Page 132 of Ruthless Regret

“I’ll get it.”

Mom responds with something I don’t catch.

When I open the door, there's a man in a dark suit standing on the porch. My heart skips a beat—he reminds me of Bishop, of Rook. Of that day in the kitchen.

"Mrs. Ryder." He holds out a cream-colored envelope.

I take it, frowning. Inside is an invitation, and I recognize the heavy paper and handwriting. It’s identical to the one Zain sentall those months ago, when this all began. It’s an invitation to dinner.

Same restaurant. Same demanding tone.

I stare at it, confusion crawling through me. We had breakfast together this morning. He kissed me goodbye before I headed over to my mom’s. Why would he...?

"I'm to drive you," the man says, gesturing to a black car idling in the driveway.

“Mom …” I turn and find her standing behind me, a smile curving her lips up.

“Finally. I was running out of ways to stall lunch.”

I blink. She flaps her hands at me.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Get going.”

Something about this feels surreal, like déjà vu twisted inside out. Last time, fear and anger drove me to that restaurant. This time, it's curiosity that makes me grab my purse and follow the man out of the house.

The drive is made in silence … Well, the driver is silent. I keep asking him questions.

“What’s going on?”

“Why didn’t Zain call me?”

“What’s he doing?”

When we arrive at the restaurant, he opens my door and leads me inside. It’s empty, except for one table. Zain sits there, his expression unreadable.

"Sit down." His voice is flat, controlled.

My heart rate picks up speed as I slide into the chair across from him. "What's wrong?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he slides another envelope across the table. This one is worn at the edges, like it's been handled many times. When I open it, my breath catches.

The contract.

The paper that started everything. That bound us together for fourteen months of revenge that turned into something else entirely.

"Fourteen months," he says quietly. "That was the deal."

I look up at him, my fingers curling around the edge of the paper. "Zain?—"

"The terms are complete." He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a lighter. Taking the paper back from my unresisting fingers, he touches the flame to the corner.

I watch it burn.

“Fourteen months in return for complete control of your life.” His head tilts. “Those were the terms.”

“Yes, but?—”

He holds up another envelope.

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