CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: THE FLAME AND THE FOG
1145 Words
The sun filtered gently through the tall windows of the El Amin dining room, casting golden lines across the polished table. The aroma of fried rice and grilled chicken lingered like a promise in the air, wrapping the space in something almost homely.
Amara sat at the far end of the long table, Ayla beside her, both with plates in front of them and laughter on their tongues. It felt… odd to be laughing again, even softly. But Ayla had a way of pulling joy out of shadows.
“So then I told the waiter, ‘Sir, if you bring me one more burnt pancake, I will personally fly back to Nigeria and find your manager!’” Ayla said, dramatically waving her fork. “And guess what? He brought me waffles instead.”
Amara chuckled, her fingers gently curling around her water glass. “That’s not how complaints work.”
“It is in London,” Ayla grinned. “Especially when you’re cranky and jetlagged.”
The clack of slow footsteps made Amara glance up. Zayn was descending the stairs. His shirt was cleanly pressed, sleeves rolled just enough to show the veins on his arms, his dark hair slightly tousled as if he’d run his fingers through it. Quiet, as always. Observing everything.
His eyes found Ayla first, then moved—just briefly—to Amara. His expression didn’t change, but something unreadable flickered there before he crossed the room.
“I knew you’d be here,” he said, voice low and smooth, addressing Ayla.
“You always act surprised,” she replied, without turning.
Zayn’s gaze shifted again to Amara. His next words were barely above a murmur. “Don’t let her take you from me.”
Amara stiffened slightly, her fork pausing halfway to her mouth. She looked at him, confused. “Yes,” she replied, quiet. But her voice carried a note of disturbance she didn’t bother to hide.
Take me from him?
What did that mean?
The question clung to her, sticky and intrusive.
Zayn sat beside Ayla, not directly across from Amara but close enough that she could feel the weight of his presence. He didn’t reach for food or drink. Just sat there, elbows lightly resting on the table, gaze unreadable.
“How did you sleep?” he asked Ayla, voice low.
“Like a queen,” she replied, grinning. “Though this place still makes strange noises at night. Hasn’t changed a bit.”
Zayn said nothing to that. He didn’t smile, but Amara thought—just for a second—that his shoulders softened.
“And mom?” he asked.
“She’s in her room,” Ayla answered, mouth half-full. “She already went for her jog. Came back, showered, and now she’s in full business mode. I think she’s taken like seven calls already this morning.”
Zayn gave a small nod. That was typical of kaima El Amin.
Amara kept her head down, quietly finishing what was left of her food, though her ears remained tuned to their conversation. Ayla’s voice carried easily, the kind of voice that was born to talk, to lead.
“She’s planning a gala,” Ayla went on, clearly excited. “Not the usual networking nonsense either. This one’s for something real.”
Amara looked up now, interested despite herself.
“A gala?” she asked.
Ayla smiled, brushing invisible crumbs from her lips. “Yes! To launch her new project—The Phoenix Initiative.”
Zayn didn’t react outwardly, but he tilted his head slightly.
Amara blinked. “What’s that?”
“It’s a program she’s been developing secretly for months,” Ayla said, her tone now more serious. “Focused on women—especially those who’ve survived domestic abuse and lost everything. Homes. Careers. Confidence. The Phoenix Initiative will give them a chance to start over.”
Amara sat up straighter.
“It’ll provide therapy, job training, legal aid, and housing support,” Ayla continued. “Everything a woman needs to get back on her feet. To rise from the ashes. Hence the name—Phoenix.”
Amara’s heart thudded, touched in a way she hadn’t expected. “That’s… powerful.”
“I know,” Ayla nodded. “She’s been so focused on it. Said it’s the most important thing she’s done in years. The gala next weekend will introduce it to the world and raise funds. Big sponsors are coming. Journalists, celebrities, diplomats. You name it.”
Zayn finally spoke again, just a single word: “Fitting.”
Ayla looked at him, then nodded. “Especially with everything that’s happened…”
Her voice trailed off, and Amara noticed the brief glance the siblings exchanged—silent, heavy with things unspoken.
“Will I be allowed to attend?” Amara asked, almost unsure why the question mattered so much.
Zayn’s eyes met hers, steady but unreadable. Before he could respond, Ayla chimed in.
“Of course!” she beamed. “You’re one of us now.”
That word—us—hit Amara harder than it should’ve.
She tried to smile but didn’t quite make it. The dining room, so bright a moment ago, suddenly felt colder.
Zayn’s gaze lingered on her for a second longer than necessary. He said nothing, just looked… until she dropped her eyes.
The silence stretched a little too long before Ayla jumped in again, saving the mood with ease.
“Anyway,” she said, turning back to her plate, “you should see the gowns Mom’s already commissioned for the gala. Top designers. I’m praying she brought extras. I’ll make sure you have something stunning to wear, Amara.”
“I’m fine with anything simple,” Amara said quietly.
“Nope. No room for simplicity in the El Amin mansion,” Ayla declared, tossing a grape into her mouth. “You’re going to shine. Trust me.”
Amara gave a faint smile.
For the next few minutes, Ayla filled the space with stories about London, her internship at a publishing firm, and her failed attempt at learning French. Zayn didn’t say much—just listened, occasionally nodding or letting out a dry hum in response. His eyes barely left Amara though, and she could feel it.
Even while Ayla laughed and carried the room, Zayn’s silence pressed against Amara like a question.
Or a warning.
When the plates were nearly cleared, Ayla leaned back in her chair with a sigh. “God, I missed this. Home, food, noisy morning chats.”
Zayn stood, quietly collecting his glass. “Glad you’re back,” he said, voice low.
Ayla smiled, eyes softening. “Me too.”
Amara didn’t know what to say. She only knew the warmth in that room wasn’t meant for her—not yet. Maybe not ever.
But for now… she would pretend.
Just until the pretending didn’t hurt anymore.
- Writer
