Chapter 4

An hour later, Ella is fast asleep, her hand loosely curled around mine. She insisted I stay until she drifted off, and now that she’s resting, I quietly rise and make my way toward the door.

“I should go now,” I say softly to Zachary, who stands by the window.

“Wait.”

His voice stops me in my tracks, and I slowly turn around. "What?"

“Have dinner with me.”

I blink, unsure if I’ve heard him correctly. “Dinner?”

"That's what I said."

“No, thank you. I should—”

Before I can finish, he strides over, grabs my wrist, and steers me toward the dining room. “You’re eating,” he says.

Soon, I’m seated at a glossy table that looks like it belongs in a magazine. Zach places a plate of food in front of me and sits across from me.

“Eat,” he orders. “Don't worry. I don't intend to poison you.”

I frown at his sarcasm but realize how starving I am. The events of the evening have drained me completely. Picking up a fork, I ask, “What about Ella?”

“She’ll eat when she wakes up,” he replies.

I nod, unsure of what to say. His sudden generosity confuses me. What has changed?

As we eat, he speaks again. “Why are you working in a nightclub? It doesn’t match your qualifications.”

I freeze, the food suddenly heavy in my mouth. Of course, he’s looked at my résumé. Swallowing hard, I choose my words carefully. “I’ve been working there since high school. It helped me pay for my studies, and now... well, my mother is sick. I need the money for her medical bills.”

I don’t look at him, afraid of the judgment I might see. But when I finally dare to glance up, he gives a small nod. “I see.”

Not wanting to draw any more attention to myself, I eat quickly, hoping to finish and leave. But as I reach for my glass of water, Zach’s sharp eyes catch something I hadn’t noticed.

“You’re bleeding,” he says, standing abruptly.

“What?” I ask, then gasp when I notice the bandage on my hand has a small spot of blood seeping through. I clench my fist, trying to hide it from Zach’s gaze. Although I begin to panic inwardly, I say, “It’s nothing. I’ll take care of it later.”

Without a word, he’s already moving toward a cabinet, and he’s back with a first aid kit in hand. “Give me your hand.”

“What? No, it’s really not—”

“I said give me your hand. I can only deal with one stubborn head tonight!”

Reluctantly, I extend my injured hand. He unwraps the bandage carefully, his brow furrowing when he sees the wound. “This is infected. Why did you abandon it like this?”

“I didn’t think it was that bad,” I mumble.

Zach shakes his head, grabbing antiseptic and cotton. “Stay still,” he orders.

"Wait. Hold on. I can—oww!"

The way he delicately swabs the wound quiets me. His fingers remain firm as he works, and the iodine-soaked cotton feels cool to the touch, especially when he leans down and blows gently on the wound to soothe the stinging sensation. I’m astounded by how tenderly his fingers brush against mine.

Then, out of the blue, he whispers, “I’m sorry for how I treated you yesterday.”

His sudden apology stops me cold. I stare at him, unsure if I’ve heard him correctly. His hands are still steady as he secures the fresh bandage on my hand.

“Wait, what?” I ask.

“I said I’m sorry,” he repeats. “It also covers what I said earlier—about you being a bad influence on my sister. And seeing how you’ve handled her, I realize I misjudged you.”

I blink, trying to process his words. This isn’t the Zachary Langston I’ve come to know—the cold, judgmental man who has no problem hurling insults without hesitation. Should I feel scared? What if he's trying to make me feel better because he's going to kill me and dump my body in the woods?

Finally, he released my hand when his small operation was complete. "Make an effort to clean it, and take some pain medications as well."

“I… I will. Thank you,” I say quietly, gazing down at my bandaged hand. It was beautifully wrapped, like a doctor had done it. "I appreciate your help."

When I look up, I find him staring back at me.

“You’re welcome,” he says. But he doesn’t look away, and neither do I.

“You’re staring,” I say.

He tilts his head slightly. “Maybe I am.”

I blink. “Why?”

“I’m trying to figure you out,” he admits, leaning back slightly in his chair but never breaking eye contact. “You don’t fit into any of the neat little boxes I expect people to fall into. You're complicated.”

“Complicated?” I repeat.

“Complicated isn’t a bad thing,” he says. “It’s intriguing.”

“I think you’ve got me all wrong."

“Do I? You’re not as easy to dismiss as I thought. And that is frustrating.”

“Frustrating? Me?”

“Yes,” he says, his gaze dropping briefly to my lips before snapping back up to meet my eyes. “You’re infuriatingly hard to ignore.”

My breath catches, and I suddenly realize I’ve been leaning forward. I quickly pull back. I seem to have been cast under a spell. "You are confusing, Mr. Langston," I finally said.

He chuckles, tapping the table with his fingers. “I could say the same about you, Miss Hale. But if you find me confusing, it’s only because you make me feel things I didn’t expect. And you've managed to get under my skin.”

My lips part, but no sound comes out. I can’t look away from him, can’t move, can’t breathe. But then shame prickles along my skin, and I look down at the table. “I should go,” I say, pushing my chair back abruptly and standing. “Thank you for the food and for this.” I gesture to my freshly bandaged hand.

“I’ll have my driver take you home."

I shake my head. “That’s not necessary. My truck is waiting. Goodnight, Mr. Langston, and please tell Ella I'm pleased to meet her."

Without giving him a chance to argue, I hurry out of the penthouse. The elevator doors slide open as soon as I press the button, and I step inside.

But before the elevator door closes, I catch a peek of him standing at the end of the hallway. His hands are in his pockets, and his jaw is tight. He doesn't call out to me again, but his sharp look stays on me.