The shower tiles send chills through my feet as I step in, pulling the glass door close behind me. The sensors respond instantly, releasing a cascade of warm water that coats my skin like a blanket. The sensation melts the early-morning tension from my shoulders, and I let my eyes fall shut as steam begins to rise.
I hug myself beneath the stream, palms pressed to my arms, letting my breathing slow and deepen. The hot water hits every muscle with precision, loosening knots I hadn't even realized had formed overnight.
This is my sanctuary. My ritual. My therapy.
Here, I process everything. Untangle what's been festering in my mind. And by the time I step out, I usually feel lighter—more focused. The world seems quieter under the hiss of the shower, and for a few stolen minutes, the mask I wear every day doesn't matter.
Then, of course, my phone starts ringing.
Of course it does.
I groan without even opening my eyes. It's six in the damn morning. No one calls me at this hour unless they know I'm already awake. Which narrows it down to exactly one person.
Zahir.
I slide the shower glass open, warm mist curling into the bathroom as I step out and pad across the floor, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind me. Naked and still dripping, I grab my phone off the nightstand.
"Why do you insist on calling at ungodly hours?" I ask, answering without greeting.
"Because I live to irritate you," Zahir says, his voice coated in amusement.
I don't need to see his face to imagine the smug grin that's probably stretching across it right now. That insufferable, charming grin that's only ever matched by his ability to push my buttons like it's his full-time job.
I put the phone on speaker and set it on the bathroom counter, tugging on my robe before pulling open the drawer filled with skincare products. "Well, congratulations. Mission accomplished," I mutter.
"Twice a week minimum. Gotta keep my streak going."
"You need a new hobby."
"I already have one."
I roll my eyes, tearing open the face mask packet and peeling it out. I align it carefully, smoothing it onto my face as he keeps talking.
"Did you call just to waste my time, or are you going to say something useful this morning?"
"Nah, Mom asked me to call you. Said you've been ignoring her for months and she's tired."
I freeze in front of the mirror, fingers still pressed to the mask. My reflection stares back, hollow-eyed and quiet.
"Well, she can go lay down," I finally answer.
Zahir lets out a slow sigh, and I can already hear the speech forming in his head. "You'll have to get over it at some point, Zuri."
"Maybe," I say softly. "Maybe not. That's for me to decide."
"She's your mother."
"And that doesn't excuse her completely disowning me for years then expect everything to be jolly."
Silence stretches between us.
"Zuri—"
"No. Stop. You can't justify it. You don't get to tell me when I should be ready to talk to her again."
"She misses you," he says gently. "She wants to apologize."
"She doesn't want to apologize, Zahir. She wants to be right." My voice hardens.
"You think I don't know her? I know her better than anyone. She's not sorry for what she did, her lack of effort says it."
He doesn't argue. Because he knows I'm right.
"She treats me like I'm disposable," I whisper, pulling the mask away and tossing it in the bin. "She always has."
I lean on the counter, bracing myself with both hands. The bathroom feels smaller now, the steam heavier.
"She treats you like her golden child. The surgeon. The success story. But I'm just the stain she's always trying to scrub out."
Zahir is quiet. I hear his breath, the faint rustle of him shifting on the other end. But he doesn't say anything. Because he knows deep down that there's truth in every word I just said.
"Zahir, she kicked me out at eighteen. Said if I wasn't going to follow her rules, she's no longer responsible for me," I choke out, "who does that to their daughter? She went years without speaking to me and suddenly we need to talk?"
He knows the rest of the story. He stayed through it all.
And I've built something since then. Not according to her expectations—but something that works well for me.
"She doesn't want to see who I am. Just who she thinks I should be."
Tears blur my vision, but I keep my gaze fixed on the ceiling, refusing to let a single one fall. The silence stretches, heavy and still until the line clicks dead. Three short beeps echo through the quiet like punctuation marks at the end of a sentence.
I stare at the phone a moment longer, the screen dimming on the counter. Then, I turn away.
✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧
It's nine now.
I'm sitting at my kitchen island, wearing sweats and a hoodie, my hair pulled into a loose bun. A mug of coffee sits in front of me, untouched, while I finish the last bite of my egg-and-bacon sandwich—one with just enough maple syrup in the middle to make it sinful.
The savory-sweet bite is enough to briefly lift my mood.
Today was supposed to be my day off. But of course, Makai had other plans.
Makai ~ We need to talk
Me ~ Okay
Five minutes later, another ping.
Makai ~ Great. Up for coffee?
Me ~ Sure
Boundaries? Makai doesn't know the meaning of the word. And for once, I'm not complaining. It just makes my job easier.
But the ease of it all still has my stomach in knots.
Something about him—it's too clean. Too smooth. Like it was designed that way.
I haven't been able to shake Vaughn's warning since that day in the parking lot.
He might already know who you are.
That thought alone makes me pause mid-bite and set my sandwich down. It's impossible—unless someone said too much. But no one would. No one can. Zuri isn't exactly a rare name; it doesn't scream me.
It's not some signature etched across my past. And besides, I never go anywhere without an alias. Not ever.
My thumb hovers over my phone screen, and then I swipe to Vaughn's contact and hit call.
He picks up on the first ring. "Zuri?"
His voice is calm. Grounding. Like a thread tying me back to something that isn't performance or pretense.
"Hey," I say. "Everything's fine. I just… I realized I hadn't checked in."
A pause. Then his quiet laugh.
"That's a first."
I smile, leaning forward on this island. "I figured I'd try something new."
"You good?"
"Good enough," I say. "You?"
"Busy as always. But alive." then a beat of silence. "You sure you're okay?"
I stand and walk to the glass doors leading to my balcony, sliding them open. The city is buzzing beneath me—cars honking, people moving fast with places to be—but the noise doesn't reach me. Just sunlight and wind.
"I keep thinking about what you said," I admit. "About Makai."
There's a short pause on the other end. "And?"
"I'm curious, why does Tylon see him as a threat?"
He exhales. "Because he is one. They're competitors."
My fingers tighten on the railing, "obviously, but I have a feeling that hiring a seductress to get intel on a competitor is extreme for it to just be normal competition."
"It is a bit dramatic but come on…it's Tylon Gray. What do you expect?" He responds, but his tone holds a bit of restraint as if there is more to say.
"Vaughn… what do you know?" I ask, squeezing my eyes shut as a wave of suspicion washes over me.
Silence. Then his voice, low and unshakable, "Not as much as you think I do. Trust me, I'm just having some suspicions. The same way you are."
"You'd tell me if you did know something right?"
"You'll be the first to know. Sleep well." he says before ending the call.
I inhale, noting that the taste of something bitter is on my tongue.