Page 30 of The Wrong Promise

Wow.

“Thank you, that is very kind.”

“Jobe, please pass on our contact details to Zara.”

He nods and shakes all their hands once more.

As soon as we are in the confines of his car, Jobe lets out a long breath. “Did you have to bring babies into the conversation, Zara?”

“Are you serious?” After everything, these are his first words? “You wanted me to act. And since women who don’t want children are judged harshly in any social circle, I did what I thought you wanted me to do, even though I hated it. Even though it hurt. I came to London to find myself and to embrace the part of me that doesn’t want what women are expected to want. And there I was, back to square onefor you.You could at least say thank you.”

He is silent for a long time, then quietly offers, “Thank you.”

Something about his apology calms me. “I didn’t mean to go overboard, especially since it’s furthest from the truth for both of us.”

“He did like you, and you certainly fooled him. It seems this deal needs to happen faster than predicted. Otherwise, we might need to act like a wedding is on the cards.”

“Or we break up,” I mutter.

When the car stops in front of the penthouse, we wearily head inside, neither of us speaking a word. The elevator doors open, and we end up in the kitchen together. Surprisingly, Jobe pours another glass of whiskey instead of going to sleep as I assumed he would since he’ll be in the office tomorrow.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks without even a look my way.

“No, thank you. I think I’ve consumed enough champagne for one night. I’d hate to say the wrong thing again.”

He swirls the whiskey in his glass, something I notice he does when he’s pondering or before he’s about to speak. “Zara, can you sit with me a while?”

God, please don’t be nice to me.

It’s much easier when he’s being an ass.

Then, at least, I’m not tempted to do something I’ll regret.

9

ZARA

There issomething about his tone, raw and emotional, that makes me agree to stay up and speak with him. “Give me a moment to change out of this dress.” Changing into my sweatpants and a T-shirt, I remove the jewelry and carry the dress to the living room, hanging it on the rack. “What are you going to do with all these gowns?”

“Did you try them on to see if they fit since you’ll be wearing all of them?”

“All of them?”How long do we have to play this game?

“If they are not your style, then go shopping, and I’ll give you my card to pay for them.”

Give me his card. He makes it sound so easy. Instead of being grateful, I’m annoyed. “I’m sure I’ll find something. Please thank your stylist for me.” Tonight is not the time to express myself. I need to make peace if we’re going to live together for one week a month. It’s not a big ask, and I need to show him more gratitude.

Part of my frustration is not being in a financial position to make decisions with the ease he does. I assumed by coming to London, I would gain control over my life, and yet again, I’m leaning on him to help me until I find somewhere else to live. I’d heard London was an expensive city, and I now know why multiple people live in those tiny townhouses.

Tomorrow at work, I’ll start asking for advice on the best places to live and if anyone knows of someone looking to house share. Thank God my new job provided free rent in the hotel to help me settle in. However, I’m excited to have a beautiful kitchen to start cooking meals in instead of ordering takeout most nights.

Walking around the couch, I take a seat beside him.

“Sweatpants?” he asks.

“Don’t judge me. There’s nothing better than sweats at the end of the day when you want to relax.” He raises an eyebrow, staring at me like he can’t relate. “Wait… you don’t own any?”

“I have worn some to train or run in, but no, they are not lounging attire, although Byron would beg to differ.”

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