The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 306

Chapter 150-1

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I scrub the grease out from under my fingernails with a stiff-bristled brush, letting the hot water flush down the drain until the porcelain rúns clear.

It was a hell of a morning down at the shop.

Stitch dumped a late-nineties Custom Vehicle Operations Softail on my lift, a bike with a phantom electrical short that had already driven two other mechanics to near-madness.

Wiring gremlins are the worst kind of work; But after four hours of systematic tearing down, soldering fresh leads, and shrinking clean black insulation over the splices, the engine finally roared to life with a crisp, uninterrupted thud.

The satisfaction of fixing something broken still clings to my skin, even after a half-day in the bay and a long, scorching shower up here in the penthouse.

I step out onto the bath mat, wrapping a robe around myself and tying the belt tight around my waist. The penthouse is cool and still, a snow storm is gathering high above the mountains.

I’m standing in front of the bathroom mirror, thoroughly scrubbing a fluffy towel over my wet hair, when my phone buzzes against the marble counter. The vibration rattles loudly and I stop, my hands freezing mid-rub.

My heart does its usual sharp, involuntary leap: the instinctual, foolish hope that it’s Locke breaking his radio blackout. But I know better.

Locke is deep in a dark zone; his phone is dead, its battery pulled and tucked into his leather cut somewhere on an unmapped highway miles from here.

I pick up the device and look down at the screen.

Willow.

I hesitate, my thumb hovering an inch above the green icon.

The last time we spoke, the call had ended on a strange, brittle note.

I’ve spent hours analyzing that conversation, dissecting the phantom shadow of a man’s voice in the background of her call, the weirdly flat hush that fell over her tone when I told her I wasn’t ready to meet in person, and the muffled scrape of a chair on a hard floor.

Back then, I forced my shoulders down, telling myself I was being paranoid, that living under Knox’s shadow had broken my ability to trust a simple phone call from a flighty half-sister sitting in a noisy roadside diner.

I take a slow breath, letting the towel drop around my neck, and swipe to accept the call.

“Hey, Willow,” I say, keeping my voice light.

“Zara,” Willow’s voice chirps through the speaker. “Is this a good time?”

Her tone is fluid, breezy, and completely back to its usual off-beat, bohemian rhythm. There’s no trace of

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Chapter 150+

that flat, unnerving coolness from our last conversation.

“It is.” I walk across the hardwood floor toward the kitchen. “How are you?”

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“Oh, I’m so good, Zara Just se grounded, she sighs happily. As I reach the island, I uncork a bottle of Cabernet, pouring a deep, dark splash into a heavy crystal glass. I press the phone tighter against my ear, my eyes narrowing just a fraction as I listen to the ambient audio on her end.

I’m listening for it… that subtle, instinctive surveillance check I can’t quite turn off. I listen for distant traffic, mechanical hums, or the heavy tread of boots.

Instead, I hear the soft, pleasant chatter of what sound like elderly women, the clinking of ceramic cups against saucers, a wooden door creaking on iron hinges, and a bell chiming lightly in the background.

“Where are you?” I ask, taking a small sip of the dry wine, the rich oak and dark fruit coating my tongue. ‘Sounds cozy.”

‘I’m over at the local farm shop just down the road from the commune,” Willow explains, her voice relaxed. “You know the commune is strictly off-grid with no tech permitted anywhere. So whenever I run out to pick up our weekly bulk flour and lavender oil supplies, I bring my phone along. I bought a little pot of chamomile tea, found a sunny table by the window, and decided to take a breather.”

‘A quiet break sounds nice,” I say, carrying my glass of wine out of the kitchen and over to the fireplace.

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