Chapter 12: The Aftermath
1643 Words
One Year After The Contract
The paper was ash.
But we were still here.
Day 181.
I woke up and didn’t count the days.
For 180 days, I counted.
Every morning.
Every night.
Day 1. Day 2. Day 180.
Today…
I didn’t count.
Ayaan was already awake.
Making coffee.
In the kitchen.
Not in a suit.
In grey sweatpants and a white tee.
He looked… human.
“Morning,” he said, without turning.
He always knew when I was there.
“Morning,” I said.
He handed me a mug.
Black coffee. No sugar.
Exactly how I liked it.
He remembered.
Day 185.
We went to see Aarav.
He was out of the hospital.
Home.
Sitting on the couch.
Reading a book.
He looked up.
Saw me.
And smiled.
“Zara,” he said.
I ran.
I hugged him so hard he coughed.
“You’re okay,” I cried.
“You’re really okay.”
“I am,” he said.
“Because of you.”
Ayaan stood at the door.
Hands in pockets.
Watching us.
Aarav looked at him.
Over my shoulder.
“Thank you,” Aarav said.
“For her.”
Ayaan nodded once.
Slow.
“Take care of your sister,” he said.
“Brother.”
The word hung in the air.
Brother.
Not boss.
Not CEO.
Brother.
Day 190.
Victoria called.
One last time.
Her lawyers.
Her threats.
Her lies.
Ayaan took the call in his office.
Alone.
He came back at midnight.
Tired.
But calm.
“It’s over,” he said.
“They dropped the case.”
“What did you say to them?” I asked.
“The truth,” he said.
“That you’re my wife.
That I love you.
And if they come for you again,
I will bury them.”
He said it without anger.
Without threat.
Just fact.
Day 195.
We left the penthouse.
That cold, glass, silent place.
Where I signed a contract.
Where I cried alone.
Where I learned to be afraid.
We bought a house.
White walls.
Wooden floors.
Big windows.
A garden.
Zara walked in.
Looked around.
And said, “Home.”
Ayaan bought it that day.
Cash.
Day 200.
I opened my laptop.
For the first time in months.
Not to survive.
Not to write for money.
To write for me.
My story.
Our story.
Ayaan saw me typing.
He didn’t ask.
He didn’t interrupt.
He just brought me tea.
And sat beside me.
Reading over my shoulder.
“You’re good,” he said.
“Really good.”
“Better than you?” I teased.
“Never,” he said.
“But close.”
Day 210.
Evelyn moved in next door.
“To keep an eye on you,” she said.
But she brought food.
Every day.
Soup. Bread. Cake.
She brought noise.
Laughter.
Life.
The house was never quiet again.
And I didn’t want it to be.
Day 220.
Ayaan missed a board meeting.
“What?” I said.
“You never miss meetings.”
“You had a nightmare,” he said.
“You were screaming in your sleep.
Calling for your brother.
I wasn’t leaving you.”
He held me till morning.
No sleep.
No phone.
Just me.
Day 230.
I threw up.
Morning.
Again.
Ayaan found me in the bathroom.
Pale. Shaking.
He didn’t say anything.
He just held my hair.
Cold towel on my neck.
“Zara,” he said.
“Are you…?”
I nodded.
Tears.
He went still.
Very still.
Then he dropped to his knees.
Right there on the bathroom floor.
He pressed his forehead to my stomach.
“Hello,” he whispered.
“My baby.”
He cried.
Ayaan Blackwell.
The ruthless CEO.
Cried.
Day 240.
We told Aarav.
He screamed.
“I’m gonna be an uncle!”
He hugged Ayaan.
Hard.
Ayaan patted his back.
Awkward.
But real.
Day 250.
Baby shower.
Small.
Just us.
Evelyn cried.
Aarav gave a speech.
I cried.
Ayaan didn’t let go of my hand.
Not for 3 hours.
Not once.
Day 260.
She was born.
11:11 PM.
7 pounds, 3 ounces.
Loud. Angry. Perfect.
Ayaan cut the cord.
His hands shook.
He held her first.
“My daughter,” he said.
Voice breaking.
He looked at me.
Tears on his face.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For choosing me.”
Day 270.
We came home.
All three of us.
No contract.
No terms.
No price.
Just a baby.
A father.
A mother.
Just a family.
Day 300.
My book published.
“Sold To The Ruthless CEO.”
It hit #1 on StayWriting in 48 hours.
Reviews said,
“Raw.”
“Honest.”
“Healing.”
Ayaan framed the first copy.
Above our bed.
Under it, he wrote in pen:
“She signed for her brother.
She stayed for love.
She won.
And so did I.”
Day 330.
Zara smiled.
For the first time.
At him.
Ayaan froze.
Like time stopped.
“Did you see that?” he whispered.
“Did you see?”
“Yes,” I cried.
He took a photo.
Framed it that night.
Day 350.
We planted a tree.
In the garden.
For Zara.
Ayaan dug the hole.
I held Zara.
Aarav poured water.
“Ten years,” Ayaan said.
“We open it then.”
A time capsule.
Letters.
Photos.
A piece of the old contract.
Burned edges.
“To remember,” he said.
“Where we started.”
Day 365.
One year.
No contract.
No devil.
No fear.
Zara was crawling.
Ayaan was chasing her.
On his knees.
Laughing.
Loud.
I watched them.
Coffee in hand.
This was the life I signed for.
Not the paper.
This.
Ayaan looked up.
Saw me watching.
“Forever?” he asked.
“Forever,” I said.
The sun set.
The house was warm.
The contract was gone.
The man stayed.
And we were home.
Day 366.
Night.
Zara asleep between us.
Big bed.
Messy.
Ayaan’s arm around me.
“Zara,” he whispered.
“Hmm?”
“If I could go back,” he said.
“To Day 1.
I’d still tear the contract.”
“Even on Day 1?” I asked.
“Especially on Day 1,” he said.
“Because you were never meant to be owned.”
He kissed my forehead.
“I want a life with you,” he said.
“Not a contract.”
“Then we have it,” I said.
We lay in silence.
No deadline.
No terms.
No fear.
Just us.
Just home.
Just forever.
Day 366.
Night.
Zara asleep between us.
Big bed.
Messy.
Perfect.
Ayaan’s arm around me.
Heavy.
Warm.
Safe.
“Zara,” he whispered.
“Hmm?”
“If I could go back,” he said.
“To Day 1.
I’d still tear the contract.”
“Even on Day 1?” I asked.
“Especially on Day 1,” he said.
“Because you were never meant to be owned.”
He kissed my forehead.
Soft.
Long.
“I want a life with you,” he said.
“Not a contract.”
“Then we have it,” I said.
We lay in silence.
No deadline.
No terms.
No fear.
Just us.
Just home.
Just forever.
Month 13.
Zara crawled.
Fast.
Straight to Ayaan.
He was on a call.
Billion dollar call.
She pulled his pant leg.
He stopped mid-sentence.
“Hold,” he told the board.
Hung up.
Picked her up.
“Sorry,” he said to me.
“She’s more important.”
Month 14.
First tooth.
She bit him.
Ayaan yelped.
Then laughed.
Hard.
“She’s a Blackwell,” he said.
“Fierce.”
Month 15.
We traveled.
Maldives.
Zara in a tiny swimsuit.
Ayaan on her shoulders.
A tourist said, “Mr. Blackwell?”
He looked up.
Smiled.
“Not today,” he said.
“Today I’m just a dad.”
Month 16.
I started writing again.
Not for money.
For me.
Ayaan read every page.
At night.
After Zara slept.
“You’re honest,” he said.
“That’s why people love you.”
Month 17.
Evelyn said, “You need a break.”
Ayaan booked a cabin.
Mountains.
No wifi.
No phone.
Just us.
Three days.
We talked.
We laughed.
We slept.
For 12 hours.
Month 18.
Zara said “da.”
Ayaan froze.
“Again,” he whispered.
“Da da,” she said.
He dropped to his knees.
Held her.
“I’m your da,” he said.
“I’m your da.”
He cried.
Again.
Month 19.
My book hit #1.
StayWriting sent flowers.
Ayaan put them in the kitchen.
“Because you live here,” he said.
“Not in an office.”
Month 20.
Aarav moved in.
For a month.
To help.
He taught Ayaan how to change diapers.
Ayaan was terrible.
We all laughed.
Month 21.
Zara got sick.
Fever.
39 degrees.
Ayaan didn’t sleep for 48 hours.
Cold towel.
Tea.
Songs.
Bad songs.
She got better.
He slept for 14 hours straight.
Month 22.
We threw away the old contract.
All of it.
Burned it.
In the garden.
Ayaan watched it burn.
“Good,” he said.
“Let it burn.”
Month 23.
Christmas.
First one.
As a family.
Zara’s tree.
Tiny ornaments.
Her name on them.
Ayaan put the star on top.
Zara on his shoulders.
“Higher,” she giggled.
Month 24.
One year later.
No contract.
No devil.
No fear.
Zara was walking.
Talking.
Living.
Ayaan was home.
Every night.
No late meetings.
No travel.
Me?
I was writing.
Loving.
Living.
Night.
Zara between us.
Asleep.
Ayaan’s hand in mine.
“Forever?” he asked.
“Forever,” I said.
The sun set.
The contract was ash.
The love was real.
The devil was gone.
The man stayed.
And we were home.
The End.
For real this time.
Forever.
- Writer
