FATED TO A STRANGERS REGRET

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE MORNING OF FRIED RICE AND FIRST BONDS

The morning light gently filtered through the tall curtains, casting golden streaks across the room. Amara blinked against the sun and sat up slowly in bed, her fingers brushing the sleep from her eyes. Her mind felt quieter than usual—no hospital calls, no mysterious stares from Zayn, no storm of memories from her parents’ grave. Just… calm.

And hunger.

Real hunger.

Since she stepped into the El Amin mansion, she hadn’t truly tasted anything she enjoyed. The food was always well-presented, of course—prepared by top chefs, seasoned delicately—but it lacked that soul, that warmth she knew from home. She missed the taste of her mother’s cooking. The fried rice and chicken her mum always made for her birthday. It wasn’t just food; it was a memory, a feeling, a kind of comfort that even luxury couldn’t replace.

Without waiting for anyone or informing the maids, she slipped into a soft cotton gown, tied her scarf, and walked barefoot down to the kitchen.

The mansion’s kitchen was vast—like a modern palace kitchen in a film. Marble counters, shining utensils, silver-topped spice jars, and an oven that looked too expensive to even touch. But Amara ignored all of that. She was on a mission.

“Mimi,” she called softly, spotting one of the house staff arranging fruits in a bowl.

“Madam Amara?” Mimi turned quickly, surprised to see her at that hour. “Do you need anything? Breakfast is being prepared already.”

Amara gave her a small smile. “Actually, I want to cook. Myself. Would that be okay?”

Mimi blinked. “You want to cook?”

“Yes. Just something small. I promise I won’t set anything on fire.”

Mimi giggled, her surprise turning to amusement. “Of course! I can help!”

Within minutes, Halima joined them too, offering to assist with chopping vegetables and locating ingredients. Amara moved through the kitchen with an ease that surprised even her. She cut, stirred, and seasoned the rice like she was back in her mother’s kitchen—swaying slightly to the tune of a song she sang in her head.

The aroma soon filled the air—rich, nostalgic, mouthwatering.

“Madam, this smells so good,” Halima said, fanning the sizzling pan.

Amara smiled, eyes glistening a little. “My mum used to make this on my birthday. No matter how bad the year had been, this meal always made me feel like everything would be okay.”

Mimi and Halima exchanged a quiet glance and continued working with her, careful to not interrupt her moment.

Once the rice was done and the chicken golden-brown and tender, Amara took her time plating it. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone—it just had to feel like home. She carried everything out to the dining room, where the table was already set with clean, elegant plates and silver cutlery.

She was setting the final spoon down when she heard footsteps from the grand staircase.

Ayla.

Zayn’s younger sister.

The sound of her descending heels was rhythmic and light. She wore a pale-blue robe and her curly hair was loose around her shoulders. Her face lit up when she saw Amara.

“Oh! I was wondering what the smell was. You’re the chef behind this?” Ayla asked cheerfully.

Amara stood a little straighter. “Um… yes. I just wanted to make something I actually liked.”

Ayla chuckled as she approached the table. “It smells like heaven. Need a hand?”

Amara blinked. “You want to help?”

“Why not? I’ve already heard enough pots clanging from upstairs. No way I was staying in bed with that kind of temptation,” she grinned and reached for a bowl of glasses.

They worked side by side to arrange juice and napkins. For a moment, it didn’t feel like mistress and guest. It felt… like two girls preparing brunch at home. Familiar. Easy.

As they sat, Ayla poured orange juice into Amara’s glass and said, “This is the first time I’ve seen someone cook something real in this house. Usually, it’s roasted salmon this, or truffle that. Not saying I hate it—but this? This smells like family.”

Amara gave her a small, shy laugh. “That’s exactly what I was going for.”

“I like you,” Ayla said suddenly. “I wasn’t sure what to expect when Mum told me about you. But you’re not what I imagined.”

“What did you imagine?”

Ayla smiled sheepishly. “A snob. Cold. Someone who saw this place as a trophy. But you feel… different.”

Amara lowered her gaze. “I didn’t come here for trophies.”

“I can tell.” Ayla took a bite of the rice and closed her eyes dramatically. “Wow. This is amazing. You could open a restaurant.”

They laughed.

Ayla went on to talk about her time in London. How she studied creative arts, lived with a host family, made the mistake of falling for a boy with a guitar and a liar’s smile. She talked fast, openly, the way people who trusted too easily sometimes did. But Amara liked it. She listened, responded gently, her laughter a little more genuine each time.

“You know what?” Ayla said, chewing thoughtfully. “I want to take you to London. This Christmas. Just you and me. We’ll go shopping, see the lights, maybe even throw snowballs at strangers. You need a break.”

Amara’s eyes widened. “Christmas?”

“Yeah. You’d love it there. You seem like someone who needs to breathe. I see it in your eyes.”

Amara smiled, touched. “That’s… really kind of you.”

Ayla reached across the table and held her hand. “And I don’t say this lightly—I think we’ll be good friends. You’re safe with me.”

That sentence settled something deep in Amara’s chest. It wasn’t about the promise of London, or even the compliment. It was the fact that, in that massive mansion of quiet halls, secrets, and heavy stares—someone finally said she was safe.

And maybe, just maybe, she believed it.