Zara Johnson's life lost its spark after her mother's sudden death-until one night in Harlem, she discovers Marcus Harris, the soulful Golden Boy whose music speaks to her broken heart. Driven by inspiration, Zara dares to merge his sound with her b...
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Brooklyn, New York July 15, 2023
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"Marcus, I will stab you."
Zara's voice was dangerously calm, the kitchen knife in her grasp gleaming under the overhead light. Across from her, Marcus stood with an infuriatingly cocky grin, a bucket of water in his hands, mischief dancing in his dark eyes.
They were at her place, winding down after a week that had pushed Zara far beyond her comfort zone. The endless meet-and-greets, social media obligations, and public appearances had left her drained. She wasn't made for the spotlight—at least, not the way Marcus was.
She preferred the control that came with staying behind the scenes, letting her brand speak for her. In person, she was selective about her presence, only meeting clients for fittings or final touches. The internet was her stage, one where she dictated the narrative, where she could curate what parts of herself the world saw.
But Marcus? He was built for the limelight. He thrived in it. He shook hands, smiled for cameras, and made people fall in love with him effortlessly, pulling her along in his orbit.
And, damn him, he knew it.
"Marcus. I swear to—"
The words barely left her lips before ice-cold water slammed against her body. The shock stole her breath, her spine stiffening as the chill ran through her soaked clothes, clinging to every inch of her skin.
A deep, hearty laugh erupted from Marcus, his head tilting back as he doubled over in amusement. Zara, however, wasn't nearly as entertained.
Slowly, she exhaled, her fingers curling around the edge of the countertop as she willed herself to stay calm. Her curls dripped onto her shoulders, her tank top plastered against her, nipples pebbling from the cold.
Marcus was still laughing when she opened her eyes, that shit-eating grin plastered on his face like he had just won some grand prize. He loved getting Zara riled up—even if it meant her ignoring him for days afterward.
It was always worth it in the end because, inevitably, it ended with her riding his face until the sunrise. Funny, considering the man once claimed he didn't like eating pussy. But when it came to Zara? He damn sure couldn't stay away.
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"I'ma fuck you up," Zara said, too calm.
Marcus's laughter died in his throat. He straightened, eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to gauge her next move. He was good at reading people, but Zara? Zara played dirty.
Then she smirked.
Marcus followed her gaze—then swallowed hard when he saw what she was reaching for.
A pot.
Not just any pot, but the one sitting on the stove, steam curling from the surface of the water inside.
Zara tilted her head, voice dipping into something soft, almost innocent. "So, let's get wet, shall we?"
Marcus's cocky bravado cracked as he took a cautious step back, hands lifting slightly. "Now...Z, mama...let's talk about this."
She grinned.
Too late.
Marcus's eyes widened, darting between Zara's face and the pot in her hands. He knew her well enough to understand one thing—once she had her mind set on revenge, there was no escaping it.
"Zara," he started, his voice edging toward nervous laughter as he took another step back. "Be reasonable."
"Reasonable?" She blinked, tilting her head in mock confusion. "You just drenched me with ice-cold water in my own damn kitchen, Marcus. And now you wanna talk about reasonable?"
He licked his lips, his gaze flickering downward — just for a second. Her nipples were still straining against the wet fabric. Still teasing him.
Her nipples, stiff from the cold, pressed against the fabric of her tank top, and through the soaked material, the silver of her nipple piercings gleamed.
Marcus wasn't subtle about it. His gaze lingered, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. Zara tilted her head, watching his expression shift. His fingers twitched at his sides, and his teeth raked over his bottom lip. A tell.
He was distracted. Good. Zara caught the glance and smirked. "Eyes up, baby."
Marcus inhaled sharply, rubbing the nape of his neck, his cocky façade cracking. "Aight, aight, you got me. We even now."
Zara arched a brow. "Even?"
And before Marcus could react, she tilted the pot forward.
Warm—not scalding, but warm—water splashed across his chest, soaking the front of his shirt and dripping down his torso.
"Shit—!" He jerked back, arms flailing slightly, shaking out his drenched hoodie. He looked down at himself, then back at her, slow realization settling in.
Zara was already grinning, backing up toward the door. "Oh, you think that's funny?" His voice was deeper now, a dangerous edge creeping in.
"I think it's hilarious," she shot back, her dimples flashing.
Marcus let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Aight. You wanna play, huh?"
Before she could react, he moved.
Zara barely had time to turn before Marcus lunged, grabbing her by the waist and lifting her off the ground effortlessly. A squeal escaped her as he tossed her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.
"Marcus! Put me down!" She kicked her legs, laughing despite herself, but he had her locked in his grip.
"Nah, you wanna start wars, you gotta be ready for the consequences," he taunted, carrying her toward the bathroom.
