The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 99

Chapter 62-3

“Maybe,” Locke says.

“Private investigators?” Mayhem asks.

“Possible.”

“Drivers who follow Zara around?” Jade says.

Claun

“Also possible.” Locke spreads his hands, and I can tell how much he hates the uncertainty. “I don’t know how he’s doing it yet. I only know we’ve somehow been giving him more information than we realize.”

Dad looks down at the photographs. “Then we watch.”

Locke nods. “Quietly.”

“No accusations,” I add. “Not without proof.”

Dad’s gaze shifts to mine, and there’s something deliberate in the way he pauses before responding. “What do you think we should do?”

The question catches me off guard. Yesterday, he would have decided, today, he asks.

I look around the table, at the fear and suspicion already threatening to push its way into the spaces where trust has always lived.

“We don’t let Knox turn us against each other,” I say. “That’s exactly what he’d want.”

Mayhem doesn’t look convinced, but he listens as I continue.

“We tighten security without telling everyone why. We check camera placement, delivery routines, anyone who can see us arrive or leave. And we stop announcing plans in open spaces until we understand what he can access.”

Dad gives a slow nod. “We do it carefully. Nobody uses Zara as bait.”

“Agreed,” Locke says before I can.

My eyes narrow, and his jaw tightens, and I think he’s about to start another argument.

Instead, he looks at me, and he actually asks:

“Agreed?”

The difference is tiny… and it means absolutely fucking everything.

“Yes,” I say softly. “Agreed.”

Locke and I look at each other, and for one fragile second, something almost softens between us. Then we remember yesterday, and the moment closes.

The meeting dissolves slowly after that, nobody quite ready to leave but nobody with anything useful left to add. Dad gathers the photographs into a neat stack, already shifting back into President mode as he

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Chapter 62

Clam

assigns Mayhem several quiet security checks. Jade squeezes my shoulder before following my brother into the hallway, and Dad leaves a moment later to speak with Brick.

Before I realize it, Locke and 1 are alone. Silence settles between us.

Not the comfortable kind we’ve shared in his bed or over coffee or while working through impossible accounts. This silence is cautious, fragile, as though one careless word might send us straight back to yesterday.

He looks exhausted.

The dark stubble, the creases in his shirt, the shadows beneath his eyes all tell me he hasn’t slept, and I hate that almost as much as I hate knowing I’m probably responsible for at least some of it.

“You should’ve told someone’ where you were going,” I say.

His eyes close briefly. “I know.”

“You switched off your phone.”

“I didn’t want to be distracted.”

“You let everyone think you were missing.”

His gaze returns to mine. “I know.”

He gives no excuses, makes no attempt to turn his actions into justification. Some of my anger shifts at that, although it doesn’t disappear.

“Did you sleep?” I say.

“No.”

“Eat?”

“Not much.” A tiny, weary smile touches his mouth. “You?”

“Room service.”

“Good. You needed some rest.”

The words are absurdly tender for two people who still don’t know whether they’re together.

I glance toward the door. “I’m going back to work.”

He watches me for another moment before nodding. “So am I.”

It’s such an ordinary exchange, just two people discussing work. And somehow it’s one of the hardest

conversations we’ve ever had.

I turn toward the door, my hand already reaching for the knob.

“Zara.”

I stop, look back over my shoulder. He’s still standing exactly where I left him, his expression stripped of

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Chero

Chapter 62-2

anger now, leaving only tiredness and something far more vulnerable.

“Are you corning home tonight?”

Not the penthouse-

Not my place.

Home.

The word catches beneath my ribs. God, I want to say yes. I want to walk back through his door, find my coffee mug beside his and my clothes in his closet, curl against him and pretend yesterday never happened.

But pretending is how I lost myself the first time.

“No.” I hold his gaze. “Not yet.”

The words hurt me, and I can see that they hurt him too. Still, he doesn’t argue, he doesn’t persuade, or demand, or tell me what would be safer. He respects my words, and my decision.

He simply nods once. “Okay.”

I give him the smallest smile that I can manage. It’s not forgiveness, and it’s not surrender. It’s just the first fragile sign that maybe we haven’t broken beyond repair.

Then I walk back to the garage. Back to work.

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