CHAPTER FIVE : A CRACK IN THE ICE
1083 Words
It's 11am.
Zayn hadn’t meant to go to her room.
He’d paced the halls of the El-Amin mansion longer than he cared to admit, the tray in his hand still warm from the kitchen. The staff had offered to deliver the meal ; they always did but something tugged at him tonight, something quieter than guilt and louder than reason.
He told himself he only wanted to make sure she ate.
That was all.
When he reached her door, he hesitated. For a full five seconds, he stood there, staring at the polished wood like it might snap at him. Then he pushed it open.
What he saw rooted him to the floor.
Amara was sitting on the rug by the bed, her legs folded beneath her, her arms loosely hugging her middle. Her eyes were puffy, rimmed red, and although no tears were falling at that moment, her face betrayed the truth ; she’d cried. A lot.
The silk of her nightdress clung to her slightly hunched frame, and her hair was messy, tangled with tension. Her phone was lying across, the screen broken as though she’d thrown it down without caring where it landed.
Zayn blinked. His first instinct was to retreat. This ; this vulnerability ; it cracked something in him. But then she looked up.
And she didn’t flinch.
He stepped inside slowly, closing the door behind him. The tray in his hand trembled slightly, but he forced his grip to stay steady.
“You haven’t eaten,” he said softly.
Amara didn’t answer. Her lips pressed together, her eyes distant. But she didn’t look away.
Zayn dropped the tray on a nearby table and walked toward her, then ; without thinking ; lowered himself to the floor beside her.
They sat in silence for a beat.
Then two.
Then she whispered, “They called.”
Zayn turned to her, brows slightly drawn. “Who?”
“The hospital.” Her voice broke at the edges, but she didn’t cry. “They said… the surgery failed. My brother …” She stopped, blinking fast. “He’s going to need another one. But his body is weak. They’re not sure if he’ll survive it.”
Zayn swallowed hard.
He hadn’t known this part. The deal had been about bills, surgeries, money ; yes. But the risk? The constant knife-edge between hope and grief? That wasn’t in the contract, even though it's supposed to be something more but not something miserable.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She gave a bitter little smile. “Everyone says that.”
He looked at her then, really looked at her. Her eyes ; still glossy from tears ; were wide and dark, heavy with pain but still holding something defiant. She wasn’t fragile, not exactly. She was just… tired. Stretched thin by too much responsibility. Too much loss.
He hated that he understood it.
“You love him a lot,” he said, more a statement than a question.
“He’s the only family I have left.”
Zayn looked away.
He just wanted to be there for her. The guilt from his past had been a silent burden, gnawing at him day and night. Now that fate had given him a second chance—to do something right, to make amends—he couldn’t look away. But watching her carry so much pain, shouldering more than anyone her age should, broke something in him. It wasn’t just guilt anymore; it was sorrow, deep and consuming, for the girl forced to be stronger than she should.
“You know,” he said quietly, “when I was younger, I used to sit outside for hours, just to hear the sound of water. I didn’t swim back then. I just liked how calm it made everything feel.”
Amara turned to him, blinking. “You like water?”
He nodded. “Still do.”
A ghost of something ; not quite a smile ; touched her lips. “Me too,” she murmured. “I always felt like… I could breathe better near water.”
Their eyes met, and for a moment, the air between them shifted. It wasn’t romance. Not yet. But it was connection.
It was the beginning of something.
“What else?” Zayn asked, his tone gentle now, almost coaxing. “What else makes you feel calm?”
Amara hesitated. “I like painting. Just… small things. On paper. I used to do it with my brother, when we were younger. He’s actually better than me.”
Zayn smiled ; not with his lips, but with his eyes. “I can’t paint to save my life.”
She chuckled, the sound quiet but real.
“I like rainy nights too,” she added. “And old music. The kind that makes you feel like you’re dreaming.”
Zayn listened, soaking in every word like a starving man. “I like those things too,” he admitted. “Especially the dreaming part.”
She looked at him, softer now, the edge of her pain dulled just a little.
He didn’t realize he’d reached out until his hand was already brushing a strand of hair from her face. The touch was featherlight, but it made her eyes widen ; not in fear, but surprise.
“I’ll talk to the doctors,” he said. “We’ll do whatever it takes. He’s going to be okay.”
Tears welled up in her eyes again, but this time, they didn’t fall. She just nodded, clutching her hands tighter.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Zayn stood slowly and walked to the tray, picking it up. “Try to eat something,” he said. “Even just a little.”
She nodded again.
He opened the door and turned to glance at her one more time.
The girl sitting on the floor was no longer just a contract he signed out of guilt, no longer a chance to fix what had already been broken, and no longer a shadow of the girl he once lost. She had become something else entirely—something real, something painful, something beautiful. She was not a second chance or a replacement. She was her own storm, her own sorrow, her own light. And for the first time, he truly saw her.
And somehow, Zayn found himself drawn in ; like a moth to fire.
He didn’t say another word.
He just left ; quietly, his heart heavier than when he came.
- Writer
