Tamara crossed her legs as she slouched comfortably on the plush velvet couch inside the private gaming lounge, her freshly dyed jet-black wolf-cut hair cascading over her shoulders in feathered layers. The room, dimly lit with soft blue ambient lights from the computer monitors, buzzed faintly with the hum of high-end processors and the clicking of mechanical keyboards. The faint, distant bass from the nearby arcade machines mixed into the background, giving the space an odd but familiar comfort.
Her oversized beige hoodie swallowed her petite frame, the sleeves nearly covering her hands, and her high-cut black Converse gave her an effortlessly chic, boyish vibe—a stark contrast to her usual runway-ready style that left photographers fighting for shots every time she stepped out. Today, she looked less like the famous Tamara who graced fashion billboards, and more like the childhood friend I'd shared secrets with since high school.
I pulled my chair beside her, glancing around to make sure Damian—who was still engrossed in his Mobile Legends match—was too occupied to overhear us. His eyes were glued to the screen, his fingers tapping furiously on the keyboard as his character, Yin, executed a flawless combo. The rainbow-colored LED lights beneath the keys reflected on his sharp features.
"Tami," I whispered, leaning in close, my heartbeat racing with nerves. "I need to tell you something. But… you have to promise—swear on your designer wardrobe—that you won't say a word to Damian."
Her dark, almond-shaped eyes glittered with curiosity, her lips curling into a sly smirk. "You're being way too dramatic, Bre," she teased, flipping a strand of her silky hair back. "But alright, my entire Dior collection—on the line. Spill it."
I inhaled sharply, trying to steady my voice, my heart pounding like war drums in my chest. My thoughts spiraled, flashing back to that dizzying, utterly bewildering moment in Zaire's mansion—the chandelier glinting overhead, his piercing gaze, the absurd declaration of marriage, the echoing words that refused to leave my head.
"I…" I hesitated, tugging at the hem of my sweater, "I'm married."
Tamara's expression didn't immediately shift. She blinked—once, twice—processing the information. But when it clicked, her jaw nearly dropped to the floor, eyes widening like saucers, mouth agape in pure shock.
"What. The. Hell." Her voice cracked, pitching up in disbelief. "Married? You? Bre—you hate commitment! You ghost men after coffee dates! You—you—"
"I know!" I hissed, covering her mouth with my palm before she attracted Damian's attention. "Believe me, I'm as shocked as you are! But it's complicated—like, soap opera-level complicated."
She pulled my hand away, narrowing her eyes with growing intrigue. "Explain. Now."
I exhaled and launched into the chaotic story: bumping into Raven—the strangely familiar child—at the mall, the confrontation with that elegant, intimidating woman, the towering, infuriatingly handsome Zaire—and the eventual revelation that I, Aubrey Elyse Barlowe, am his contracted wife.
"Wait, wait," Tamara interrupted, holding up both hands. "Let me get this straight. "Your mom—Marianna—arranged a secret marriage contract with Zaire's family? And… he's filthy rich?"
"Not just rich—obnoxiously rich," I muttered, recalling the sprawling estate, imported European cars glinting in the driveway, the grand marble staircases—it made our family mansion look like a dollhouse. "And cold. And… ugh… infuriating."
Tamara's face contorted into an unreadable mix of amusement and exasperation. "But… you said he has a kid? Raven?"
"Yes! That's the craziest part! He swears I'm his first wife—which is insane because the kid exists—living, breathing, calling me 'Mommy' and everything. But… I've never—you know—done the wifey stuff…" I trailed off, my cheeks burning.
Tamara chuckled, her voice laced with mischief. "Girl, sounds like you're in a K-Drama plot—only with Lamborghinis."
"I wish I was making this up," I groaned, burying my face in my hands.
She rested her hand on my shoulder, her voice softening. "But… Bre, does Damian know?"
"No," I whispered, peeking through my fingers. "And he can't. He's already suspicious—he heard Nicole almost say 'husband' earlier."
"Nicole Cromwell?" Tamara's brows arched. "The heiress? The one who's always glued to Zaire's side?"
I nodded, anxiety twisting my gut.
Tamara's eyes darkened with understanding, her voice dropping to a protective tone. "Bre, be careful. Those Monroevilles—they're powerful—but they're not saints. And Zaire… he's dangerous in ways money can't fix."
Her warning sent a chill crawling down my spine. I knew she wasn't exaggerating—Tamara's family ran in the same wealthy, cutthroat circles. If anyone understood how these arrangements could turn sinister—it was her.
"I didn't sign up for this," I whispered, my voice cracking. "I wanted… a normal life. Not…this tangled mess."
Tamara squeezed my shoulder gently. "Then untangle it, Bre. Find out the truth—about Zaire, about Raven, about why your mom arranged this. Don't let them dictate your story."
Before I could respond, the door creaked open—Damian stood there, his sharp gaze flicking between us, suspicion etched across his face.
"What are you two whispering about?" he asked, voice low, laced with curiosity.
Tamara's expression transformed in an instant—all charm and carefree mischief. "Girl talk," she quipped, standing up. "Unless you're ready to spill your skincare secrets, Damian, this is classified."
He rolled his eyes but smirked. "Keep your secrets—for now," he warned playfully, though a shadow of concern lingered in his eyes.
Little did he know—our secrets were far from innocent.
The more I peeled back the layers of my life—the deeper I fell into this high-stakes world of wealth, deception, and dangerous love.
And something told me—this was only the beginning.
The door to the private room creaked again, and my heart skipped as Raven's tiny voice echoed faintly from outside—followed by heavy footsteps… Zaire.
Tamara's eyes widened, and even Damian stiffened as the atmosphere shifted.
My pulse raced—the real storm was about to begin.
The door swung open fully, and there he stood: Zaire Monroeville, leaning casually against the doorframe, the low lights casting sharp shadows across his angular jawline. His ice-brown eyes locked onto mine, unreadable, dangerous.
"We need to talk," Zaire announced, his voice deep, commanding, impossible to ignore.
Raven peeked shyly from behind his leg, clutching a tiny plush fox. The innocence in his eyes contrasted starkly with the tension crackling in the room.
"Talk?" Damian questioned, stepping protectively beside me, his tone sharp, guarded.
Zaire's lips curled into a faint smirk, unfazed. "Family matters," he replied smoothly, though his gaze never left mine.
Tamara exchanged a loaded glance with me, her silent warning echoing louder than words.
I stood slowly, my heart thudding violently. There was no escaping this conversation—or the secrets buried beneath it.
Because no matter how deep I tried to bury the truth, it always clawed its way back to the surface. And as Zaire extended his hand, palm open, invitation or challenge—I realized the only way forward was to face the storm head-on.
Even if it destroyed me.