The screams in Zariah's head were silent, but they tore through her mind, filling the quiet darkness of her bedroom. No. Please. Stop. The words were stuck, lost in the terrible grip of the nightmare, just like they had been years ago. Cold sweat glued her silk nightgown to her skin, making her shiver even though the air conditioning kept the room cool. Her heart beat fast and hard against her chest, like a scared bird trapped in a cage, trying to get out.
She sat straight up in her big bed, gasping for breath, her lungs burning as if she'd held her breath for a long time. The room around her was a mix of dark shapes from expensive furniture, a completely different view to the messy, violated world of her dream. Her hand flew to her throat, feeling an invisible grip still there, stealing her air. It was always the same: the fear, the helplessness, the terrifying feeling of being overpowered. It made her stomach twist uncomfortably.
A hot, sudden anger rushed through her veins, pushing away the last bits of fear. How dare it still bother her? How dare those ghosts from a past she had carefully buried come back to hurt her now? She was Zariah Cruz, the owner of an exclusive nightclub, a powerful person in this city. Nothing and no one had power over her. Especially not a memory.
With a low sound, more like an animal than a person, she swung her legs out of bed. Her bare feet sank into the soft, dark gray carpet. She walked quickly towards the sleek, black bar built into the wall, her movements sharp, almost angry. Her hand shook only a little as she reached for the frosted glass bottle of expensive whiskey, the golden liquid shining in the dim light from the hallway.
She poured a good amount into a glass, the ice cubes clinking loudly in the quiet room. The first sip burned, a fiery clean feeling that took away the fear she was feeling. She took another, then another, until the warmth spread through her chest, making her strong feelings less raw. It wasn't about escaping, it was about being in charge. About taking back control from the monster that still dared to appear in her sleep.
Her fingers fumbled for the lighter and a thin cigarette from the clear glass box. The tiny flame lit up, briefly showing the sharp lines of her face, her jaw tight. She breathed in deeply, the strong smoke filling her lungs, a clear act of defiance against the calm of sleep. She breathed out slowly, steadily, watching a white cloud disappear into the cool air, taking her fear with it, or so she hoped. This was her ritual, a serious act done in the quiet hours before morning, after her past always came to attack her.
A soft knock broke the quiet. Zariah tensed up, her hand squeezing the glass harder. She hadn't heard the footsteps. No one was supposed to bother her before 8 AM unless the club was actually on fire.
"Ms. Cruz? Is everything okay?" a voice asked softly through the speaker by the door. It was Darcy, one of her main security guards, loyal and good at his job. He knew her routine, or rather, the routine she showed the world.
Zariah took another long puff from her cigarette, the glowing tip shining brightly in the dim light. She breathed out slowly, watching the smoke curl. "Fine, Darcy," she said, her voice a low, steady sound that showed none of the fear inside her. Her usual strong tone was back, like a shield easily falling into place.
"Understood, Ms. Cruz. Sorry for bothering you." The speaker clicked off.
She gave a short nod to the silent device. A small, tiny twitch of a muscle in her cheek was her only sign of worry. She hated that her inner trouble had shown enough for Darcy to even guess something was wrong. It was a mistake, a crack in the strong front she couldn't show. In her world, showing weakness meant becoming a target.
Finishing her drink, she put the empty glass on the counter with a quiet thud. The cigarette followed, pressed down firmly in an ashtray. The lingering smell of whiskey and smoke in the air was like a comforting blanket, replacing the cold smell of fear.
She walked towards the bathroom, her steps firm and sure now. The big, simple room was a safe place of cool marble and shiny metal. She turned on the shower, letting the water spray in a hot, strong stream. She stepped under it, letting the heat burn her skin, clean her. It was a physical cleansing, a desperate try to wash away not just the sweat and the smell of smoke, but the messy feelings from the nightmare.
As the steam filled the room, making the sharp edges of the mirrors blurry, Zariah began to change. This wasn't just about getting clean, it was about putting on her everyday disguise. Every move was exact, almost like a ceremony. She washed her jet-black hair, the thick strands feeling like a heavy cloak she could never take off. The conditioner was rubbed in, then rinsed, leaving it smooth and ready for its usual tight, controlled bun—a style that showed discipline and that she was hard to reach.
Coming out of the shower, she wrapped herself in a thick, white towel, catching a quick look at herself. Her eyes, usually sharp and intense, still held a faint shadow of sadness. She pushed it away, deep inside, where no one, especially not herself, could find it.
Her skin care routine was very careful, each product put on with precise movements, a layer of protection against the world, both seen and unseen. Then came the makeup: a sharp line of liquid eyeliner that made her gray eyes look even more piercing and stubborn. A touch of simple eyeshadow, a perfect red lipstick, a light contour that made her already strong cheekbones stand out. By the time she was done, the woman looking back from the mirror was Zariah Cruz, the untouchable queen of the night. The "baddie" who owned her world, who feared nothing and no one.
She chose her clothes with the same careful thought: a custom-made black pantsuit that fit her body well, yet looked totally professional and commanding. A crisp white shirt, buttoned all the way up. Every piece was like armor, made to push away, to scare, to keep the world at a distance.
As she put on the diamond earrings, her fingers touched a faint, almost invisible scar behind her left ear, a tiny, physical reminder of a past she never talked about. She quickly pulled her hair up, twisting it into a neat, elegant bun that had no loose hairs. The scar was hidden again, tucked away just like the screams and the fear.
She looked at herself one last time. The woman in the mirror was calm and strong. There was no sign of the shaking, terrified girl who had woken up moments ago. The act was complete. She was ready. Ready to face the day, ready to run her business, ready to keep fighting the shadows of her past. She wouldn't just survive, she would win. And no man, no memory, no nightmare, would ever be her downfall.