The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 284

Chapter 141-1

The scent of jasmine tea and toasted rice fills the kitchen as the city outside our penthouse windows sleeps.

Clam

We stayed up late last night, eating sushi, drinking chilled white wine, and intentionally talking about anything other than the club. We talked about books, about the mountains, about quiet places along the coast where the ocean pounds against jagged rock and the air smells like salted pine.

We laughed at little things, letting the wine loosen the sharp edges of our fear, wrapped in the temporary safety of our penthouse sanctuary. But beneath every word, beneath every touch and quiet laugh, was the invisible countdown ticking away toward sunrise.

Neither of us truly slept when we finally went to bed around two.

We lay tangled under the duvet, but sleep was a restless, shallow thing, just brief dozes interrupted by the sharp jolt of awareness every time the wind rattled the glass.

By five-thirty, we gave up on the illusion entirely.

Locke brewed a fresh pot of dark, strong coffee for himself – the man has the terrifying ability to drink black coffee five minutes before lying down and falling asleep instantly, a survival skill honed over years in

the club.

However, I’m entirely at the mercy of caffeine, so I opted for a steaming mug of jasmine green tea. I let the warm, floral steam curl up around my face while he moved quietly around the kitchen.

With the meeting at the clubhouse scheduled for eight, we had a long, agonizing corridor of time to cross. Locke lit the fireplace in the living room, sending flickering amber light dancing through the gloom, and we settled into the large leather armchairs.

Now, sitting here, wrapped in my soft silk robe, my feet tucked beneath me, I watch the horizon slowly turn from black to the faint, bruised gray.

The city far below is beginning to stir: streetlights flickering, a few lonely headlights tracing the road around the distant ocean shoreline.

Locke stands near the glass, a mug of black coffee held loosely in his right hand, his broad, bare shoulders framed against the awakening sky.

The quiet between us is heavy, charged with the kind of stillness that always comes before a storm breaks. I can hear the hum of the refrigerator, the distant, muffled whisper of air through the vents, and the slow, steady rhythm of my own heart hammering against my ribs.

I watch the way the dim morning light catches the dark ink sprawling across Locke’s back; the heavy lines the scarred tissue over his shoulder blade, the physical proof of a lifetime spent surviving a dangerous, uncompromising world.

He looks like a guardian statue carved from shadow and stone, entirely still except for the faint rise and fall of his chest.

We pass the hours in front of the fire, keeping our voices low, trying not to watch the digital clock on the

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Chapter 141

even. Locke flips through a motorcycle trade magazine, while I pretend to read a novel.

Clase

Every ten minutes or so, the silence stretches tight enough to snap, and one of us will speak just to break it. But behind every small exchange, the elephant in the room grows larger.

We both know what’s happening at the clubhouse right now.

We both know the officers are pulling into the gravel lot, their boots heavy on the floorboards, their cuts stiff against the morning cold as they take their seats around the long mahogany table.

My Dad is sitting at the head of that table right now, gavel in hand, surrounded by men he’s bled with for decades. My brother is sitting nearby, dark-eyed and rigid, holding onto a fury he thinks is justice. And somewhere on a cargo ship miles away, Knox’s transport is crossing the ocean, completely unaware of the target painted on its back.

By seven-thirty, the sunrise breaks over the horizon in streaks of fiery orange and pale gold, painting the quiet room in shades of amber. By seven-forty-five, our low conversation dies out entirely, and the silence in the room turns absolute and suffocating.

“It’s almost time,” I say softly.

“Yeah,” Locke says, setting his magazine aside on the table. He doesn’t move to stand yet, but the sudden, rigid shift in his shoulders tells me everything: the warrior in him locking into place, preparing for whatever impact is about to hit us.

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