Thread of Glass

Chapter 7

Raiyan. Before you start asking who this is.

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. She read the first message again, and for some stupid reason she was still smiling when another notification appeared.

Mei.

MY BARRISTER!!! We’re waiting for you. All of us. Dinner. No excuses. And yes, I’m already emotional, so don’t make it weird. I love you.

Zoya smiled properly then.

For a few minutes that night, everything had felt simple. Joseph was proud of her. Mei and the others were waiting for her. Raiyan had remembered.

She had thought she was finally building a life that belonged to her.

The memory disappeared when her phone started ringing in her hand.

Zoya blinked and looked down at the screen.

Mei.

The same name.

Four years ago, seeing it had meant someone was waiting for her.

Now Zoya watched the phone ring until the screen went dark. She didn’t call back.

She leaned back slowly, her shoulders sinking against the chair as her fingers curled loosely against the armrest.

Funny, she thought. She had survived Raiyan Al Mansoor, but it was the version of herself she had lost with him that never came back.

…

The next morning, her junior associate appeared in the doorway with one hand resting against the frame. “Ma’am. Mr. Zayed Al Mansoor is here. He wants to see you.”

“Harrison’s office confirmed Mr. Mansoor requested to speak with you directly,” the associate added.

Zoya didn’t look up from the file as her pen kept moving across the page. “Fine. Five minutes.”

Her junior nodded, but Zoya made Zayed wait twenty minutes anyway. She didn’t need twenty minutes. She just wanted him to wait.

Capping her pen, she set it beside the folder and stood up. On her way out, she paused by her associate’s desk, lowering her voice so it barely carried. “Log his arrival. Time, parties present. I’ll dictate the substance afterward.”

The associate straightened instantly and nodded. “Of course.”

Zoya continued down the corridor without another word, pushed open the conference room door, and closed it quietly behind her.

Zayed Al Mansoor stood by the window. Two and a half years ago, she had called this man family. Today she didn’t even offer him coffee.

She sat down across from him. “Mr. Mansoor. You have ten minutes.”

His eyes narrowed slightly before he pulled out his chair and sat down. “I’ll be direct,” he said, folding his hands on the table.

“Please.” Zoya leaned back in her chair, her face completely neutral.

“Drop the case, Zoya.” He placed both hands flat on the table. “The affected communities receive full compensation, above what any court would award. We fund an independent environmental remediation programme across every affected region. No admission of liability. Everyone walks away with what they actually need.”

Zoya let him finish without interrupting. Then, folding her hands together, she said simply, “No.”

He blinked once, his fingers pressing lightly into the tabletop. “Zoya.”

“No.” Her expression didn’t change. “They want accountability. They want the truth on record, not buried behind an NDA and forgotten in five years. I intend to give them that.”

He shifted in his chair, his eyes flicking toward the window before returning to her. “The timeline. A case of this scale. Years of litigation. The cost to your firm—”

“Is my firm’s concern,” Zoya interrupted smoothly.

“The personal toll,” he added, his voice dropping lower.

“Also mine.” She held his gaze, though she could feel the familiar pressure beginning behind her ribs. She refused to let a trace of it show.

He studied her for a moment, then tried a different approach. “Your mother. Sophia was a woman of principle. She also understood the cost of idealism.”

“Stop.” Zoya’s voice didn’t rise, but her fingertips flattened against the cool table surface. “Don’t say her name in this room. Don’t reference her as if you knew her. Don’t speak about what happened to her as if you have standing. Keep this professional.”

The polite expression stayed on his face, but his eyes had hardened.

“My grandson,” he said, straightening in his chair and watching her closely, “made the right decision.”

Zoya waited, her eyes fixed on him.

“He saw you for who you really were. I was wrong about you. When he finally understood the truth…” His voice dropped, his gaze never leaving hers. “He protected what mattered.”

Zoya didn’t answer this time.

Zayed noticed.

“The innocent always deserve protecting,” she said finally, her voice quieter than she meant it to be.

Zayed stood, still watching her. “You were never worthy of being anyone’s wife.”

Zoya’s stomach tightened, but she drew one slow breath through her nose and kept her face composed.

His mouth curved slightly. “Or anyone’s mother.”

Her fingers closed hard against her palm. It took her a second to make them loosen again.

Zayed adjusted his jacket and walked out.

She didn’t stop him.

Outside, voices carried through the glass before one sentence caught her attention.

“Mr. Raiyan just arrived.”

Her heart seemed to stop before slamming back into rhythm, hard enough that she felt it in her throat.

“…Miss Liyana is with him.”

The footsteps outside faded down the hall.

Liyana.

Zoya knew that name.

She had spent two and a half years trying to live with what that name meant.

Outside the building, a Rolls-Royce Cullinan idled at the curb. In the backseat, Liyana sat securely buckled into her car seat, animatedly narrating a detailed story about her Barbie to a patient teddy bear, her small hands gesturing wildly with every word. Raiyan sat beside her, barely listening as his eyes remained fixed on the plaza steps where Zayed was descending, moving across the stone faster than usual.

“Michael,” Raiyan said quietly, his gaze never shifting from the window. “What was he doing here?”

From the front seat, Michael glanced at his phone, already prepared. “He went in twenty minutes ago, sir. No appointment on record.”

Raiyan watched his grandfather cross toward the parking lot, his own expression remaining entirely unreadable. She wanted a war. Fine. He’d give her one.

“Daddyyyy,” Liyana whined, tugging insistently at his sleeve to pull his focus away from the window. “I want ice cream.”

Raiyan looked down at his daughter, his expression softening instantly. “Lily, it’s ten in the morning.”

“I knowwww, but you promised,” she insisted, widening her dark eyes dramatically. Then her gaze drifted past his shoulder toward the plaza, and her entire face brightened. “Great-grandpaaaa!” She immediately reached for her seatbelt harness, fumbling with the clasp. “Come sit down! Let’s have ice cream!”

Zayed froze mid-step across the pavement. Raiyan’s hand closed gently over Liyana’s fingers, stopping her before she could undo the buckle, his gaze fixing directly on Zayed through the tinted glass. “Not today, baby girl,” Raiyan said softly. “Great-grandpa is busy.”

“He’s not busyyyy, Daddy,” Liyana pouted, peering past him.

“He’s busy standing there,” Raiyan murmured, holding his grandfather’s gaze across the parking lot for a long, heavy second. Zayed met his grandson’s look without a word, his face unreadable, before turning and stepping into his waiting vehicle.

Liyana released a dramatic, lingering sigh, sinking back into her car seat with all the dramatic offense a toddler could muster. “Fine. Just us.”

A faint, rare smile touched Raiyan’s mouth as he reached over to re-adjust her harness properly. “Just us.” The car pulled smoothly away from the curb. Raiyan kept his eyes ahead.

Zoya was out of the conference room almost as soon as Zayed left. She crossed the corridor, took the elevator downstairs and walked straight through the lobby toward the glass doors.

“Zoya?”