CHAPTER ELEVEN : NEW GLASS , OLD WOUND
1348 Words
Amara stared at the stretch of garden from her bedroom window, her fingers lightly tracing the lace edge of the curtain. The view was peaceful—too peaceful. It was the kind of peace that mocked the storm inside her chest. No new calls. No new messages. Of course, there couldn’t be—she had destroyed her phone the same day she learned about Noah’s surgery being postponed again. Or rather, the way the nurse had phrased it over the call: “His vitals aren’t stable enough for us to proceed.”
She hadn’t even let the woman finish before her anger lashed out and her phone had hit the wall, splintering into pieces.
Now, days later, silence surrounded her.
And yet, life inside the mansion moved on like clockwork. The staff bustled around with their crisp uniforms and perfectly measured routines. But for Amara, everything had halted.
Until that knock came.
A soft, polite tap against her door. Not hesitant, not urgent—just firm.
She turned, expecting Halima’s gentle voice, but it wasn’t her.
A maid she hadn’t seen before stepped in, a slim package wrapped in silver lying carefully in her palms. “Good afternoon, Miss Jackson,” she said, with a formal nod. “Mr. Zayn asked me to give this to you.”
Amara hesitated. She took the box anyway.
Once the maid was gone, she pulled the ribbon, the paper falling apart to reveal a sleek, black smartphone. New. Latest model. Not flashy, not glittery—just smart, minimal, and quietly expensive.
For a second, Amara just stood there, staring at the device like it was a puzzle.
She didn’t expect this. But maybe she should have. Zayn never said much, but he always noticed too much. He had probably heard about the phone from Halima or seen the broken pieces himself.
She turned it on, and the screen lit up with a customized wallpaper—simple ocean waves and a small message: You should never be unreachable.
It made her heart stumble for a beat.
She locked the screen quickly and set it aside. She wasn’t going to read too much into it. Maybe it was just practical. Maybe he was just doing what anyone with too much money and a guilty conscience would do.
But… she was reachable now.
And she knew what she had to do.
⸻
“Noah hasn’t gone in yet, right?” Amara asked Halima later, who was helping brush out her tangled hair after her bath.
Halima paused briefly, her eyes meeting Amara’s in the mirror.
“No,” she said softly. “Last I checked, he’s still in the same ward. They’re waiting on a donor or something. They haven’t said much.”
That squeezed something deep in Amara’s chest. The kind of pressure that made her legs weak and her resolve stronger.
“I want to go,” she whispered. “To the hospital. To see him.”
Halima nodded like she’d been waiting to hear it. “You should tell Mr. Zayn.”
Amara stood from her seat. “No. I’ll ask him.”
⸻
It didn’t take her long to find Zayn. He wasn’t in his study—he was outside, standing in the shade by the tall hedges, speaking with the elderly man who always followed him like a shadow. The personal assistant. Amara had never really spoken to him, but she could see the reverence Zayn had for him—the way his eyes softened when the man spoke, the way he didn’t interrupt.
She didn’t want to eavesdrop, but as she approached, she caught bits of the conversation.
“…He’s not just a name on a chart anymore, sir,” the man was saying.
Zayn’s reply was quiet. “I know. I’m working on it.”
When he looked up and saw her, his expression didn’t shift dramatically, but something flickered in his gaze. Surprise, maybe. Or curiosity.
Amara took a slow breath and stepped forward. “Can I speak with you?”
Zayn nodded once. He turned to his assistant and said, “That’ll be all for now.”
The older man gave Amara a polite nod before retreating down the path.
Zayn didn’t speak. He waited.
“I want to go see Noah,” Amara said. “At the hospital.”
Silence.
Then, “Now?”
“No. Not immediately. But soon. Tomorrow, maybe.”
His eyes searched hers for a long moment. “You’re sure?”
She hated that he asked like that. Like she wasn’t strong enough. Like she hadn’t already been through hell and kept standing.
“Yes,” she said, with enough fire in her voice to make her point clear.
Zayn gave a slow nod. “I’ll make arrangements.”
She blinked. “Just like that?”
His lips curved slightly—just barely a smile. “You’re his sister. I’m not going to say no.”
That surprised her.
“Thank you,” she said softly, genuinely.
And then she walked away before the moment turned into something more.
⸻
That night, Amara sat in the piano room again. The same room where, days ago, Zayn had caught her playing and silently listened until the last note fell into the quiet.
The staff had left the lights dimmed low, the shadows curling around the corners like comforting arms. She pressed her fingers to the keys, not to perform, not to distract herself—but to speak. Music was the only way she knew how to release the ache inside.
She played for Noah. She played for her parents. She played for the girl who once believed she could fix everything with enough love.
And she played for the part of her that still wanted to believe she hadn’t lost everything.
The keys wept with her. But her back remained straight, her fingers steady. Even in sorrow, there was strength.
When she stopped, the silence wasn’t heavy—it was healing.
⸻
The next day arrived like a whisper.
She was dressed in something soft, her hair tied in a braid that Halima had done with extra care. She looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize herself. She looked older. Calmer. Maybe even colder.
Zayn didn’t say much as he handed her the documents for the hospital pass and the keys to a private car. A driver would be waiting, he said, and security would follow but stay discreet.
“I’m not a prisoner,” she muttered, unable to help herself.
He didn’t rise to the bait. “You’re someone who matters.”
The words hit her chest like a weight.
She nodded once. Then left without another word.
⸻
The drive to the hospital was quiet, the kind of silence filled with thoughts that refused to settle. Amara stared out the window, watching buildings blur past, wondering if Noah would be awake, if he’d be happy to see her—or if he’d be too tired to pretend.
The car stopped at the back entrance of the hospital. Staff escorted her in quickly, politely, without much fuss. It was obvious someone—Zayn—had pulled strings.
When she entered Noah’s room, everything else faded.
He looked small.
Too small.
His face was pale, and there were faint bruises around the edges of his IV line. But his eyes lit up when he saw her, and that alone broke her in two.
“Amara?” he said, voice scratchy.
She rushed forward and took his hand. “Hey, baby brother.”
“You came.”
“Of course I did. Don’t say that like I wouldn’t.”
He tried to smile, and it wobbled. “You look different.”
“So do you,” she said, brushing his hair gently from his forehead.
They didn’t talk about the surgery. Not yet. For a while, she just sat beside him, listening to his breathing, letting the quiet mend what distance had hurt.
But somewhere deep inside her, a new resolve was forming.
She would not lose him.
Not Noah.
Not again.
- Writer
