Chapter One
ZARA POV
I make my way to the shop and find Casey trimming a bundle of roses. She looks up from her work and smiles warmly. “Hey, Zara. How was the funeral?”
I roll my eyes, letting out a long, exasperated sigh. “A lot of tears, a lot of fake sympathy, and even more sucking up.”
She chuckles, shaking her head knowingly. “Yeah, that’s what happens when someone rich bites the dust.”
I nod in agreement, leaning against the counter as she arranges the flowers. “How are *you* holding up, though?” she asks, her voice softening with genuine concern.
I shrug, offering her a small smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “I’m fine. Honestly, I hadn’t really seen her much since Mum died. So... it didn’t really feel like losing someone, you know?”
Casey gives me a sympathetic nod, sensing the undercurrent of unresolved emotions. Still, before she can say anything more, the familiar jingle of the doorbell rings out, and Tommy, our regular delivery guy, strides in with his usual grin.
“Hey, Zara!” Tommy calls out, hoisting a large flat box onto the counter. “Got a delivery for you.”
I grab the clipboard from him, giving him a tired smile as I scribble my signature. “How’s your mum doing?” I ask in a hushed tone, knowing how much his mother’s health has weighed on him.
Tommy shrugs, but there’s a light in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “She’s doing good. The treatment’s going better than we expected.”
A wave of relief washes over me as I hand the clipboard back. “That’s great news, Tommy. Make sure to give her my love, okay?”
“I will,” he says with a grateful nod before heading back out, leaving me with a moment to breathe.
Casey finishes arranging the flowers and looks up at me, her smile fading into something more thoughtful. “It’s okay to not be fine, Zara. You don’t have to act like this doesn’t affect you.”
I pause, her words hitting me harder than I expected. The truth is, I *was* affected—more than I wanted to admit. Memories of Mum and my distant relationship with my aunt keep bubbling up, threatening to pull me under. But I push them down, for now.
“Let’s just focus on work,” I say, grabbing a pair of scissors to help her with the flowers. But Casey’s gaze lingers on me, concern etched into her features.
I began to hear it—whispers, faint at first but growing steadily stronger. A man’s voice, rich and deep, murmuring desires I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in years. They stirred something within me, something I thought had long since withered away. My eyes drifted toward the package lying on the table, its presence suddenly commanding, almost magnetic.
The flowers in my hand felt heavier, forgotten, as I set them down gently. Drawn by an invisible force, I approached the package, my fingers lightly brushing against the coarse brown paper. As I ran my hand down the wrapping, I noticed a small card tied to the string. The whispers grew louder, clearer now, the voice almost tangible, wrapping around me like a warm embrace.
I turned the card over, my breath catching in my throat as I read the words scrawled in elegant, old-fashioned handwriting:
*“Come close to me and whisper your desire, for I shall grant them.”*
My heart raced, confusion and curiosity battling for dominance. The whispers pulsed in my mind, coaxing me closer. I felt an irresistible pull—like the voice itself was calling to me, urging me to reveal the deepest desires I had locked away.
I hesitated for a moment, my fingers trembling slightly as I carefully unwrapped the package. Beneath the brown paper lay a framed painting—an exquisite portrait that took my breath away. The man depicted sat in a regal chair, shirtless, his sculpted chest bared to the world, clad only in leather pants and worn boots. A gleaming sword rested between his powerful legs, his hand gripping the hilt with effortless strength.
His gaze was intense, hauntingly familiar, as though he had known me for lifetimes. There was something in his expression, a mesmerizing blend of tenderness and authority, that stirred something deep within me. The detail was extraordinary, each brushstroke capturing his raw masculinity and the energy that radiated from him. His eyes, vivid and stormy, seemed to follow my every move, watching me not as an observer but as if he were truly alive, trapped between the layers of oil and canvas yet fully aware of me.
The whispers surged again, clearer now. It was his voice, there was no doubt. His lips, painted and unmoving, seemed to echo the words I had just read on the card.
“Whisper your desire.”
A shiver ran down my spine, and without fully understanding why, I leaned closer to the painting, the air around me growing heavy with a strange, electric energy. I opened my mouth, my voice barely more than a breath.
“I want to feel again,” I whispered, almost against my will. “I want to know love.”
The moment the words left my lips, the room seemed to hum with power. The air shimmered, the world around me shifting. Suddenly, the man in the painting smiled—a small, almost imperceptible curve of his lips.
Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I jumped, spinning around to find Casey standing behind me. Concern etched across her face, she asked softly, “Are you okay?”
I forced a deep breath, steadying myself, and gave a quick shake of my head. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I lied, the words coming out too fast, too brittle.
Without another word, I turned back to the painting, hurriedly draping the brown wrapping over it as if trying to hide what had just stirred inside me. My hands were still trembling slightly as I stepped away, refusing to meet Casey’s eyes.
