Zara's Pov

The ice clinks against the glass as I swirl the last of the bourbon, its burn nothing compared to the ache in my chest. The penthouse is silent, but not peaceful. The kind of silence that sharpens every thought until it cuts. I sink deeper into the velvet couch, staring at the ceiling until it spins.

I didn’t mean to drink this much. But it’s today. Of all the days. The calendar screamed it at me when I woke up: July 13.

I hate this day.

The glass tips in my hand. Empty. I don’t remember when I finished it. My vision swims, my limbs heavy. I barely register the tears sliding past my temples as the world blurs and tips sideways. Sleep drags me under.

The floor is warm beneath my bare feet.

Soft. Shiny. Like candy wrappers.

I blink and look down.

Glass. A mirror stretches beneath me, rippling slightly with each step. I’m wearing a sky-blue dress with puffy sleeves, satin ribbons, and sparkly shoes. The cheap Halloween kind I begged for weeks to wear every day.

“Daddy look!” I spin, arms out.

The air smells like leather, oil, and cake.

Then I hear him. That voice I haven’t heard in years.

“Well damn,” he says, low and proud. “Ain’t you the prettiest little thing?”

I whip around, heart stalling in my chest.

He stood there smiling .

Black boots. Faded jeans. Inked arms. That crooked smile.

Tears prick my eyes but I’m smiling too wide to let them fall. I run to him, and he kneels just in time to catch me. His leather vest creaks under my fingers as I hug him tight.

“You remembered my birthday,” I mumble against his chest.

“I’d never forget, Princess.” He pulls back, thumb brushing my cheek. “Ten years old today. Double digits. You know what that means?”

I shake my head.

He winks. “It means your gift’s gotta be even better.”

“What is it?” I bounce on my toes. “Tell me! Tell me!”

“Ah-ah,” he laughs. “It’s a surprise. I gotta go pick it up.”

He ruffles my hair, stands, grabs his helmet off the counter. The one with the flames on the sides. The one he never let me touch.

“I’ll be back before you can finish your cake,” he says.

I pout, but nod. “Okay. Don’t take too long.”

He leans down, presses a kiss to my forehead. “Never do.”

Then he walks away.

And the mirror beneath my feet starts to crack.

I woke with a strangled gasp, drenched in sweat, the sheets twisted around me like a noose.

My chest heaves. My hands are shaking.

I stare at the ceiling, heart pounding so loud it feels like the walls are echoing with it.

He never came back.

The phone call. The flashing lights. The way Mom’s knees buckled when she opened the door.

He never got to give me that gift.

He never got to see me grow up.

The sob shatters from my throat, torn and helpless. I curl into myself, clutching the edge of the mattress like it’ll hold me together.

Because in the dream, he was still mine. Still alive. Still calling me Princess.

And now?

Now he’s just a ghost.

A memory wrapped in leather and smoke.

I scream into the pillow until my voice breaks. Until the pain rises from my chest and spills from my mouth in the kind of sobs I haven’t allowed myself in years.

He was the last man who loved me without trying to own me.

And I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

He didn’t come back.

He never came back.

That was the last time I ever saw him. The morning he died.

It was my fucking birthday.

And every year since, I’ve hated that day. Everyone thinks I’m spoiled, cold, untouchable. But they don’t see this. They don’t know I’ve been stuck in that hallway for years, still trying to run to him, still screaming for him not to go.

I buried my face in my hands and tried to breathe.

But memories wouldn’t let me.

He was everything loud and reckless. Leather jacket with biker patches. Long bike rides to nowhere. Milkshakes and diner booths. Grease on his knuckles from fixing his old Harley.

I remember him teaching me how to ride my pink bike. “Balance, star. Everything in life’s about balance.”

And when Mom would yell at him for letting me stay up too late on school nights, he’d just grin and say, “She’s learning how to live.”

I remember falling asleep to the sound of his bike rolling into the driveway late at night. That deep, familiar rumble was the lullaby I didn’t know I needed.

Until it stopped.

Until the knock on the door.

The funeral was white roses and black leather. Mom wore sunglasses. I refused to speak.

I was just a kid.

But I learned one thing that day.

Life doesn’t wait.

It rips, it burns, it tears, and you either scream until your throat goes raw or you go quiet.

I went quiet for years.

Until Lucien.

Until this madness.

But even he doesn’t know. No one knows.

Not the CEO who thinks I’m lucky to be part of his empire. Not my mother who built herself from scratch and expects me to never break. Not Lucien with all his cruelty and obsession.

None of them know I wake up crying on cold sheets because I’m still waiting for a man who died on a promise.

I wiped my eyes.

Reached for the glass on the nightstand.

Empty.

I needed more wine. Or something stronger.

But instead, I just sat there. Letting the silence hum.

One day, I’d make peace with it.

But not today.

Today, I’d bleed quietly.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow I’d be steel again.

But tonight—I was that girl again. In the blue Cinderella dress, arms outstretched in a hallway that kept growing longer.

“Happy birthday, baby girl,” his voice echoed in my memory.

I bit down on my lip, hard, and whispered back.

“I miss you so much, dad”