat.

Zayn's eyebrows shot upward. “Wasn’t offering.”

Before I could snap back, Harris, who had found his seat on the couch, flipping through a magazine like this was his place, groaned dramatically.

“I should leave you two lovebirds alone. The sexual tension is blinding. PDA in its purest form. Shakespeare would be proud.”

I shot him a look. "You are starting to irritate me; just get the fuck out."

He simply chuckled and walked away, giving Zayn a slack salute. With a click, the door closed behind him, and silence descended like a fog.

I stared at the empty space Harris left, wondering, how did someone like Zayn even have a friend like that?

In Zayn's case, he only spoke when it was beneficial to him. He was aloof, effective, and haughty in a quiet, decisive manner.

And yet, once, he’d let me in. Once, when I was stupid enough to believe he was capable of warmth.

I could still picture the soft, cautious, and almost gentle way his fingers had touched mine in the dark.

And now…

With the poise of a man who understood his inviolability, he walked to the bed and took a seat. “If you don’t let me help,” he said, “how exactly are you going to fix this?”

I scoffed. “Of course. You want me to owe you. Again. That’s the game, right?”

He didn’t flinch. “You’re the one assuming this is a game.”

I crossed my arms. “You’ve already cleared my debt. You’ve already bought my silence with my sister’s doctor. You got what you wanted…me, trapped in your pretty little marriage. So stop pretending you care. Just stay in your lane, and I’ll stay in mine.”

My words were followed by a period of silence.

Then he chuckled, darkly and softly.

“You really think I married you for nothing?”

I didn’t answer; I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing how loud my pulse was thudding in my ears.

“I mean, sure,” Zayn continued casually, “revenge had its charm. Seeing you squirm is a bonus."

My jaw clenched.

“But I’m after more than that.”

I knew the moment he said it.

"There you have it," I whispered. “The truth. So what is it, Zayn? What’s the plan?”

He stood, and he wasn't smiling this time.

“I’m acquiring Calloway Industries.”

The words shouldn’t have shocked me, but they did. They struck my skin with the iciness and cruelty of sleet.

“You bastard,” I breathed. “You’re using me—”

“No,” he said smoothly, cutting in. “I’m using your father’s lie. You? You’re just the key.”

My throat went dry. “You really think I’m going to help you take everything from him?”

“You should. He took everything from your mother.”

I felt my heart stop. And there it was, his weapon, sharp and perfectly timed. He didn’t need to stab me; he knew exactly how he had planned to play this game.

Zayn always had a reason for everything he did.

Zayn took a step forward, lowering his voice. “You want justice? You want answers? Then stop playing the victim and begin making use of your available resources. Your mother's name and her ownership interest in the business. That legacy belongs to you. He tried to erase it. But I’m giving it back.”

“Why?” I whispered. “Why do you care so much? You don’t even…” I shook my head, bitterly. “Is this just fun for you? Power? Control?”

For a while, Zayn's eyes remained fixed. He reached out, trailing his fingers just barely over the edge of the folder in my hands.

His tone shifted to one that was more possessive and dark.

“Because loving you isn’t the goal, Rome. It’s just more fun watching what happens when I pull the things you care about apart.”

A shiver ran through me, and for a moment my legs felt like liquid. This wasn’t revenge or a hostile takeover, it was his twisted delight in my unraveling. He had given obsession a new name, and I was the victory and the defeat in his hands.