No End to the Start

The next time I saw Zane, I was a cocktail waitress in his bar.
He stepped in smoothly, defusing a tense situation with a drunk customer for me. His presence was an immediate, silencing authority.
Thanks, I said, my voice carefully neutral.
There was no awkwardness, no fumbling shame. Just a polite, professional distance between us. Everything was as it should be.
A moment later, his fingers brushed against mine, his hand closing around my own just like he used to.
"Sweetheart," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that I once lived for. "Do you hate me?"
I gently pulled my hand away.
A small smile touched my lips, but I didn't answer.
Hate him? Not really.
You can't hate someone you no longer love.
My gaze drifted down to his left hand, to the plain band on his ring finger. Noticing my glance, Zane instinctively twisted the ring, his eyes lifting to meet mine.
"Jenna's been... insecure lately. That's why..."
I nodded, showing I understood, and bent to wipe the spilled drink from my uniform. I used the excuse of needing a paper towel to turn away.
Suddenly, a clean, folded handkerchief appeared before me.
"It's new. Use it."
"No, thank you." I rolled up my sleeve calmly, creating more space between us. "I wouldn't want your wife to get the wrong idea."
The movement exposed the terrible, gnarled scars on my forearm. I hesitated for a second, then pulled the sleeve back down. The wounds had been a part of me for years now, sometimes better, sometimes worse. I was used to them. The sight no longer sent me spiraling.
As I turned to leave, Zane blocked my path.
"I have a private room. Come sit for a while."
"I..."
He didn't wait for an answer, his grip firm on my wrist as he pulled me along.
The familiar faces in the VIP lounge froze for a heartbeat when we entered, then quickly resumed their conversations as if nothing had happened. Someone started to pour me a drink.
Zane's hand shot out, covering the glass. "Her stomach's sensitive. Get her a glass of hot water."
A few of his friends chuckled and nudged each other, the teasing banter a well-rehearsed play. They all acted like this was normal, like I still belonged here.
"Thank you, but I'm not thirsty," I said, my voice flat. I stared out the window, a silent spectator to a drama that had nothing to do with me anymore.
Zanes posture stiffened. He turned, grabbed his overcoat from the back of a chair, and draped it over my shoulders.
"It's cold in here. Keep warm."
I shrugged the coat off and stood up. "I don't need it. I have to get back to work."
"Clara," he said, his voice dropping to that low, warning tone. "Do you have to speak to me like this? I'm trying to take care of you."
His tone was quiet, but I knew. He was angry.
Once, that sound would have sent me scrambling to his side, clinging to him, begging for his forgiveness.
But not anymore.
Without another glance, I walked toward the door. This time, the mood in the room shifted instantly. One of his closest friends, a man I'd known for years, stuck out his leg and kicked the back of my knee.
The impact sent a shock of pain up my leg, and I crumpled to the floor.
"Don't be a bitch when you're offered a lifeline," he snarled. "Zane's doing you a favor by not treating you like the trash you are."
Another one chimed in, his voice slick with contempt. "A disgusting slut like you no one would even want you as a mistress."
Zane slowly stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray.
"Sweetheart," he said, the sound chillingly soft. "Are you ready to listen now?"
"Come here."
My body trembled with pain as I used a table to pull myself up. "Mr. Sterling," I said, my voice shaking but clear. "You and I have nothing to do with each other anymore."
The words had barely left my mouth when a glass shattered against the wall behind me. Zane smiled, wiping a drop of blood from his knuckles.
"It seems you still haven't learned your lesson."
His crew closed in, surrounding me. One by one, they took their turns. A kick here, a lit cigarette pressed against my shoulder there. They deliberately tore at my cheap uniform, one of them even using his belt to lash at my back.
I curled into a ball in the corner, the pain so intense I couldn't even scream. Fear, cold and absolute, wrapped around me. It was just like that night. I hugged myself tightly, drowning in a sea of hopelessness.
"Still think you're the Sterling family's little princess, Clara? Look at you. You're as ugly as a toad."
"Got a taste for being a thief, huh? Still trying to crawl into Zane's bed?"
"I heard she's a real screamer for the old execs. I've even got the video on my phone."
One of them grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back. He held his phone in front of my face, the screen glowing with a high-definition video of my own humiliation, forcing me to watch. Again and again.
A wave of nausea rose in my throat, hot and acidic. I curled tighter, burying my face, a broken sob finally escaping my lips.
"That's enough," Zane's voice cut through the haze.
His polished leather shoes stopped inches from my face, right over my heart. He crouched down in front of me. That same overcoat was draped over my shaking body again. His thumb traced the scar on my neck.
"Does it still hurt, sweetheart?"
His calm was terrifying.
I nodded and shook my head frantically, too scared to offer any resistance. A faint smile played on his lips.
"I told you," he whispered, his breath warm against my ear. "You can never escape my grasp."
His eyes, those sharp, elegant eyes, were as cold and merciless as ever. Just like the man himself. Cold heart, cold soul. Why else would he have engineered this, cornering me, forcing me to work in his club? He had tried everything to break me, to make me bow my head to him again.
He was just as indifferent the day he picked me up off the street.
I was an orphan. When I was hungry, I dug through trash cans. When I was tired, I slept under bridges. Until I was ten. I was so small and scrawny I couldn't even fight off a stray dog for scraps. So, in a final act of desperation, I threw myself in front of Zane's car.
He never even got out. His driver just tossed a wad of cash at me. But my leg was badly injured; I couldn't even crawl. All I could do was stare helplessly at the sleek black car.
The next time I woke up, I was in a beautiful, sprawling house. The wounds on my leg had been cleaned and bandaged. Zane told me he was adopting me.
From that day on, he hired tutors to teach me how to read and write. He bought me the most expensive dresses. I couldn't sleep in the strange, new place. I would cry every night.
Hed complain that I was difficult to raise, but then he'd move his entire desk into my room to work through the night.
"You're too loud. Stop crying," he'd say gruffly. Then, softening his tone, he'd add, "Be good and go to sleep. I'll take you out to play tomorrow."
On the nights I was truly terrified, he would put his work aside and read me stories until I fell asleep.
In those years, everyone said I was his little princess, spoiled rotten. They joked that with my temperament, no one would ever dare marry me. Zane would just laugh, pulling me into his arms.
"Then we won't get her married. I'll take care of her forever."
I don't know if that was love, but in that moment, my heart beat so fast I thought it would burst.
Later, I heard he was entering an arranged marriage. I hid in my room for three days, my heart shattered. A week later, the engagement was called off. I couldn't help but ask him.
"Why did you call it off?"
He chuckled softly. "You cried like this over a rumor. If I actually married her, would you cry for the rest of your life?"
I turned my head away, embarrassed. "I did not."
He didn't argue, simply pulling me onto his lap. "Alright, you didn't. But you scared my wife away. Shouldn't you give me a new one? I'm thirty, Clara. I can't be single forever, can I?"
I stammered, completely flustered. A smile played in his eyes.
"I guess I'll just have to wait for my Clara to grow up and be my wife."
I was eighteen that year.
I didn't say no.
After that, there were no other women in his life. He treated me better than I could have ever imagined. I thought I was the luckiest person in the world.
But that devotion lasted only two years.
On my twentieth birthday, Jenna showed up at our door, crying, saying she had nowhere to go. She was five years older than me and the first person to show me kindness when I first arrived. We had become the best of friends. She had gotten married when I was eighteen. I asked her why so young. She said it was an arranged marriage by her family. As an illegitimate daughter, she had no choice.
My heart ached for her. I had Zane prepare the most lavish dowry for her wedding. I just wanted her to be happy.
Two years later, her husband died, and his family threw her out. Her own family refused to take her back.
So I brought her home. I begged Zane to let her stay.
He sighed, tapping my head gently. "You're so naive. One day you'll be sold and you won't even realize it. Do you think the Sterling estate is a charity? Taking in every stray?"
I looked at him with pleading eyes. He finally, reluctantly, agreed.
Jennas clothes were rags, her body covered in bruises. My heart broke for her. I held her, my eyes welling with tears.
"It's okay, Jenna. From now on, this is your home. You're going to be happy here."
And she was.
She happily took over my entire life.
After moving in, Jenna was too timid to go out. She spent her days in the kitchen, cooking up elaborate meals. Zane wouldn't touch them at first, but eventually, he started offering a compliment or two. Then, on a whim, they had a cook-off. When he lost, he bought her a gift as an apology. Soon, he was asking her to cook special meals and bring them to his office.
I was genuinely happy for her, thinking she was finally coming out of her shell.
Until the day he bought her the entire new collection of dresses I had been dreaming about for months. He didn't save a single one for me. I was a little upset; after all, I'd been talking about them for so long.
"She hasn't had any new clothes since she got here," he said. "Don't be petty about these things. Besides, there are other dresses. Don't be so childish."
I looked at Jenna's meek, apologetic expression and felt a pang of guilt. Maybe I was being small-minded. I started encouraging Zane to take her to parties, helping her pick out clothes. She began to shed her timidity, clinging to Zane and asking if she looked pretty, begging him for silly little gifts.
I shared my deepest secrets with her. I told her I was going to marry Zane, that he was the best man in the world. She would smile and say how wonderful that was. She said she wanted to be my best friend forever. She said she hoped I would be happy for the rest of my life. She joked that at our wedding, she'd be my maid of honor for life and demand her own table at the reception. We even huddled under the covers one night, picking out names for my future children. I laughed and promised her anything, my mind already racing with ways to find her a wonderful husband of her own.
Until that night. I heard noises from Zane's room, the distinct sound of a woman's voice.
"Wow, you're really energetic tonight."
"Well, you were the one saying I was getting old the other day. Tired now? Get some sleep."
I pushed the door open and froze.
Clothes were scattered across the floor. Jenna was lying in his arms. The telltale marks of passion were all over them.
"What are you doing?" My hand, gripping the doorknob, started to tremble.
No one spoke. Zane carefully helped Jenna into one of his own dress shirts. The sight seared itself into my brain. I lunged at Jenna, my hand raised to strike.
"Jenna! You were my best friend!"
Before the slap could land, Zane kicked me. I fell to the floor as he wrapped Jenna tightly in the duvet, his eyes guarded and cold.
"Clara, if you're done with your tantrum, close the door on your way out. Jenna's sensitive. If you scare her, she'll be up crying all night."
He didn't even grant me a single glance of remorse.
I scrambled up, insane with grief, and tried to pull Jenna away from him, scratching at him wildly. "Why! Why would you do this to me! What about me?"
He pinned both my wrists above my head with one hand, his voice laced with impatience. "I never said I wasn't going to marry you. What are you so angry about? A man in my position can't have just one woman. Besides, she's your friend. You two should get along."
Jenna crawled toward me, sobbing. "Clara, I was just so jealous of you. I love Zane so much too. I'll be the other woman, I don't need a title. I'll serve you both. Just please don't send me away. Zane is just so gentle in bed I couldn't bear to leave him."
I yanked my hands free, a chill spreading through me. The other woman? Serve me?
I destroyed everything in the house. Smashed it all to pieces. Zane just watched, a cold expression on his face, as if observing a lunatic.
I replaced all the files in his work email with their private photos and blasted them across the internet. I invited my friends out constantly, telling them every sordid detail of his affair. Eventually, they stopped coming. Then, they turned on me.
"Disgusting!"
"You're sick!"
"It was bad enough that she was hoarding Zane's old clothes, but now she's digging his used condoms out of the trash? What, trying to get pregnant? I never knew you were so shameless."
My own friends took turns slapping me across the face.
Then came a text from Zane.
Sweetheart, you shouldn't have provoked her.
I returned to the house, hollowed out. My art studio had been converted into Jenna's walk-in closet.
Zane stroked my hair. "If you don't behave, I can't guarantee what will happen next. Jenna is fragile. She can't stand to hear a bad word said about her."
So I had to be the one in the wrong. He had always known I kept one of his shirts. Back then, he'd told me I could have boxes of them if I wanted. Now, to protect Jenna's reputation, he was willing to slander me, to make me out to be some desperate, pathetic creature.
I dropped my shoulders in defeat, closing my eyes. I deliberately kept my distance from him.
I poured everything I had left into a design competition. The next day, Jenna submitted the exact same designs. The organizers were in a difficult position.
"Given the circumstances, perhaps we should reschedule..."
"That won't be necessary." Zane strode onto the stage, his eyes landing on me like a physical blow. "I can testify that Clara was the one who plagiarized."
The room erupted.
"I can't believe she's that kind of person!"
"Figures. No morals, no talent. Just a useless leech."
"Mr. Sterling is a saint for keeping her around."
I looked up at Zane. He leaned in close, his voice a venomous whisper. "Sweetheart, ignoring me has consequences."
So, it was him again.
I stumbled backward.
"Give Jenna justice!" someone shouted from the crowd. People surged forward, grabbing at me. Someone threw a liquid. It splashed across my neck and down my right arm.
A searing, unbearable pain shot through me.
"Clara!"
Through a haze of agony, I saw him rush to my side, holding me as if I were the most precious thing in the world.
I woke up in a hospital. Alone. A bowl of cold congee sat on the nightstand.
Online, the story of their epic love was going viral. Jenna wanted to study design, so he called in a once-in-a-lifetime favor to get her an apprenticeship with a modern master. Even when she was rude, even when she publicly insulted her mentor, even when she treated everyone like a fool, Zane protected her fiercely.
He made a public statement. "Jenna is the woman I love. Please don't hold her actions against her. She's had a difficult past. I hope you can all be kind to her."
Of course. It was that easy for her.
I had begged him for years for a similar introduction. He had told me I had to rely on myself, that no one would teach me if I didn't have the talent. He wouldn't even arrange a dinner meeting for me. Now, to legitimize the woman he loved, he forced Jenna's family to formally acknowledge her, turning her into a proper heiress overnight.
He never came to see me. Our only interaction was when his assistant came to force me to sketch designs for Jenna's competition portfolio. When I refused, they stopped my medication. The pain from the burns was unbearable. In that small hospital room, I drew day and night, redoing sketches over and over based on Jenna's one-word critiques until my hand cramped so badly I could no longer hold a pen.
I was in agony, half-dead in that hospital bed. I finally gathered the strength to call him. I could hear them in the background. Jenna's laughter. They were eating, sleeping, watching movies. He was so in love with her.
Her design, my design, won the competition. They thanked each other publicly, flaunting their love online. It had nothing to do with me.
The day I was discharged, he came to pick me up. The burns had left a hideous patchwork of scars from my neck down my arm. He helped me into the car as if nothing had happened. He asked if I was done with my tantrum. His tone was light, as if he were asking what I wanted for dinner.
When I didn't speak, he gently kissed my hand. "Jenna had it rough for so many years. I just want her to be happy. You said she was pitiable too, didn't you? I raised you, Clara. Be the bigger person and let her have this, okay?"
I closed my eyes, my chest constricting with a pain that had nothing to do with my burns. I couldn't hear a word he was saying. He held me close, humming an old lullaby from my childhood.
"But Zane," I whispered, "I have nothing left. And I didn't do anything wrong."
He froze for a second, his brow furrowed. "But you're still living at the estate. What more could you want?"
I couldn't control it anymore. I slapped him, hard. "Zane! You know how hard I worked! You destroyed my career! My reputation! My future! All of it, just like that."
And my love.
He sighed, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. "That's all superficial nonsense. Why do you care so much about that? That's not what life is about."
I burst out laughing, a hysterical, body-wracking sound. Not what life is about? Then why did he fight so hard to give Jenna a title? Why did he get her a master mentor and a prestigious award? When it came to me, it was ambition, greed. But in just a few short months, I was utterly exhausted.
Zane wiped the tears from my face. "Okay, calm down. If you really want those things, I'll make it up to you later."
He dropped me off, called Jenna to let her know he was on his way to the office, and then kissed my lips.
He didn't come home that night, or the next.
One evening, I was curled up with my cat on the porch swing, watching the sunset. He appeared, looking weary from a long trip. He was holding a ring box. He knelt before me and asked if I would still marry him.
It was the ring we had designed together last year. We had been too busy to pick it up. Now, it was right in front of me.
I looked down at my scarred, slightly misshapen fingers. I didn't speak. I just nodded slowly.
His face lit up as he slid the ring on. It was too big now. It slipped off and rolled somewhere into the darkness. But he didn't care. He cupped my face in his hands. "My sweet, good girl." He wrapped his arms around my waist. "Sweetheart Jenna has a business associate I need you to entertain him tonight."
"What did you just say?" I thought I had misheard.
Zane rubbed his temples wearily. "She just went back to her old company and wants a promotion, but she won't let me help. Her boss has a thing for beautiful women. She's too timid to go herself she cried in my arms all night about it. You're not doing anything right now. Just go help her out."
For the first time, the man in front of me seemed utterly disgusting.
I pushed him away and tried to run. He grabbed me.
"You won't go? Then the cat in your arms..."
He was threatening me. With the cat he had bought for me.
Seeing me freeze, he smiled.
I stood there like a doll while he dressed me in a beautiful gown and did my makeup. He led me by the hand and delivered me to that door.
He said when I came out, hed be there to pick me up. To take me home to get married.

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