CHAPTER 7: Cracks in the Fabric
1465 Words
ZARA
I was halfway through aggressively folding a sweater I had already folded once when Imani flopped onto my bed like she paid rent.
“You’re doing that thing again,” she said.
I didn’t look up. “What thing.”
“The one where you pretend domestic violence against laundry will fix your emotional issues.”
I pressed the sweater flat with unnecessary force. “I’m organizing.”
“You alphabetized your emotions last week. This is spiraling.”
I sighed and finally sat on the edge of the bed. My room smelled faintly like vanilla and laundry detergent, safe smells, predictable ones. The kind that didn’t argue back or look at you like you were a disappointment in human form. My fairy lights were still on even though it was morning, because I hadn’t bothered turning them off after another night of staring at the ceiling and overthinking my entire existence.
“He’s unbearable,” I said.
Imani perked up immediately, like a shark sensing blood. “Oh, we’re starting early today. Which he.”
“You know which he.”
She grinned. “Ah. Sir Penguin Capitalist.”
“Do not call him that.”
“You started it.”
“I ended it. In my head. Repeatedly. With better comebacks.”
Imani rolled onto her side, propping her head on her palm, studying me with the smug satisfaction of someone who had been waiting for this moment. “You’re thinking about him again.”
“I’m thinking about how someone can be that rude and still sleep peacefully at night.”
“That’s not denial, Zara.”
I glared at her. “Why are you in my room.”
“Because you’ve been pacing since 6 a.m. and muttering like a Victorian child with a fever dream.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. She wasn’t wrong. I had woken up angry for no clear reason, heart already racing like it was late to something important. Julian Astor had taken up far too much real estate in my head for someone I actively disliked.
“He’s arrogant,” I said instead. “He looks at people like they’re inconveniences. Like the world exists to orbit him.”
Imani hummed thoughtfully. “You just described half of New York City.”
“He’s worse.”
“That’s a strong claim.”
“He’s infuriating,” I said. “And smug. And emotionally constipated.”
She laughed. “Wow. You really thought this through.”
“I did not.”
“You did,” she insisted. “Because if you didn’t care, you’d be complaining about literally anything else. Your dad. Your career crisis. The fact that you still haven’t fixed the c***k in your mirror.”
I glanced at the mirror across the room, the hairline fracture running through my reflection like a fault line. “That c***k adds character.”
“So does unresolved s****l tension.”
“There is no tension.”
Imani sat up fully now. “You called him a penguin. That’s flirting-adjacent.”
“That was moral commentary.”
“Sure.”
I folded another sweater, slower this time. “I don’t even like men like that. Men who think money is a personality.”
“And yet,” she said sweetly, “you’ve been rearranging your closet like you’re auditioning for a mental breakdown.”
I groaned and dropped the sweater onto the pile. “Can we talk about literally anything else.”
“Fine,” she said. “Tell me why you’re really wound up.”
I hesitated. My jaw tightened before I could stop it. “Christmas messed with me more than I thought.”
Imani softened immediately. “Yeah. I figured.”
Before she could say more, my phone buzzed on the bed between us.
Unknown number.
I frowned and answered anyway. “Hello.”
There was a pause, then a voice I recognized from childhood Christmas parties and factory open days and whispered arguments behind office doors.
“Zara, it’s Mrs. Bennett from accounting.”
My stomach tightened. “Is everything okay.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“I thought it would be better if you came in today.”
Imani sat up.
“Came in where.”
“The factory,” she said gently. “Your father isn’t answering calls and there’s been… confusion.”
“What kind of confusion.”
She hesitated. “It’s easier to show you.”
The call ended before I could ask another question.
The room felt smaller after that. Like the walls had leaned in to listen.
Imani watched my face carefully. “That was not a spam call.”
“No,” I said. “That was not.”
I stood up, suddenly restless, adrenaline flooding my system. “I need to go.”
“To the textile company.”
“Yes.”
She swung her legs off the bed. “I’m coming.”
“No.”
She raised an eyebrow, daring me to argue.
“I mean yes,” I corrected. “But let me drive.”
The Caldwell Textiles building looked the same from the outside. Old brick softened by decades of ivy, tall windows meant to invite light into honest work. I remembered running through the lobby as a child, my grandmother’s laughter echoing behind me, the smell of fabric and steam and ambition.
Inside, it felt different.
Too quiet.
The receptionist smiled at me with something like relief. “Zara. Thank God.”
That alone made my chest tighten.
People I’d known my whole life avoided eye contact. Machines hummed without their usual rhythm. Boxes sat half packed. Orders were taped over with new labels. Old ones.
Mrs. Bennett met us near the production floor. Her mouth was tight, professional, but her eyes were worried.
“Your father’s been under a lot of pressure,” she said carefully as she led us. “Cash flow issues. Missed shipments. A loan that didn’t come through.”
“A loan,” I repeated. “From where.”
She stopped walking and finally looked at me fully. “We were hoping you knew.”
I didn’t.
That was the worst part.
In my father’s office, everything was pristine in the way things get when someone is trying to pretend nothing is wrong. His desk was cleared. Too cleared. No papers. No chaos. Just a framed photo of my grandmother smiling like she knew secrets no one else did.
“This isn’t good,” I whispered.
Imani hovered near the door, uncharacteristically quiet.
Mrs. Bennett sighed. “Your father hasn’t told the staff anything concrete. We’re weeks behind on payments. Suppliers are threatening to pull out.”
My heart pounded. “Why wouldn’t he say anything.”
She gave me a sad look. “Pride is expensive.”
I sat in his chair without asking. It felt wrong and right all at once.
“How bad is it,” I asked.
“Bad enough that if nothing changes, the company won’t survive the year.”
The words landed like a slap.
After she left us alone, I stared at the walls, at old awards and newspaper clippings from before everything fractured.
“He should have told us,” I said.
Imani leaned against the desk. “Parents rarely do. Especially the ones who think silence equals strength.”
I swallowed. “He yelled at me for wasting my life. Turns out the life he built is collapsing.”
She didn’t say I told you so. Bless her.
On the drive home, my phone buzzed again.
Dad.
I didn’t answer.
At home, my mother was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, chopping onions with violent precision.
“Did you go,” she asked without looking up.
“Yes.”
She nodded. “I figured.”
“Why didn’t you tell me.”
Her knife paused. “Because he asked me not to.”
“Mom.”
She finally turned to face me, eyes tired but steady. “He’s scared, Zara.”
“So am I.”
She reached for my hand. “I know.”
I thought of Julian then, uninvited and unwelcome. His certainty. His power. The way money bent around him like gravity.
I hated that my mind went there.
“I’ll figure something out,” I said, more to myself than to her.
She squeezed my hand. “You always do.”
That night, alone in my room, I stared at the ceiling and let the reality sink in.
This wasn’t about pride or arguments or witty insults anymore.
This was fabric unraveling.
And I had no idea how to stitch it back together.
But I knew one thing with uncomfortable clarity.
Ignoring it wasn’t an option anymore.
- Writer
