CHAPTER 22: “Ties and Tensions”

The morning had passed with the quiet rhythm of routine — coffee brewed, clothes folded, gentle conversation lingering in the corners of their shared space. Alaric, as always, was methodical. By 8:30 AM, he'd mentioned, almost offhandedly, that he had a business meeting later that afternoon at a coffee shop inside the mall.

Zayra had paused in the middle of buttoning her cardigan. "Mind if I come with you?" she asked. "I just need to pick something up."

Alaric had smiled that soft, unreadable smile of his — the kind that meant yes, of course without ever needing to say the words.

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Zayra wandered through the mall, weaving between storefronts with no real destination—just purpose wrapped in hesitation.

She wasn't in a rush. In fact, she slowed her steps on purpose, letting her eyes flick over watches behind glass, shoes arranged like artwork, and displays that shouted luxury in fonts she couldn't pronounce. Every store seemed to whisper a question: Is this enough for him? Will this make him smile?

She wanted it to be thoughtful. Something quiet but meaningful. Not grand—Alaric wasn't that kind of man. He didn't need flash. He had a way of making understatement feel powerful. Just like the way he looked at her—calm, assured, no need to prove anything.

She passed a coffee shop, a bookstore, a high-end pen store. Nothing felt right. Her fingers fidgeted at her sides, restless. There was a weight to choosing a gift for someone like him—not because he expected perfection, but because he deserved sincerity.

What do you give a man who has everything… but still listens like you're the only voice in the room?

Her steps slowed again as she turned a quiet corner of the mall. That's when she saw it: the boutique.

Tucked between two larger stores, its glass doors shimmered with understated elegance. No loud signage, no displays screaming for attention. Just a curated calm. A space that spoke in low tones. Sharp lines. Clean textures.

She hesitated, then stepped inside.

The boutique was colder than she expected.

Not in temperature, but in atmosphere — pristine and clinical, the kind of place where everything was white or glass or burnished steel. Suits hung in perfect symmetry like soldiers on parade, silent and imposing. The air smelled faintly of cedarwood and a cologne she couldn't name — clean, expensive, intimidating.

Zayra hesitated just inside the doorway. Her sneakers squeaked faintly against the polished marble floor. A sales associate glanced at her, gave a nod, then disappeared with practiced indifference.

She moved carefully, as if the wrong step might shatter something — not glass, but a mood. Her fingers brushed over a row of ties, all arranged in immaculate rows: silk, satin, grenadine, linen. Every color calculated. Every fabric a whisper of money.

She didn't belong here.

And yet… she was here. For him.

Zayra found herself drawn to one tie in particular — a subtle navy silk, unpatterned but rich in depth. It reminded her of the way Alaric looked when he wasn't trying to impress anyone. Clean. Unapologetic. Strong in ways that didn't need to announce themselves.

She reached for it just as the silence cracked.

"Well, well. What are you doing here?"

The voice was unmistakable — polished, biting, and familiar in a way that made her stomach turn.

Zayra turned slowly. The tie slipped through her fingers.

Melissa Salvador stood a few feet away, arms crossed, posture pristine. She wore a deep emerald dress — unmistakably designer — paired with pearls that seemed less like accessories and more like declarations. Her smile was razor-thin.

"I'm just… looking," Zayra said, steady despite the tremble in her gut.

Melissa's eyes swept over her — blouse, jeans, no-name bag. Her smirk deepened, cruelty barely masked.

"I didn't know this store catered to... middle-class dreams now," she said lightly. "Planning to buy a tie? Or just trying to look like you can afford one?"

Zayra inhaled slowly through her nose. She didn't answer. She wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

"I'm buying a gift," she said, calmly. Quietly. Like she meant it.

Melissa chuckled — not out of amusement, but out of delight at the perceived weakness.

"For who? Someone who doesn't mind cheap sentiment?"

Zayra didn't flinch. Instead, her fingers grazed the silk tie again, this time not with hesitation — but with intention.

Melissa stepped closer. The air thickened.

"You know what your problem is, Zayra?" Her voice dropped, venom coiling beneath every word. "You're still pretending you belong in a world that already spat you out. Mark was too good for you. Everyone knew it. And this new guy, this mystery boyfriend? I'm sure he'll figure it out eventually. They always do."

Still, Zayra said nothing. Not because she agreed. But because Melissa wasn't worth the fire.

But then — the soft ding of a bell.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Confident.

And a voice, smooth as glass and cold as steel — laced with that slight Russian accent that could cut like a knife when he wanted it to:

"Funny. I was under the impression that this store welcomed people who actually have taste."

Melissa's back straightened. Her smirk faltered.

Zayra turned toward the entrance — and her heart lifted, relief rushing in before she could stop it.

Alaric.

He stood framed in the doorway, fresh from his meeting, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that sharpened every line of his tall frame. His ice-blue eyes locked onto Melissa like a wolf spotting weakness.

"Alaric…" Zayra breathed, caught off guard.

But he didn't look at her yet. His gaze remained fixed on Melissa.

"Do you speak to strangers like that often?" he asked coolly. "Or is it only when you feel threatened by women who don't need designer labels to have worth?"

Melissa blinked. "Excuse me—who are you?"

He stepped forward, placing a protective hand on the small of Zayra's back. It was a gesture of possession — not in ownership, but in alliance.

"The man whose birthday she was quietly celebrating," he said. "The man you just insulted without knowing. And the man who finds people like you… utterly forgettable."

Melissa's lips parted, then shut again. Her face turned a slow, unmistakable shade of red.

Alaric turned to Zayra, voice softening instantly. "You, okay?"

She nodded, the tension in her shoulders easing at the sound of his voice. "I just wanted to find something before you came."

He followed her gaze to the tie in her hand — the navy silk still draped loosely between her fingers.

"You found it," he said, and smiled. That rare, unguarded smile that belonged only to her.

Melissa hovered, stunned into silence. But something flickered in her eyes — not anger, not yet. Something worse. Realization. Irrelevance.

She opened her mouth again, but Alaric was already turning back to her.

"You have no idea who I am," she said, low and brittle.

He tilted his head slightly. "You're right," he said. "And now that I've met you… I have no desire to find out."

Zayra stood straighter beside him — not because she needed saving, but because Alaric chose to stand beside her. And that choice mattered more than any retort.

Melissa's breath hitched. She looked at Zayra again — sharp and desperate now.

"You'll regret this," she muttered, though it sounded more like a threat to herself than anyone else.

And then she turned on her heel.

Her heels clacked furiously across the marble floor, and the boutique door swung closed behind her with a finality that felt like closure.

Silence settled.

Alaric let out a breath, then turned fully to Zayra, his hand still warm on her back.

"You didn't deserve that."

Zayra gave a small smile, one part sadness, two parts freedom. "She was Mark's mother," she said. "She never really thought I was enough."

Alaric's eyes met hers, unwavering.

"Then she clearly doesn't know what 'enough' looks like. Because you're more than enough. For anyone. Especially me."

Zayra looked down, bashful. Her fingers tightened around the silk tie.

But Alaric reached out, lifted her chin gently with a single finger.

"And for the record…" he said with a hint of mischief, "...if this is the tie you were hiding from me…"

He plucked it from her hand.

"Let me wear it tonight — for you."

She laughed softly, the sound like warmth after winter. The tension, the shadows — all of it finally melting.

"Happy birthday, Alaric," she said.

He leaned down, his breath brushing her ear.

"It already is."