Chapter 91: The Truth
A sprawling, tiered layout featuring plush leather sectional sofas, a polished mahogany bar stocked with top-shelf liquor, and a sprawling catered spread of sushi, seared steak, and chilled oysters.
But the real draw was the view.
The front of the suite was a wall of slanted, soundproof glass, offering a towering, unobstructed vantage point of the brightly lit hardwood court far below. The stands were a sea of screaming fans, bathed in the blinding glare of the arena lights, but inside the box, the roar of the crowd was muted to a low, distant hum.
It was an isolation tank suspended above twenty thousand people.
Zara walked slowly toward the glass, her coat slipping off her shoulders. Ryan caught it before it hit the floor, laying it over the back of a leather chair.
She pressed her fingertips against the pane, looking down at the players warming up on the court. The stadium lights caught the sheen of her dark hair, illuminating the sharp, flawless curve of her profile.
"It’s quiet," she said, her voice carrying a note of genuine wonder. "I can see everyone. But no one can see me."
Ryan stepped up behind her. He didn’t touch her. He just stood close enough that his shadow overlapped hers on the glass.
"That was the point," Ryan said.
The first quarter of the game passed in a blur of squeaking sneakers and blown defensive coverages.
As Ryan had predicted, the Pistons were currently trailing the Knicks by twelve points, a statistical inevitability that neither of them particularly cared about.
Ryan sat at the edge of the leather sectional, a heavy crystal glass of aged bourbon resting on his knee.
The dark liquor burned pleasantly on his tongue, a sharp contrast to the adrenaline that had been wiring his nerves tight all week.
Zara had abandoned her heels twenty minutes ago.
She sat sideways on the sofa next to him, her bare feet tucked under the silk of her dress. She held a flute of champagne, the bubbles rising in a slow, hypnotic stream.
Without the restrictive coat and the towering shoes, the manufactured, untouchable aura of ’Zara Osei the Supermodel’ had melted away.
She just looked like a beautiful woman enjoying the rare luxury of absolute privacy.
"They’re getting destroyed," Zara noted, nodding toward the glass as a Knicks forward slammed a violent dunk through the hoop, sending the muted crowd below into a frenzy.
"It’s a rebuilding year," Ryan said, taking a slow sip of his bourbon. "Or a rebuilding decade. Hard to tell."
Zara turned her head, resting her cheek against the back of the leather couch. Her dark eyes dragged away from the court, locking onto him. The ambient lighting in the suite was dim, casting long, shifting shadows across his face.
"You look tired," she said softly. It wasn’t an insult; it was an observation.
"I’ve been shifting a lot of weight," Ryan replied. He didn’t elaborate on the mafia hit squad or the IRS audit.
He rolled his glass between his palms, the ice clinking softly against the crystal. "The company is scaling faster than anticipated."
"Is that why you look like you haven’t slept, or is that why you bought a luxury box just to watch a terrible basketball team?"
Ryan’s mouth twitched. "Both."
Zara set her champagne flute down on the polished coffee table. The playful banter that had carried them through the first half of the evening began to thin, evaporating into the charged, heavy air between them.
She uncrossed her legs, shifting her weight closer to him.
The silk of her dress whispered against the leather.
The scent of vanilla and cedar wrapped around him, thick and intoxicating.
"You warned me," Zara said, her voice dropping, losing its casual rhythm. "On the phone. You said you couldn’t promise I’d be the only one. You said you weren’t built for exclusivity right now."
Ryan went completely still. The ice in his glass stopped clinking. He looked at her. "I did."
"I sometimes thought you were just pushing me away," she murmured, her gaze dropping to his hands. Her fingers traced the rim of her empty glass. "I thought you were scared. Because of what happened with your ex."
"I don’t operate on fear," Ryan said flatly. "I operate on reality. I told you the truth because lying to you would be a waste of both our time."
Zara looked up.
The vulnerability he had seen in her eyes outside the restaurant the previous week was back, but this time, it was laced with a sharp, probing intensity.
She wasn’t a fragile girl looking for validation. She was a woman trying to calculate the exact dimensions of the man sitting next to her.
"You said you cared about me," she pressed, her voice barely louder than the hum of the air conditioning. "You said when you kissed me on that balcony, you couldn’t think about anything else for days."
"That was true," Ryan said. He set his bourbon down next to her champagne. He turned his body fully toward her. "It’s still true."
"Then help me understand," Zara said, the words catching slightly in her throat. Her fingers curled into the leather cushion.
The stadium lights flared outside the glass, throwing a sudden, harsh illumination over her features. She looked beautiful. She looked entirely exposed.
"The paparazzi photo," Zara said, her voice steadying, tightening into a demand for absolute transparency. "The way she was looking at you. The way you were standing with her."
Ryan didn’t blink. He didn’t break eye contact. He knew exactly what was coming.
"The girl in the pic," Zara asked, the finality of the question hanging in the air like a guillotine blade. "Is it really nothing?"
The silence in the soundproofed suite was absolute. The thousands of screaming fans below them were entirely muted.
There was no escape hatch. There was no PR spin.
Ryan looked at the woman who had thirteen million people worshipping her every move and still kissed him in front of a firing squad of cameras just to prove a point.
He could lie. He could play the optical illusion card again. He could feed her a corporate excuse, string her along, and keep her orbiting him with plausible deniability.
He didn’t break her gaze. His posture remained utterly relaxed, his face a mask of cold, immovable truth.
"She’s my assistant and designer," Ryan said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that carried absolutely zero apology. "But I fuck her occasionally."