Chapter 3
444 Words
The next time Zariah saw Malik, it wasn’t at the garage.
It was at the underground art gallery in the industrial district—a place where the walls bled color and pain, where emotions weren’t polished but raw. She wasn’t supposed to be there. Her father would’ve called it “beneath her.” But Zariah didn’t care.
She wore black—leather jacket, combat boots, smoky eyeliner. No diamonds. No smile. Just shadows.
Malik was there in a dark grey hoodie, leaning against a pillar with a drink in hand. His eyes locked with hers the second she entered.
Neither looked away.
She walked up slowly. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Same,” he replied. “Thought you only hung out in rooftop lounges and penthouses.”
“Even royalty gets bored of glass towers.”
Malik chuckled. “And what brings the Ice Queen to the slums?”
She tilted her head. “Looking for something real.”
A pause. A moment.
“You cold?” he asked suddenly.
She blinked. “What?”
He pulled off his hoodie and held it out.
Zariah stared at it, then at him.
No one had ever offered her something so… small. So normal. Not silk or luxury—just a worn hoodie that smelled like engine oil and sunshine.
She slipped it on without a word.
The night unfolded in colors. They stood side by side, watching art speak through graffiti and light. Zariah asked questions about the paintings. Malik shared opinions like he wasn’t afraid to disagree with her.
She liked that.
At some point, she leaned her head on his shoulder. No cameras. No expectations. Just two people trying to escape their worlds.
“You ever think we’re just pretending?” she asked softly.
“Pretending what?”
“That we’re not lonely.”
He looked down at her, eyes unreadable.
“I don’t pretend,” he said.
Zariah didn’t answer. Her silence said more than words ever could.
When she got home, her father was waiting.
Desmond Cole’s voice sliced through the dark. “Where were you?”
“Out.”
“Doing what?”
“Living.”
His jaw clenched. “You have responsibilities, Zariah. Your engagement—”
“I’m not marrying a man who sees me as a trophy.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
She met his eyes. “I do. I’m just not afraid to use it anymore.”
He didn’t speak as she walked past him.
Upstairs, in her room, she curled up in Malik’s hoodie and stared out the window.
Maybe the queen was melting.
But not fast enough.
- Writer
