They don't matter

They don't matter
ZAYN

It had barely been twenty-four hours since Rome Calloway signed the contract and moved into my apartment, and he was already acting like I’d handcuffed him to a radiator.

Not that I was shocked. Rome probably considered sharing oxygen with me a form of psychological warfare. Still, he arrived right on schedule, his boxes in hand, waved off the moving crew like a martyr, and made himself at home like he was bracing for a siege.

Now we stood beneath industrial lights for a staged wedding shoot meant to keep the press satisfied. I’d explained to him, clearly, patiently, that the pictures were necessary. Our love story needed to look real, polished, enviable. A glossy fairytale to distract from the truth.

He didn’t argue. He just gave me that expression of his, the one that made me want to either kiss him or toss him out a window.

He was dressed in a black-on-black suit, tailored so sharply it could have drawn blood. He looked like trouble distilled into human form. Immaculate. Closed off. Every inch a man prepared to ruin someone’s life. Maybe mine. Meanwhile, I was having the time of my life.

The camera clicked.

“Try not to glare like I burned your childhood home down,” I muttered, keeping my expression serene as we stood a breath apart.

“You didn’t ruin my life,” he said, cool and crisp. “Just a perfectly good afternoon.”

Click.

I glanced at him. “So dramatic.”

“Says the man who scheduled a wedding shoot less than twenty-four hours into a contractual marriage.”

Rome's pose was flawless, his shoulders squared, his chin angled just so, but he couldn't hide the fact that he just wanted to get the hell out of here. I nudged him playfully. "Try to look like you're having fun," I said, and his gaze flicked to mine, a hint of irritation flashing across his pretty face.

"You're enjoying this way too much," he scoffed under his breath.

I smiled, letting the corners of my mouth curve upward. "I'm not trying."

The camera clicked, capturing the tension between us. I felt my phone buzzed, so I turned around to take the call.

"Take five," I called out, and the photographer nodded, stepping back.

As I answered the unexpected call, Rome's eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze not leaving my body.

“Still causing trouble?" my grandfather's gravelly voice asked through the phone, amusement lacing his tone.

"Grandfather," I replied, a smile still playing on my lips. "I thought you were in Barcelona."

"Flew back yesterday. Heard you've been busy," he said, his voice dripping with curiosity.

"I got married," I said, the words tumbling out casually.

He paused, then continued, "To who?"

"Rome Calloway."

He paused again for another beat of silence. "Of course you did," he said, a low chuckle rumbling in the background. "No one from the family was invited, I suppose?"

"It happened quickly," I hedged. " We just got our marriage certificates.“

"Spoken like a man hiding a crime scene," he quipped.

"More like someone creating one," I shot back, and he laughed.

"Meet me tonight. Bring him," he ordered, his tone brooking no argument.

"You're curious about him?" I asked, surprised.

My grandfather, the Patriarch of the Sanchez family doesn't really care about what I do as long as I do my job very well and allow no mistakes which is what I have been doing ever since I arrived in the Sanchez family.

"I want to see the man who married you," he said, his voice laced with intrigue. "Either an idiot or a genius. I'll decide which later."

The line went dead, leaving me wondering what Rome would think. I wasn't planning to introduce him to my family soon but I couldn't go against my grandfather wishes.

I stared at the phone for a second longer than necessary. When I turned around, Rome was watching me. His arms were crossed, his eyebrows lifted, suspicion radiating off him like static.

A grin tugged at my mouth as I made my way back across the set. I didn’t say anything right away, I just let the silence draw itself tight while I closed the distance between us.

It even made him feel more irritated. He narrowed his eyes the moment I stopped beside him.

“You’re smiling,” he said flatly. “I don’t like it.”

“Oh, you’re going to love this,” I told him, and watched his jaw tense in real time.

I walked toward him, his eyes warily looking at me, and I could only smirk.

“Photoshoot’s done,” I said, loud enough for the photographer to hear, not loud enough for Rome to. “We’re leaving.”

His jaw flexed when he heard my words and his eyes dimmed as if he wouldn't hesitate to bite if I trespassed.

He didn’t ask what the call was about. Of course he didn’t.

Rome would rather choke than show curiosity. That was always his thing, acting like nothing touched him, like nothing could get in deep enough to matter.

“Change of plans,” I told him as I was close enough to watch the flicker in his eyes. “You’re coming with me.”

He raised a brow, unimpressed. “Coming where?”

“Dinner. My family wants to meet you.”

Hearing it from me, his eyes had widened in genuine shock before narrowing again, like irritation was his shield. He shook his head once, an instinctive move that screamed discomfort.

“You can relax,” I said. “It’s just dinner.”

“With your family?” he snapped. “That wasn't in our agreement!"

His voice was cold and clipped. I could feel the irritation rolling off him like a storm.

“That’s funny,” I murmured, stepping closer. “I don’t remember the part of the contract where you get to say no.”

He shook his head, scoffing. “You think you can parade me around just because of a contract?”

“I think,” I said, eyes dropping to his mouth, “that you knew exactly what you signed up for.”

That hit something in him and his fists clenched at his sides.

I leaned in, letting the silence drag between us before dropping my next words.

“You’re my husband now. Try acting like it.”

Rome exhaled sharply and looked away, jaw clenched.

When we were dating, I was Zayn Smith. He’d never known the name Sanchez or I came about to bevome a member of an influential conglomerate family.

I knew he was curious about how everything had turned out but he was too proud to ask. Too egoistical to admit he’d missed something.

Not that I planned to explain anything either. He's only here just because that's the place I want him.

“You’ll come,” I said simply. “Whether you like it or not. The contract didn’t come with a dinner clause, but I make the rules. You follow them.”

He turned his head back to me slowly, and for a second, I thought he might actually punch me. But what he said next was worse.

“Hope your family won’t mind a manwhore being your husband,” he bit out, his voice filled with bitterness. “Wouldn’t want to stain the Sanchez reputation. I’ve slept with enough men to fill that banquet table twice.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve, not because they weren’t true, but because it still got to me.

And maybe because I hated the way he said it, like he was nothing more than the body he sold. Like he didn’t know what it felt like to be mine.

Danger flared inside me immediately, my breathes coming out in jagged huffs.

In two long strides, I had him backed against the mirrored wall, one hand braced beside his head, the other gripping his jaw.

“Don’t say that shit again,” I growled, close enough to see every flicker of emotion in his eyes. “You think I care about those men? You think I want to hear about them?”

His lips parted, but I didn’t let him speak. I was too far gone for words.

“You’re mine now, Rome,” I whispered, my voice brushing against the skin of his cheek. “I don’t give a damn who touched you before. They didn’t have you.”

My hand dropped with my fingers grazing his chest, then yanking open the buttons of his shirt like they offended me. The sound of fabric tearing echoed, but neither of us flinched.

He sucked in a breath, his chest rising fast like he hadn't expected this to escalate this far.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” I said, sliding my fingers down the edge of his collarbone. “I know you’re proud. I know you wouldn’t beg, not even when you want to.”

“I hate you!" He sucked in his breath, his face twisted into something between anger and heat.

“You’re a good boy when you’re not pretending to be a monster,” I murmured, mouth dangerously close to his ear. “So stop mentioning those old bastards you used to fuck for money. They don’t matter.”

His breathing stuttered, and I knew I had him exactly where I wanted.