Chapter 3: The Blackmail
1207 Words
The penthouse’s marble floors mirrored the Dubai skyline below, fractured and distorted like the shards of Alessia’s resolve. Zayn’s pen hovered over the contract, its gold-plated tip catching the light like a dagger.
“Sign,” he repeated, his voice devoid of mercy.
Alessia stared at the photo of Lila, her daughter’s smile a gut-punch of guilt and love. The Swiss clinic’s brochure lay beside it, its glossy pages promising miracles: *Gene therapy. Stem cell trials. 78% success rate.* She’d memorized every word during sleepless nights in hospital waiting rooms, the numbers etched into her soul.
“How did you find her?” she whispered.
Zayn leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. “Did you truly believe you could hide from me? Your daughter’s medical records are a trail of breadcrumbs. A private investigator took two hours.”
The casual cruelty of it stole her breath. “She’s not part of this.”
“She’s *everything*,” he corrected, flipping to a page flagged with a crimson tab. “Clause 4b: Full confidentiality. If you reveal the terms of this arrangement, the funding ceases immediately. Clause 7d: You will reside in my Dubai estate for the duration of our… partnership. Clause 12a: No emotional or physical entanglements beyond public appearances.”
Alessia’s laugh was brittle. “You think I’d *want* to touch you?”
His gaze darkened. “I think you’ll do as you’re told.”
She gripped the edge of the desk, her knuckles whitening. “And if I refuse?”
Zayn nodded to Rashid, who slid a second folder across the table. Inside: grainy CCTV stills of Alessia smuggling expired painkillers from the hotel’s infirmary, a handwritten note from Lila’s doctor (*“Without treatment, she has six months”*), and a deportation order stamped with the Al-Maktoum family seal.
“Your choices are simple,” Zayn said. “Sign, and your daughter lives. Refuse, and I’ll have you both erased from this country by dawn.”
The walls closed in. Alessia’s throat burned with unshed tears. *Lila’s first steps, aided by leg braces. Her shaky drawings of owls and angels. The way she’d whispered, “Don’t cry, Mummy,” during her last seizure.*
“Why me?” she rasped.
Zayn’s mask slipped—just a flicker of something raw, primal. “Because you’re the only woman I’ve ever hated enough to marry.”
The admission hung between them, poisoned and potent.
“Five million upfront,” he continued, clinical once more. “Five million post-divorce. The clinic’s fees covered in full. You’ll want for nothing.”
“Except my freedom.”
“Freedom is a luxury,” he said, “and you, Alessia, are bankrupt.”
She reached for the pen, her hand trembling. The contract blurred. *What if he finds out? What if he takes her?*
“Wait.” Zayn gripped her wrist, his touch scorching. “There’s a final condition.”
He snapped his fingers. Rashid dragged a sobbing woman into the room—*Mariam*, the hotel’s head housekeeper, her face bloodied, uniform torn.
“Mariam has been stealing from me,” Zayn said calmly. “Champagne. Jewelry. A rather ugly vase.”
“Please, sir!” Mariam collapsed to her knees. “My son—he’s sick—”
Zayn drew a pistol from his desk, chambering a round. “You have three seconds to sign, Alessia. Or I’ll paint this room with her loyalty.”
Alessia’s stomach heaved. Mariam had covered her shifts when Lila spiked a fever. Brought her *ma’amoul* cookies during Ramadan.
“Don’t,” she begged.
“One.”
“You’re a monster!”
“Two.”
Mariam whimpered, her prayers mingling with Alessia’s shattered breaths.
*Three.*
“I’ll sign!” Alessia scrawled her name across the parchment, the ink bleeding like a wound. “Let her go!”
Zayn lowered the gun, his smile glacial. “Wise choice.”
Rashid hauled Mariam out, her cries echoing down the hall. Alessia slumped forward, dry heaving.
“You’ll move in tonight,” Zayn said, tossing her a keycard. “The staff will collect your things.”
She hurled the keycard at his face. It glanced off his cheekbone, leaving a faint red mark. “I need to see Lila first.”
“No.”
“She’s *four*, you bastard! She needs me!”
He grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You belong to me now. Every breath, every heartbeat. Your daughter’s survival depends on your obedience. Test me again, and I’ll ship her to an orphanage where you’ll never find her.”
Alessia’s slap rang out like a gunshot.
Zayn caught her wrist mid-strike, his breath hot against her lips. “Careful, *habibti*. You’ll make me think you missed me.”
She spat in his face.
He laughed, wiping his cheek with a silk handkerchief. “I’ll send a jet for the girl. She’ll stay in the east wing—under guard.”
“No!” Panic clawed up her throat. “She can’t be near you! She doesn’t even know—”
“Doesn’t know what?” His eyes narrowed. “That her mother w****d herself to a monster?”
Alessia’s pulse roared. *He doesn’t know. He can’t.*
The intercom buzzed. “Sir, Ms. Al-Farhan is here.”
Zayn released her. “Entertain your future stepmother, Alessia. And remember—smile, or the jet never takes off.”
The doors swung open. Leila Al-Farhan swept in, a viper in Versace. Her gaze raked over Alessia’s stained uniform. “Darling, why is the help still here?”
Zayn draped an arm around Leila’s waist, his thumb brushing the diamond stud at her navel. “Alessia was just leaving.”
Leila’s smile dripped venom. “Run along, little mouse. The adults are talking.”
Alessia fled, Leila’s laughter chasing her down the hall. She stumbled into a service elevator, sliding to the floor as the doors closed.
Her phone buzzed—a video call from Lila’s caregiver.
“Mummy!” Lila’s face filled the screen, her cheeks flushed with joy. “Nurse Amina let me paint! Look!”
She held up a canvas: a stick-figure family—Lila, Alessia, and a black cat they’d fed in the hospital parking lot.
“It’s beautiful, baby,” Alessia choked out.
“When are you coming home?”
*Home.* The word shattered her.
“Soon, *habibti*,” she lied. “Mummy’s… getting a new job. A fancy one.”
Lila’s eyes lit up. “Like a princess?”
Alessia pressed a hand to the screen. “Exactly like a princess.”
The elevator doors opened. Rashid stood waiting, a suitcase at his feet. “Your belongings, madam.”
Inside: Lila’s stuffed owl, its wings patched with duct tape. Alessia clutched it to her chest, the fabric still smelling of hospital antiseptic and baby shampoo.
“The jet leaves at dawn,” Rashid said. “Don’t pack hope. The Sheikh doesn’t permit it.”
As he walked away, Alessia’s phone buzzed again—a message from an unknown number.
**Unknown:** *He’s lying about the clinic. Meet me. I can help.*
A photo followed: Zayn’s lawyer, slumped in a darkened alley, his throat slit ear to ear.
- Writer
