IRIS: Fallen for him

CHAPTER THREE

Aziel climbed the stairs slowly, each step dragging behind the next like a sentence being passed. The hallway lights cast long shadows, and every footfall echoed against the like a guilty confession. He paused outside Imani’s door—the door he had walked past for five long years, never once stepping inside.

It was slightly ajar.

He raised a hand and knocked—once. A faint, tentative sound. Almost like he was asking for forgiveness instead of entry.

“May I come in?” he said softly.

No response.

He pushed the door open, guilt crawling up his spine. The room greeted him with a strange familiarity—it felt like a dream he was never invited into. Imani’s sanctuary. An extra-large, sky-blue haven bathed in soft, muted light. The air was tinged with lavender and innocence. Her reading table, by the window, was lined with books, tiny notes, pencils, and a miniature globe. On her shelves, plush toys and art supplies were perfectly arranged. Her closet, an elegant boutique of mirrored doors, held princess gowns, boots, and tiaras arranged by color.

And there she was—curled up in the corner of her bed, a fragile silhouette framed in shadows.

Her lion sketch was clutched in her small hand, the once-fierce crown now smudged and half-erased. Like her courage.

Aziel hesitated. The sight of her this way—tiny, tear-stained, silent—hit him in the gut.

“I didn’t know you liked blue,” he murmured, eyes scanning the room.

Still no response.

He crossed the room and sat on the edge of her bed, keeping a cautious distance. She clutched the sheets tighter as though defending herself.

He glanced at her table. “Aren’t these books too much for you, Imani? I’m speaking to you,” he said, more stern than he meant to—his voice tight from shame.

The silence stretched painfully. A silence that had lasted five years too long.

Then came her voice. Soft. Shaky. Drenched in pain.

“I don’t know you,” she whispered.

Aziel blinked. “W-What?”

She sat up, her small frame trembling, tears streaming freely now.

“Yes… you don’t even know my favorite color,” she choked out, voice rising with every word. “You ignore me like I’m not even your daughter! You don’t come to my birthdays, or my presentations, or Parents’ Day at school…”

Her sobs cracked through the room like thunder. “My friends call me fatherless. And I… I can’t even argue back because it’s true. You’re a stranger. This is the first time you’ve ever stepped into my room.”

Aziel sat frozen. His lips parted, but no words came. What could he say to a child who had waited all her life to be seen?

“Did… did your mummy teach you to say these things?” he asked, grasping at something—anything—to make sense of it.

Imani’s eyes blazed. She snapped, “Don’t talk about my mummy like that! She covers for you. Too much!”

Aziel’s heart shattered.

He rose slowly, wordless, each breath heavier than the last, and walked out. His hand trembled as he reached for the doorknob.

Imani stared after him, eyes glassy. She didn’t call him back.

But outside the door, someone had heard everything—Iris stood frozen, her hand clutched to her chest. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. She had only come to check on them. But her legs refused to move.

Aziel passed her without a word, his face blank. Not even a nod. Just gone.

Iris stepped in.

“Hey, baby,” she whispered, her voice cracking as she rushed to the bed. She wiped Imani’s tears with gentle hands.

“I’m sorry for that. I’m so sorry.”

Imani sobbed harder, curling into her mother’s arms. “I told you he hates me… I told you…”

Iris held her close, rocking her as if she could protect her from every broken promise. Imani cried until exhaustion took over, and only then did Iris lay her down and pull the quilt over her shoulders.

Downstairs, the house had quieted. Dinner was done. The plates had been cleared by someone else. But Iris no longer had any appetite. Her stomach curled in knots of guilt, shame, and grief. She walked into the kitchen, her eyes burning, and began to rinse the already stacked dishes. She focused on the sound of water, trying not to think.

The quiet was broken by a soft creak.

She turned, startled.

“Grandpa,” she said, surprised. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

The old man stood in his robe, leaning gently on his cane. He smiled warmly. “I came to see if you’d eaten.”

She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I have. Just… cleaning up.”

He gave her a knowing look, then walked away slowly. But barely two seconds later—

The air shifted. Cold. Sharp.

Merlida entered.

Iris turned—and froze mid-motion. The scent of her perfume burned in the air.

“You think you can manipulate the old man, huh?” Merlida’s voice was low and venomous. Her heels clicked menacingly across the floor.

“You’re wrong. So wrong.”

Iris stiffened.

Merlida advanced, eyes hard. “Don’t trouble my son. He isn’t your nanny. He has no emotional attachment to that brat of yours.”

Iris’s breath caught. “Please, don’t—”

Merlida slammed a plate on the counter. “If you ever make him lift a finger for your pathetic child again—”

She grabbed a plate and let it fall to the floor.

CRASH.

Iris gasped, her heart skipping.

“Stop, please—”

CRASH.

Another plate. Broken.

“I’ll break every last one of these dishes on your miserable head,” Merlida hissed, her voice trembling with fury. “Don’t think for a second that you belong here.”

Iris stood paralyzed, her back pressed to the sink, trembling as Merlida swept out of the kitchen—half the dishes shattered behind her like glass grenades.

Only the sound of broken ceramic remained.

Iris looked down at the shards, blinking through the tears she could no longer hold back. Her fingers moved numbly as she bent down and began to clean up the mess, each jagged edge a reminder: she was raising a child in a house that did not want her.

And somewhere upstairs, her daughter had cried herself to sleep—convinced that her father hated her.

The house was quiet—too quiet. On the first floor, Grandpa’s soft snoring mingled with Merlida’s engrossed in her night beauty routine.The guest rooms were tucked away in their own cocoon of comfort, untouched by the storm brewing above.

Upstairs, behind the thick, soundproof walls of the master bedroom, Iris stood like a statue—her arms folded, her voice calm, but her heart pounding like war drums.

Aziel had just returned from another failed attempt to connect with Imani, their five-year-old daughter. She had turned away from him, her small body stiff with distrust. And now, he was looking for someone to blame.

“She won’t even look at me,” Aziel spat, pacing like a caged animal. “And you—you’ve poisoned her against me, haven’t you?”

Iris didn’t move. Her voice was steady, but her eyes burned.

“She called you a stranger because that’s who you are. Not because I told her to, but because you chose absence over effort.”

Aziel’s face twisted. Shame clawed at him, but he wore it like armor—deflecting, denying, deflecting again.

“You made me the villain before I ever had a chance. You filled her head with your quiet resentment, your martyr routine.”

“I held her while she cried for you,” Iris said, her voice rising just enough to cut through his delusions. “I begged you to show up. You walked away.”

Aziel’s fury boiled over. In two strides, he was in front of her. His hand shot out, gripping her throat—not hard enough to choke, but enough to threaten.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” he hissed. “You don’t get to make me feel like nothing.”

Iris didn’t flinch. Her voice came out strained but sharp.

“Then be something. Be a father. Not a coward.”

Aziel’s grip trembled. Her words pierced deeper than any scream. He released her, stumbling back as if burned by his own shame.

And then—soft footsteps.

From the hallway, the door creaked open. A small figure stood in the doorway, clutching a stuffed bear. Imani.

She had come to sleep with Iris, as she often did when the air in the house felt heavy. The soundproof walls hadn’t kept out the tension. Children always hear what they’re not supposed to.

“Mommy?” she whispered, her voice fragile.

Aziel turned, his fury draining into something hollow. Imani’s eyes flicked from her mother’s red throat to her father’s trembling hands.

Iris knelt, arms open. Imani ran to her, burying her face in her mother’s chest.

“It’s okay, baby,” Iris whispered, stroking her hair. “Mommy’s here.”

Aziel stood frozen. The silence was louder than any scream. He had become the ghost Iris warned him about.

Imani stood in the doorway, her stuffed bear dangling from one hand, her eyes wide and searching.

> “What was Daddy doing?” she asked softly.

Iris looked up at Aziel, who stood frozen in the middle of the room, his hands limp at his sides, his face pale with the weight of what he’d done.

But she didn’t answer.

Instead, she turned to her daughter, her voice gentle. “Why are you awake, sweetheart?”

Imani hesitated, then whispered, “I want to sleep beside you.”

Iris nodded without a word. She walked to Imani, scooped her up into her arms, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. The little girl wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck, her small body trembling with confusion and quiet fear.

Without another glance at Aziel, Iris carried Imani out of the master bedroom and down the hall to Imani’s room.

The sky-blue walls welcomed them like a soft embrace. Iris laid her daughter down on the queen-sized bed, pulled the handmade quilt over her, and climbed in beside her. Imani curled into her mother’s side, her breathing slowly evening out.

“I love you, Mummy,” she murmured.

“I love you more,” Iris whispered, brushing a curl from her daughter’s cheek.

And just like that, the storm outside their door faded into silence.

Aziel remained in the master bedroom, alone.

No one came to comfort him. No one asked if he was okay. The soundproof walls kept the house quiet—but they couldn’t mute the voice in his head.

He had tried to choke the truth.

Now he had to live with it.