SMOKE AND SILK
891 Words
VELVET HOURS
CHAPTER 4: SMOKE AND SILK
“Some things break without sound. Others explode wearing perfume.”
---
ReTaaj always knew how to command a room.
She wore confidence like silk — tight, shimmering, and impossible to ignore. But even silk clings when it’s wet. And tonight, ReTaaj was drowning.
Jibraan hadn’t returned any of her calls.
Not one.
She tapped through the photos the tabloids had leaked: Jibraan stepping out of his penthouse with a mystery girl.
Rain falling.
Her face hidden in the crook of his neck.
His arm protectively around her.
That girl was Haya.
That mess.
The quiet, awkward ghost that used to trail around campus like she didn’t belong in her own skin.
And now she was in Jibraan’s penthouse?
ReTaaj’s lips curled.
“He’s not yours.”
But her reflection in the mirror — flawless, red-lipped, cruel — whispered back:
> “He was never anyone’s. You just didn’t expect to lose to her.”_
---
Jibraan’s Penthouse
The rain had stopped. But inside, Haya still carried the storm.
She stood at the window barefoot, wrapped in a cashmere throw. Her fingers trembled slightly around the teacup. Her eyes followed the skyline, unblinking.
Jibraan stepped behind her, silent.
“Do you ever wonder,” she whispered, “how far you'd fall if you jumped?”
His breath caught.
She turned her face just enough for him to see her eyes — glassy, aching, strange.
“I don’t mean death,” she continued, almost dreamily. “Just the moment your feet leave the edge. That blur between fear and flying.”
Jibraan’s hand rested gently on her back. “You don’t have to fall again.”
She looked down. “But I already did.”
There was a pause. The city blinked beneath them.
“I got you,” he said softly.
And he did. He always did.
---
ReTaaj’s Apartment
Zarar's voice was like ice over silk.
“She’s with him?”
ReTaaj poured herself a drink, not looking at him. “Living. Breathing. Rebuilding.”
Zarar smirked. “Little bird’s grown feathers.”
ReTaaj turned, sharp. “She’s manipulating him.”
“Or maybe she’s just what he needs.”
Her nails dug into the glass. “She’s a charity case, not a woman.”
Zarar tilted his head. “Then let’s remind him who’s worth showcasing.”
---
Engagement Party – Al Noor Ballroom
The chandeliers sparkled like falling stars. Every surface glistened with wealth, power, and whispers.
ReTaaj descended the staircase in emerald satin, hips swaying, eyes locked on Jibraan across the room.
He wore a black suit. Clean. Dangerous. And beside him stood Haya — draped in soft silver, her hair loose down her back like unraveling thread.
She looked... haunted.
But there was a glow beneath the ache. Something awakening.
And ReTaaj hated it.
She swept across the room, smile poised, voice honeyed.
“Well,” she purred, “you clean up nicely, darling.”
Jibraan’s jaw tensed. “ReTaaj.”
Her gaze flicked to Haya. “You brought... company.”
Haya stepped slightly behind him. The move wasn’t subtle. Or missed.
ReTaaj’s smile tightened.
“Still hiding behind men, I see.”
Jibraan stepped forward. “Back off.”
But the music shifted.
The air did too.
And Zarar walked in.
Tall. Collected. A predator in a tailored suit.
The moment Haya saw him, something shattered.
Her breath caught. Her body stiffened. The room tilted.
He smiled, polite, public.
She dropped her glass.
Crash.
The sound pierced the glamour.
Jibraan turned just as Haya’s legs gave out.
She collapsed, trembling, choking on air.
He caught her.
Her fists pounded his chest. “He’s here. He’s here. I saw him. I saw him again.”
Jibraan held her. “I’ve got you, Haya. Look at me. Just me.”
But she was lost.
“I remember his hand on my face. The light. The smell. I remember—”
People stared.
Phones flashed.
ReTaaj stood frozen, her perfect party unraveling.
Zarar?
He sipped champagne.
Unbothered.
Jibraan glared across the room, rage flooding him.
“You bastard—”
But Haya was screaming now.
Sobbing. Collapsing.
---
Later – The Penthouse
Haya was in the shower. Fully clothed. Water pouring over her like penance.
Jibraan sat on the floor outside the door, fingers tangled in his hair.
He had never seen pain like that.
Not in a scream. Not in a silence.
She came out soaked, barefoot. She stood in front of him like a ghost reborn.
Her voice cracked.
“I’m not normal. I’m broken.”
He looked up, chest hollow. “You’re not broken. You’re surviving.”
She stared at him. “Why do you care?”
He stood. Walked to her. Brushed wet strands from her face.
“Because every time I look at you,” he said, voice trembling, “I see someone who deserved better.”
She flinched.
“And maybe I can’t fix what he took,” he added. “But I can stand between you and anything that tries again.”
Tears spilled.
She didn’t kiss him. Not yet.
But she touched his face.
And for a moment, there was no scream in her chest. No poison in her blood. Just skin. Just breath.
---
END OF CHAPTER 4
SMOKE AND SILK
- Writer
