Ravier's POV
"Does she remind you of her, sir?" Berta asked out of nowhere as she set my dinner on the table.
"Her?"
"Yes, her, and another her."
I squinted at the question, the meaning sinking in quickly. I smirked. "Yeah, kind of. What can I say? She's got bits of both of them."
"I think she must be something special to get under your skin like that."
"But she's different."
"Different?"
"The desperation, the agony, the irony—they're the same. But Zara? She dares to bring all of that to me and still acts like she's the one in control."
"But she offered her soul to you, didn't she?"
"That's what gets under my skin. She talked about selling her soul like it was some grand sacrifice, yet she couldn't even lower her damn tone. Every other woman who's come to me, they've always put me first, acted like I'm the answer to their prayers. But her? Surely I'm not even on her bloody priority list. She treated me like I was just another tool, and that… stung my pride."
"Is it pride or pity, sir? You need to pick just one."
"Do I look like I pity her?"
"Don't you?"
"Berta, you're getting old, aren't you? Why the hell would I pity someone who drives me mad?"
"If you say so. But hearing you admit she reminds you of them—that does sound a bit like pity."
"I told you—she's different."
"I'm just saying, sir. There's a thin line between pride and pity. Mix the two, and you'll end up in a mess. You need to be careful this time."
I met Berta's eyes, the worry etched into the lines of her face more pronounced than ever. She wasn't the same woman who walked into this mansion twenty years ago, yet her sharp, sarcastic tone hadn't changed a bit.
I never knew my mother—she died giving birth to me—but every Mother's Day, I'd think of Berta and make sure she had something special.
I smiled faintly and cut into my steak. "You know me, Berta. Nothing really gets to me anymore."
She said nothing, just set my drink down and left quietly.
The silence lingered as I pushed my plate away, the rare steak losing its appeal. I pulled out my phone and dialed my secretary. Darren picked up after one ring.
"Darren, follow through on what I asked this morning. And… dig deeper into Hameed Shamari's location."
He confirmed the instructions and asked for clarity on how to proceed with the task.
"Yes, quietly. Off the books." I said, keeping it short and sharp.
I hung up, my gaze falling back to the now-cold steak. The stench of it churned my stomach. I clicked my tongue, frustration deepening the restlessness gnawing at me.
For the first time since my trading company went public five years ago, I'd broken my own rule: never get involved in another complicated relationship.
What the hell kind of mess am I walking into?
***
Zara's POV
"Where did you get this kind of money, Zara?" Tom's confusion was clear as he held the two-million-dollar check I handed him.
"I… I got a sponsor." I couldn't bring myself to meet his eyes.
"A sponsor? So, you're telling me some generous benefactor just handed you a fortune, and now you're resigning?"
"I can't explain the details, but… yes, it just happened that way."
"And here I thought we were family." His voice tightened. "After all this time, do you still see the Carrigans as just creditors?"
Tom had always been good to me. Ever since my family moved to the U.S. nine years ago, when my father expanded his business from Dubai, the Carrigans were more than business partners. They helped us adapt to Western culture in ways no one else could.
When my father got tangled in an international money-laundering scandal and vanished, leaving me alone at twenty, the Carrigans didn't abandon me. They helped settle my father's debts and supported me through culinary school, making sure I had a future. Tom had been like the older brother I never had.
I sighed deeply. "You know I respect you, Tom. I'm grateful for everything you and your family have done for me. You're like a brother to me. That's something that will never change."
"Then why? What's this really about? Is it Thalia? Did things get worse between you two?"
"That's part of it," I admitted hesitantly, "but it's more than that." I fidgeted with my hands, trying to keep my voice steady. "I want to prove myself, to build a career outside the Carrigans' shadow."
It was a rational explanation, wasn't it? But the real reason went deeper. Six months ago, I received an anonymous tip claiming the Carrigans had been quietly hunting my father for the past five years, dead or alive.
I'd confronted Tom, asking if my father could ever be found before the CIA did. His response? "If the CIA can't find him, no one can." It wasn't his words that unsettled me, but how the anonymous message had predicted his exact reply—and warned me to be wary of him if he said it.
Since then, I'd been plagued with doubt, anxiety eating away at my trust. And when Thalia hinted she knew something about my father, it only confirmed that something was wrong with the Carrigans.
Tom leaned back, rubbing his temple with a smile I couldn't quite read. "Your new sponsor must be powerful to pull you away from the Carrigans' influence in the culinary world."
"You know it well Tom, The Amethyst is a nest for some of the most powerful people in the country. I got lucky to find someone willing to back me."
"It's not unheard of, even in your line of work," he said, his tone softening. "You're talented, Zara, and—let's be honest—beautiful and captivating. I'm not surprised you'd get offers. I'm just surprised you choose to leave, considering how close we've been all these years."
His words hit me with a pang of guilt.
"That close relationship…" I hesitated, my voice faltering. "I've always felt like collateral, Tom. No matter how much I appreciate everything you've done, I can't shake the weight of my father's burdens."
"If I'd known that," he said with a dry laugh, "I'd have raised the interest, just to keep you around longer."
We exchanged a glance and laughed quietly at the dark humor.
"I really am sorry, Tom. And thank you for everything."
"Don't be," he replied, his voice gentle. "It's not like we won't see each other again. So, where will my rare gem shine next?"
"I… haven't decided yet," I admitted, "but maybe keep an eye on the next Bourdaine Culinary Competition. I might surprise you there."
"I'd love that. Good luck, Zara." He held out his hand, and I shook it firmly, feeling the weight of our history between us.
***
I carefully tidied up my locker, each item I placed in the box stirring memories of my time at The Amethyst. My fingers lingered on a photo of Martin and me.
I stared at it for a moment, letting it stir memories of us from the past six years, before tucking it into the box and shutting the locker door.
As I stepped out, I froze. Martin was leaning against the wall outside, his arms crossed like he'd been waiting.
Our eyes met and held. And for a moment, neither of us moved. His gaze dropped to the box in my hands, heavy in more ways than one.
"Can you stop this game of cat and mouse? We need to talk."
His voice was firm but not unkind, and I felt the weight of his words settle in my chest. He looked into my eyes, but I couldn't hold his gaze.
I turned away, tightening my grip on the box. Since the party, I'd been avoiding him. I didn't know how to face him, not after what happened in the wine room.
Before I could respond, Martin stepped forward and took the box from my hands, his movements quick and decisive. I blinked, startled, but I didn't protest. He started walking ahead, leaving me no choice but to follow.
We walked side by side, the silence growing heavier with every step. By the time we stepped into the elevator, the air between us felt stifling, pressing down like a weight neither of us knew how to lift.