Chapter 5: Hidden Secrets
The sun shone brightly up in the sky, warm and golden—completely at odds with the storm curling tight in my chest.
"Miss Pembroke, we're here," the driver said, his tone polite but distant.
I stepped out of the car, the cool morning air brushing against my skin. My eyes swept over the estate: a sprawling lawn too perfect to be natural, a fountain trickling like it belonged in a fairytale, and a pond reflecting the clear sky. In the center of it all stood a modern house made of glass and clean lines—elegant, cold, and far too transparent for someone like me.
Zevren's home.
And apparently... now mine too.
Thirty Minutes Earlier
I sat at the long breakfast table, half-listening to the soft clink of silverware and the murmuring voices of the staff. I had barely touched the eggs on my plate, my appetite absent after last night's disaster. My side still ached beneath my shirt, but I hid it well.
Then Mother's voice cut through the quiet like a blade. "You're going to stay with Zevren until the wedding, Zaira."
I blinked, the fork pausing midway to my mouth.
"I'm sorry, what?"
She didn't even look up from her tea. "It's what proper couples do. The press needs to see you together. It's good for appearances—and frankly, your fiancé has been more than patient."
"I don't care about appearances." I set the fork down, calmly. "And Zevren doesn't care about patience."
"He agreed to it." Her gaze finally met mine, cool and decisive. "And so will you."
I didn't argue. There was no point. Mother always delivered decisions like facts—unchangeable, inescapable.
So here I was.
Standing in front of a glass mansion, with a wound stitched in secrecy, a lie sitting in my text history, and a fiancé who was probably waiting behind those transparent walls with that maddening calm of his.
Wonderful.
I took a breath, squared my shoulders, and stepped forward. The heels of my boots clicked against the smooth stone path as I approached the front door—tall, glass, automatic. Of course. Because nothing says intimacy like a house with walls that can't hide a thing.
The door slid open with a quiet hiss, revealing a minimalistic foyer bathed in sunlight and silence. Everything was white, steel, and glass, as if warmth was an afterthought. Cold. Clinical. Just like him.
I stepped inside, the soft buzz of tech responding to my presence—motion sensors lighting the way, subtle hums from hidden systems tracking movement. I knew this kind of space. Controlled. Calculated. A fortress disguised as a home.
My fingers brushed the fabric of my coat, making sure it still covered my side. The pain had dulled to a constant throb, manageable for now. I'd clean and stitch it properly once I was alone.
"Zaira."
His voice. Smooth, composed, with that ever-present thread of quiet power.
I turned.
Zevren stood at the edge of the open living room, dressed in black slacks and a charcoal shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His white hair was still damp—he'd just showered. Of course he'd be effortlessly perfect at eight in the morning.
His gray eyes swept over me in a single glance. Not obvious. Not invasive. But thorough. Always calculating.
"You're early," he said, tone unreadable.
"Trust me," I replied, walking past him with a small smirk, "I'd rather be anywhere else."
His lips twitched. Amused? Irritated? Who knew with him.
"You'll find the guest room's been changed," he said as he followed. "You're staying in mine now."
I stopped in my tracks and turned, slowly.
"I beg your pardon?"
Zevren's expression didn't shift. "Mother's orders. She said we're to act engaged. That includes sharing a room."
I stared at him, searching for some sign he was joking. But Zevren Lancaster didn't joke. He threw daggers in the form of facts.
"Fine," I said coolly, brushing past him again. "But I hope you don't snore."
His low chuckle followed me down the hall. "Likewise."
First Person POV of Zaira
The driver had barely left when Zevren's perfectly trained attendants began carrying my bags inside. I watched as they disappeared up the stairs—toward his room—with my belongings. A room I was now sharing with him.
Fantastic.
I didn't feel like unpacking. Or sitting. Or breathing in that suffocating scent of expensive cologne and glass-cleaned perfection. So I wandered.
The house was… ridiculous. Room after room, all with clean lines and sharp edges, like the architect had a grudge against comfort. But there was no denying the beauty—the view, the structure, the quiet hum of luxury built to impress and intimidate.
Then I saw it.
A wooden plaque on a door at the end of the hallway, hand-carved with neat, block letters: "Gigi's Room."
I blinked. Gigi?
Who the hell was Gigi?
Curiosity nudged me forward, and before I could think twice, I turned the handle and pushed the door open.
BOOM.
A golden blur slammed into me with the force of a small truck, sending me stumbling back against the wall.
"Whoa—!"
Tongue. Fur. Happy growls. Licks everywhere. I laughed, completely caught off guard, trying to shield my face.
"Well, hello to you too!"
The golden shepherd—big, warm, and ecstatic—practically vibrated with joy as she bathed me in kisses, tail wagging like a maniac.
"Gigi, here girl!"
Zevren's voice rang from behind me, amused but firm.
The dog paused, then trotted obediently to his side, her tail still thumping. Zevren reached down and scratched behind her ears, and something in his face softened. Just for a second. The cold CEO mask slipped, replaced by something far gentler.
"She usually doesn't warm up to people that fast," he said, raising a brow at me.
I straightened my coat and raised my chin. "Maybe she has better taste than you do."
He smirked. "Or maybe she smelled the blood."
I stiffened. Just a little. But his gray eyes flicked to mine, sharp, calculating again.
"You're hurt."
"Not seriously," I replied too quickly.
"You're limping."
I exhaled, annoyed. "Zevren. I've been here less than an hour. Please don't start interrogating me like one of your board members."
"Then don't act like you've got something to hide."
We stared at each other in the hallway, tension crackling like live wire. Gigi looked between us with a huff, clearly unimpressed by our drama.
I turned away first.
"I'm going to shower," I said, heading back toward the room.
"Fine," he called after me. "But we're talking after."
"We'll see," I muttered under my breath, just loud enough for him to hear.
I stepped into his room—our room—and was immediately struck by how clean it was. Not just clean, but surgically pristine. The kind of clean that came from someone who needed control over his surroundings to breathe. White sheets, white walls, white curtains. A splash of black here and there—his suit jacket on the chair, the sleek frames of his shelves—but otherwise, it looked like a page torn out of a luxury magazine.
It didn't feel like anyone actually lived here.
I walked past the large bed and headed straight to the bathroom. The moment I stepped inside, I exhaled quietly. At least here, I could have some space to breathe. The bathroom was just as sterile—marble, glass, steel—but it was warm, steamy, and silent. A place to peel off the weight I carried… literally and figuratively.
I locked the door behind me.
The coat came off first, then the shirt—both stained just enough to make me wince. The wound on my side had reopened a little, the dried blood tugging painfully against the fabric. I hissed softly, carefully unwrapping the bandage I had slapped on earlier with trembling hands and fading magic.
The cut was deeper than I wanted to admit. Ragged, swollen, angry.
I sighed and sat on the edge of the bathtub, pulling out the small medical pouch I always kept in my bag. The irony wasn't lost on me—surgeon by day, assassin by night, yet here I was, stitching myself up alone in a stranger's bathroom.
Except he wasn't a stranger. Not really.
Zevren.
I shook the thought away and began cleaning the wound with practiced hands. No time for weakness. No time for memories.
I stepped out of the bathroom, the faint scent of antiseptic still clinging to my skin. My wound was cleaned and stitched beneath the bandage, hidden under an oversized hoodie I pulled from my bag. My hair was damp, a towel draped around my shoulders as I dried it off slowly.
And there he was.
Zevren stood near the window, already dressed in a charcoal-black suit that fit him like sin. Gone was the slightly relaxed, post-shower look from earlier. This was the CEO version—sharp, unreadable, and untouchable. The silver cufflinks, the neatly tied tie, the leather shoes so polished I could probably see the ghost of my scowl in them.
His gaze slid to me, unreadable as always.
"We'll talk when we get the chance," he said calmly, adjusting the cuffs of his blazer. "I have a meeting. I might come back tomorrow. Or not."
Of course. Vague. Distant. Always disappearing like a storm you could never quite prepare for.
I leaned against the doorframe and raised an eyebrow, towel still clutched in my hands. "Well, if we're sharing schedules now, I guess I should do mine."
His brow lifted slightly, interested.
"I'll be performing a three-hour surgery. Then another. And another." I gave a nonchalant shrug. "So I'll be busy for a while. Try not to miss me."
He stared for a second, then gave the smallest hint of a smirk. Just a flicker.
"Don't bleed on the floors," he said as he grabbed his briefcase.
"Don't die in your meetings," I replied coolly.
He paused at the door, glancing over his shoulder. "Tempting offer."
And then he was gone.
The room fell quiet again.
I let out a breath and dropped the towel on the chair.
This was going to be fun.