Not Over Me Yet, Are You?

Chapter 1

Zaharah

I don’t look back when the car pulls away from JFK.
New York’s skyline stabs the horizon like jagged teeth. It’s a city built on steel and secrets, and right now, I feel both pressing into my spine. The cab’s leather seat creaks beneath me as I adjust, smoothing down the front of my blouse like it’ll iron out the tension coiled in my gut.
Six years. That’s how long it’s been since I left this city. Six years since I buried everything I ever felt for Julian Cross under layers of work, motherhood, and silence. And now here I am again, back on his turf—invited, apparently, by an anonymous client who’s paying top dollar for a forensic audit. I almost turned it down. Almost.
But bills don’t wait. And my son? He deserves more than just almost.
The firm gave me nothing but the address. Midtown office tower, floor thirty-two. Private client, high discretion. No names. Which is why my heart is still thudding against my ribs as the elevator dings open.
I step into the lobby and freeze. I know that voice.
It hits me like a punch to the chest—smooth, deep, clipped at the edges. Julian’s voice. Laughing. Talking. Alive in this damn building like the past never touched him. And for a moment, I can’t move. My knees threaten betrayal. My lungs forget what they’re supposed to do.
I manage to step forward, the click of my heels echoing like gunshots across the marble. The receptionist looks up.
“Ms. Bryant?” she asks, eyes scanning her screen.
“Yes.” My voice is steady, but only because I’ve trained it to be.
“Mr. Cross is expecting you.”
My stomach turns. No. No, no, no. Julian Cross. It’s really him.
I should walk out right now. Turn around, take the elevator, get back in the cab and fly home to Atlanta. But I don’t. Because I’m not that girl anymore. And because I need to know why.
The door to his office is already cracked open when I reach it.
He’s standing by the window, city light throwing sharp shadows across his frame. Tall. Crisp. Impossibly familiar. Devastatingly handsome. My throat tightens.
“Zahara.” He says my name like a prayer and a curse.
I square my shoulders. “Julian.”
Silence stretches. Thick. Tense. He turns, and I catch the flicker in his eyes—shock, guilt, something darker.
“You didn’t know it was me,” he says. Statement, not question.
“No.”
“I didn’t think you’d come if you did.” He’s right. And he knows it.
My bag slides from my shoulder to the floor. “What is this?”
“We need an audit.” He motions to the table, where a stack of files waits. “I need you to look into some numbers. Offshore accounts. Shipping routes. Quietly.”
“And you thought hiring your ex-girlfriend for that would be the best idea?” I snap.
His jaw tightens. “You’ve always been the best.” The room stills. My heart hammers. I want to scream. I want to run. But I do what I always do—I look at the facts.
He’s hiding something. That much is clear. And I’m already here.
I grab the first file and flip it open, my hands steady even though my blood’s on fire.
“You’ll get your audit,” I say. “But don’t confuse this for forgiveness.” He nods once. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But his eyes say otherwise.

I shake my head, not ready to unwrap old wounds. “I didn’t come here for answers. I came to work. Let’s stick to that.”
He nods, face unreadable. “Fine.”
Julian walks to the desk and pushes the folders toward me. “These are offshore accounts tied to our humanitarian division. Something’s off. Transfers that don’t match product logs. Money disappearing between shell companies. I’ve tried to follow the trail, but someone’s burying it deep.”
I open the top folder. Numbers jump out at me—dates, amounts, coordinates. My comfort zone. My shield.
“Who else knows?” I ask, flipping pages.
“Only Elliot. And now you.”
The mention of his COO tightens something in my chest. Elliot was always loyal to Julian—to a fault. If he's involved, things might be worse than they seem.
Julian watches me like he’s trying to read my mind. “You’ve always seen what others miss.”
I look up slowly. “Maybe. But back then, seeing got me nothing but heartbreak.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. That silence is louder than any apology.
“Where do I work?” I ask.
He gestures down the hall. “You’ll have your own office. No surveillance. No interference. You run this your way.”
I pause, studying him. There’s a tiredness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Fine lines around his mouth. Something hardened. But he still looks too good in that damn suit.
I gather the folders, slipping them into my bag. “I’ll start tomorrow.”
He steps forward, suddenly close. The scent of him—clean, woodsy, dangerously familiar—wraps around me.
“I meant it, Zahara. I need your help. Not because of the past. Because people’s lives might be on the line.”
My chest tightens. He always knew how to say the right thing at the worst time.
“You want the audit?” I say. “You’ll get it. But that’s all you get.”
I turn before he can answer, heels echoing on the marble floor. The elevator doors part, and I step in without looking back.
But as they close, I feel his eyes on me—burning, begging, maybe even bleeding. And damn it, I still feel it, too.