Taryn POV
That night, in the quiet of the penthouse, she climbed into his bed again, this time without hesitating.
When he kissed her, it wasn't like the men before him. It wasn't a claim or a transaction or a trap. It was a question.
And she answered. She said yes.
Not because she was surviving,
because for the first time in her life she wanted to.
She let him kiss her. She kissed him back. When the kisses became hungrier, more demanding, she was the one to pull the sweatshirt she was wearing over her head.
She was naked, and it was okay. She wanted him to stare at her like that, with that awestruck look. She wanted him to run his fingers over every curve of her body. She wanted his lips to trace every place his fingers had been, until she lost control, her hands tangled in his hair, screaming his name.
She let him enter her because she wanted him to. She clutched at his back, pulling him deeper into her. When he released, she wrapped her legs around his back, staring into his eyes. She wasn't sure what she saw in his or what was shining in hers, but it felt better than anything she had ever experienced.
She fell asleep in his arms, feeling safer than she'd felt in her entire 27 years on the planet.
The next day, they went out to lunch. That's what Zane called it. "Lunch. Private venue. No press." Three words, casual tone. Like they were just grabbing burgers instead of walking into a world built on legacy, money, and the kind of polished cruelty that came with inherited power.
Taryn didn't own the right shoes for this world. Or the right last name. She mentioned the former to Zane, who seemed delighted to take her shopping for "lunch wear." She didn't mention the latter. She didn't think she would ever be ready for that conversation.
She might not have come from wealth, from power, but she walked in anyway, chin high, pulse steady.
Zane led the way, calm, composed, and devastating in a dark tailored suit. His hand grazed the small of her back as they entered the rooftop restaurant, and she realized that was the only part of her body that wasn't tense.
The place wasn't technically open to the public, of course. Nothing in Zane's world was ever truly public. But that didn't stop heads from turning the moment they entered. Staff. Security. The other two men already seated at the table.
Taryn recognized one from a Forbes cover. The other, she didn't recognize at all, and that worried her more. She felt like a lie, a doll dressed up in a smart pencil skirt and cream colored blouse, with high heels and a black scarf around her neck. A black handbag that cost more than her car. He'd told her she looked beautiful.
Zane leaned in. "This isn't a business meeting," he murmured. "They're just old allies. Curious types."
"Curious about me," she said, keeping her smile fixed.
"They're men. They're curious about everything."
Taryn sat with her back straight, her napkin unfolded with the kind of grace that only comes from years of reading rooms full of predators. She didn't try to impress them. She didn't play dumb or clever.
She just watched, and learned. They asked polite questions. Where she was from. How she and Zane met. She said they'd been stuck in the same line at the coffee shop, and one thing had led to another.
"Zane Williamson, getting his own coffee at a coffee shop?" The man named Steve teased.
"Oh, it was worth it," Zane said with a smile on his face. "The coffee was great." He winked at Taryn, who chuckled demurely.
They asked her what she thought about modern art, a safe conversation that doubled as a class test. She said she liked expressionism, even though she didn't. She said it calmly, without flinching. No need to prove herself.
Zane watched her with something close to admiration. Maybe even pride.
And when Steve, the Forbes guy, a smug portfolio manager with salt-and-pepper stubble and a toothy smile, inquired about her "career background," Zane didn't say anything.
But Taryn did. She told them the truth. She wasn't ashamed. She was damn good at what she did. She did things on that pole that rivaled any Olympic gymnast, and she refused to feel ashamed.
"What made you choose…. that as your career?" The man, whose name was Chad, asked.
She folded her hands and leaned in just slightly. "I danced because I'm good at it," she said, voice clear but quiet. "I paid for every year of my life with sweat and bruises. It's not polite dinner conversation, but it's real."
A heavy silence followed.
But then the other man, the one she hadn't recognized, let out a soft, respectful chuckle. "Well said," he told her. And that was it. The conversation moved on.
Zane placed his hand over hers under the table. Gently. No pressure. Just a quiet touch of solidarity. She didn't let go.
Afterward, they stood near the elevator, watching the city shrink around them again.
"You didn't have to bring me," Taryn said.
"I did," Zane replied.
She turned to look at him. "Why?"
"Because you're not a secret," he said. "And because I wanted to see if the world could handle you."
She arched a brow. "And?"
"They barely survived." He flashed her a grin, and she hoped he couldn't see how much his smile affected her.
She snorted. "You know I'm not like them."
"I like that you're not like them."
"But what does that mean? For us?"
Zane stepped in closer. The elevator dinged behind him.
"It means I've been alone at every table I've ever sat at," he said. "And today, I wasn't."
The elevator doors opened.
She stepped in without a word, still holding his hand.
That night, they danced in the living room. Zane was terrible at it, way too stiff, too controlled. Taryn laughed as she guided his hand to her waist and told him to stop thinking so much.
"You can't lead if you're in your head," she said.
"Are we still talking about dancing?"
"Maybe."
He dipped her without warning. She yelped, then laughed, then caught her breath as he kissed her, slow, sure, and real.
When he pulled back, she whispered, "You don't scare me anymore."
He smiled. "Good. That makes one of us."
He hadn't intended to tell her about his past. Not tonight. Not ever, really.
But something about the way Taryn curled beside him on the couch, barefoot, half-asleep, her head resting lightly against his chest, made Zane forget how to be careful.
The world was quiet outside. The storm had passed earlier in the evening, leaving the windows streaked and the sky a dull slate blue.
"Do you ever miss your family?" Taryn asked.
The question hit him harder than he expected.He was quiet for a moment. "I miss the idea of it."
Taryn looked up at him, brows drawn. "That's not a real answer."
"No," he agreed. "But it's the only one I have." She didn't push. But she didn't look away either. Zane sighed and leaned his head back.
"My father was the kind of man who made empires out of whispers. He taught me how to own a room before I could tie my shoes. He liked control. He liked being watched. He liked the performance of power more than the reality of it."
Taryn stayed still, listening.
"But my mother?" He exhaled. "She was different."
He paused, then smiled. It was faint and bittersweet. "She grew up poor. Southern Baptist family. Fifth of seven kids. Never finished college. She met my father at a gallery opening when she was twenty-three. He liked her because she didn't flinch when he called her 'unpolished.' She liked him because he looked like the life she wanted."
"What happened to her?" Taryn asked gently.
"She died when I was sixteen. Car accident. Drunk driver. It made the papers for about a week. My father paid for a wing at a children's hospital and it was dedicated in her name. Then we stopped talking about her."
Taryn's hand found his.
"She was the only real person in the house," Zane said. "When she was gone, it was like the air changed. My father remarried within a year. Some model-turned-PR-exec with dead eyes and a killer instinct. She smiled at me like I was a client."
"Did you hate her?"
"No. I just stopped expecting warmth. Stopped looking for it."
He turned to Taryn.
"That's the thing about power. People think it makes you untouchable. But the more of it you have, the more alone you get."
Taryn's eyes didn't soften with pity. That's what he liked about her. She didn't treat pain like a broken thing. She just saw it.
"So how'd you end up building all this?" she asked. "The empire. The name. The legend?"
Zane smiled faintly. "I wanted to prove I wasn't just my father's shadow. And I needed something big enough to drown out the quiet."
"You're still trying to outrun ghosts," she said.
"Yeah," he said. "But lately I've been wondering if maybe I'm just trying to find someone to witness them with me."
Taryn leaned in, forehead against his.
"I can do that," she whispered.
He kissed her, soft and slow, like a truth sliding between them. And when she climbed into bed beside him later that night, Zane didn't dream of business, or buildings, or legacies.
He dreamed of her.
And for once, he didn't feel alone in the dream.