Chapter 11

“في وجه العالم، أنت ظهري.

وفي قلب العاصفة، أنت سكوني.

وفي هذا العمر، أنت اختياري.”

“Before the world, you are my back.

In the heart of storms, you are my calm.

In this lifetime, you are my choice.”

________________________________________

Sunlight streamed through the high arched windows of the mansion, casting golden patterns across the marble floor. The silence was almost sacred. Ayat stepped out of her room, her steps soft, her scarf neatly pinned, a pale pink robe flowing gracefully around her.

Her heart was quiet… but her mind wasn’t.

The words he’d said last night echoed in her chest-harsh, cold, but also… protective.

“I hid you because I protect what’s mine.”

They weren’t words of love. But they were something. And that something stirred an unfamiliar strength in her.

” I can at least give him the care and respect he deserves,” she thought, straightening her back with a small, brave smile.

She doesn’t want to remember what he said about the marriage last night.

She walked to the hall with calm grace, and then turned toward the kitchen. Her slippers made a soft sound against the marble, and as she entered, the smell of rosemary and butter still lingered in the air.

Lady Nova stood by the counter, instructing Enzo on how to sort the spice rack-again.

Ayat offered a soft smile. “Good morning.”

Both turned, a little surprised. But they nodded respectfully.

“Good morning, dear” Lady Nova replied politely.

Ayat stepped forward with her usual warmth. “If it’s alright… I’d like to make breakfast for him today.”

Nova blinked, exchanging a glance with Enzo. “He’s already left, dear. Around dawn.”

For a brief second, Ayat’s face faltered.

She nodded slowly, pushing away the little sting in her chest. “Oh… alright.”

But she didn’t let it show. She rolled up her sleeves and moved toward the counter.

“I’ll still prepare lunch. Something simple. He might not have eaten.”

She worked silently, creating a clean, elegant dish-her mother’s old Italian recipe,grilled chicken lasagna with fresh garlic bread and creamy basil sauce. Every fold of pasta was her prayer. Every sprinkle of spice, her offering.

She packed it neatly in a lunch box, wrapped in cloth, and handed it to one of the guards.

“Please make sure it reaches him… warm.”

_______________________

Zamil’s Office:

The room smelled faintly of tobacco and polished wood. Zamil Al Mansur sat behind his large glass desk, sleeves rolled up, fingers moving across the keys of his laptop. The window behind him framed the Manhattan skyline like a painting-cold, distant, powerful.

A knock. The door opened without waiting.

Yousef walked in with a proud smirk. “Victor’s base. Gone.”

Zamil didn’t look up. “Any casualties?”

“None on our side. The plan worked. The fire took care of the rest.”

Zamil leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes narrowing. “Good. Let that be a warning. The next time he breathes in our direction… I’ll burn more than his base.”

Yousef chuckled. “Ruthless, as always.”

Zamil closed the laptop. “We’ll need to clean the trail. I want no proof that points to us.”

“Already being handled. Also-the Portuguese military received the shipment yesterday. They were impressed.”

Zamil nodded once. “Then double the price on the next model. If they want the upgraded weapon system, they’ll pay for it.”

Yousef opened his mouth again, more hesitant this time. “Also… I arranged a small gathering tomorrow night. For you and your wife.”

Zamil’s eyes darkened. “Yousef…”

“I know, I know. You hate these things. But listen-it’s necessary. People are talking. Rumors are flying. And it’s not just about her. It’s bad for business. If we don’t clear the air, your silence will become a weapon against you.”

A pause.

Zamil stared at the floor for a moment. Then gave a short nod. “Fine. One night.”

Just then, a knock.

Smith entered, stiff and professional. “Lunch has arrived. From Mrs. Al Mansur.”

He placed the box gently on the table and left.

Yousef smirked the moment the door closed. “Look at that. Someone’s being pampered.”

Zamil gave him a cold glare. “Touch it, and I’ll shoot you.”

But Yousef was already unwrapping the box.

“Smells like love,” he teased, grabbing a slice of garlic bread.

Zamil sighed, shaking his head.

“You’re eating my lunch.”

“You weren’t touching it.”

Zamil took the second plate, finally giving in. The first bite hit him like a quiet thunderstorm-comforting… dangerous.

“This is halal lasagna,” Yousef said with surprise. “Do you know how hard it is to get that taste right?”

Zamil didn’t respond, but his jaw tensed as he ate.

Yousef leaned back, grinning. “Man’s got a wife sending him lunch and still acts like he eats fire for breakfast.”

Zamil didn’t turn. “I do.”

Yousef pushed his chair back, wiping his mouth with a tissue and humming contentedly. “I swear, if I had someone feeding me like this every day, I’d turn soft.”

Zamil gave him a cold side-glance. “You were born soft.”

Yousef smirked, unfazed. “You say that, but you’re the one whose appetite wakes up with her food. Admit it-you’re impressed.”

Zamil didn’t reply, just closed the lunchbox with a slow, thoughtful motion. He’d eaten more than he intended. Much more.

Yousef leaned forward again, as if remembering something. “By the way… you better not disappear tonight.”

Zamil raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“There’s a race.”

That caught his attention. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Whose?”

“Mine.” Yousef grinned. “Midnight. The underground track near Harlem.”

Zamil’s lips twitched into something that was not quite a smile, but close. “So you finally decided to lose publicly?”

“Oh, please,” Yousef rolled his eyes. “You’ll be cheering for me by the end of the night.”

“I don’t cheer.”

Yousef winked. “Then just show up. If word gets out that you were in the crowd, even my enemies will think twice before overtaking me.”

Zamil looked at the skyline again, then gave a slow nod. “Alright. I’ll come.”

Yousef grinned, slapping the desk. “Yes! That’s the spirit. Just make sure you don’t steal the attention.”

Zamil gave him a dry look. “I don’t need to steal anything. Attention follows me.”

Yousef stood, laughing. “Of course it does. The devil always turns heads.”

Zamil’s expression didn’t change. “Then pray he’s on your side tonight.”

And with that, the office returned to silence as Yousef left the room-his laughter echoing faintly in the hallway.

Zamil’s phone rang and the notification popped up and it was sent by an unknown number. It was looking like a typing mistake.

When he was about to open it knocked on the door grabbed his attention and he put his phone on the table.

Smith walked in and told him about his meeting and he left with him.

________________________

The halls were quiet. The kind of quiet that felt too large for one person.

Ayat sat on the edge of the massive sofa in the lounge, her hands folded in her lap, eyes skimming the corners of the high-ceilinged room. The silence wasn’t peaceful-it was loud, hollow.

Her gaze drifted to the table beside her. No phone. No book. Nothing.

She hadn’t even asked him for the phone. She didn’t know if she was allowed to.

With a soft sigh, she stood and began to walk.

The marble floors echoed softly beneath her steps as she explored further into the mansion she still barely knew. She climbed the grand staircase, then turned right, then left-just wandering, each hallway more extravagant than the last.

And then… she saw it.

A tall, double oak door stood slightly ajar at the corner of the third floor, its golden handles glinting in the sunlight pouring through the skylight.

She stepped forward and slowly pushed it open.

Her breath caught.

A library. A magnificent, hidden world of shelves that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Thousands of books lined the walls-classic literature, ancient history, modern science, philosophy, poetry in different languages. Leather-bound volumes, dusted spines, glass cabinets with rare collections. It smelled of parchment and polish and time.

Ayat walked in as if in a dream, her fingers gliding over the titles. “SubhanAllah…” she whispered.

There was a velvet armchair near the arched window, sunlight pouring like gold over its cushions. She picked up a stack of books-some fiction, some poetry, one about Islamic history-and curled herself into the chair.

It was the first time all day she felt truly like herself.

The books didn’t ask her about her past. They didn’t look at her with pity or judgment.

They welcomed her.

And in that library, surrounded by forgotten words and golden silence, Ayat smiled. A small, real smile.

If she was to live here, then this place… this would be her escape.

Ayat didn’t notice how much time had passed. The sky outside the arched windows had turned soft and purple, shadows stretching long across the mansion floors as evening crept in.

She blinked, startled by the dimming light pouring through the library windows.

How long has she been reading?

With a gentle sigh, she closed the last book in her lap, stacked it carefully with the others, and rose from the velvet chair. Her feet carried her with purpose now-not wandering, not lost. Just quiet. Steady.

Down the grand staircase, across the echoing hallways, and into the spacious kitchen where Lady Nova was nowhere to be seen. Only Enzo stood near the counter, typing something quickly on his phone before noticing her entrance.

Ayat gave him a small smile. “I’ll make dinner tonight,” she said softly.

Enzo raised his eyebrows slightly in surprise, then smiled. “As you wish,dear.” He leaned against the counter, folding his arms. “It’s rare to see someone walk into this house like a stranger and then walk into the kitchen like they own it.”

Ayat chuckled shyly. “I don’t own anything here.”

Enzo shrugged. “You owe his attention. That’s already more than the rest of the world.”

She turned to the cupboards, hiding her blush as she gathered ingredients.

Tonight’s dinner wasn’t just food. It was her effort-a language of care, quiet and unspoken.

She decided on something that felt both simple and meaningful.

Grilled Herb Chicken-juicy and tender, marinated in garlic, rosemary, and olive oil.

Creamy Mashed Potatoes with a touch of butter and pepper.

Kabsa Rice. An Arabic dish rich with spices, slow-cooked with tender chunks of meat and vegetables.

And for the Italian touch, she prepared Fettuccine Alfredo with chicken strips in a creamy parmesan sauce.

The kitchen slowly filled with warmth, with the scent of spices and butter and toasted herbs. It felt like a home now, at least for tonight.

Enzo leaned against the doorway, watching her work, a smile tugging at his lips. “Boss really did get himself a diamond.”

Ayat didn’t respond, just gave a small, knowing smile and kept stirring.

She didn’t know what Zamil would think of this dinner.

But she hoped, silently, that a part of it might make him feel something.

Even if it was just hunger.

___________________

The crowd roared like thunder beneath the floodlights, the scent of gasoline and smoke thick in the air. A lineup of gleaming supercars growled at the start line, engines rumbling like caged beasts.

Zamil stood apart from the chaos-cold, calm, dressed in his usual tailored black, the kind that screamed power without a word. Beside him, Yousef stretched his neck, cracking his knuckles with a boyish grin.

“You sure you’re not gonna cry when I lose?” Yousef teased, checking the mirror of his race car.

Zamil’s icy stare didn’t shift. “You’re not allowed to lose.”

“Still betting big tonight?” Yousef asked, smirking.

“Seven million,” Zamil said coolly, without a blink.

Yousef froze. “Seven?! Bro, that’s a whole mafia war budget!”

Zamil arched a brow. “it’s still not enough.”

Yousef choked on air. “You’ve really got that blind lover’s faith in me, huh?”

Zamil’s gaze remained fixed. “You love to race. I love to bet on you. It’s simple.”

There was only one man in the world Zamil Al Mansur bet on like that.

And it was Yousef.

A rare, crooked smile tugged at Yousef’s lips. “I swear, if I die tonight, bury me with your wallet.”

Zamil said nothing. Just stared at him-his expression unreadable, but eyes sharp.

They weren’t brothers by blood.But there was no blood in the world thicker than what they had.

With a wink, Yousef slipped into the car, engine screaming as he revved it to life. Just before he took off, Zamil’s voice cut through the engine noise like a blade.

“Kick them all off from that damn track.”

Yousef flashed a grin, gave a mock salute, and slammed the car door shut. The engine screamed at life.

Race Countdown: 3… 2… 1…

The cars launched forward like bullets, screeching across the track, tearing wind and fire in their wake.

Zamil remained statuesque, eyes glued to the race. His pulse didn’t change-but his hand curled tighter around the glass in his grip.

As expected, Yousef dominated. Twisting through sharp turns, overtaking cars like a phantom. Cheers echoed as he neared the finish line.

Then it happened.A loud explosion.

A burst of fire.Screams.

Zamil’s glass shattered to the ground.

One of the cars-Yousef’s-had caught fire just as it crossed the finish line. Flames swallowed the hood. The crowd rushed back, and firefighters stormed forward.

Zamil stood frozen for a second, then he ran.

For the first time in years, Zamil ran-shoving past guards, faces, noise-his cold heart pounding louder than the sirens.

The fire blazed brighter.

His lungs clenched.

He didn’t see him.

He couldn’t see him.

“Yousef!”

Nothing.

“YOUSEF!”

And then-

“Zamil….habibi….ana huna”

The voice came from behind the track, rough but alive.

Zamil spun.

Zamil whipped his head around and saw him-Yousef, bruised, scorched, bloody-but alive, half-laughing and half-dead on the ground.

He dropped to his knees beside him. “You’re insane,” he muttered.

Yousef gave a bloody smirk. “You’re lucky I’m beautiful even when I crash.”

Zamil scowled. “You lose my seven million and joke?”

Yousef coughed. “I won, you ice-hearted donkey.”

Zamil scowled, but there was a flicker in his eyes-something rare. Relief. Rage. Fear.

Then Yousef groaned and passed out.

Zamil caught his head, easing him down.

Paramedics arrived and started loading him onto a stretcher. One of them made the mistake of gripping Yousef’s arm too hard.

“Careful,” Zamil growled at them. “If one bone breaks under your hands, I’ll break ten of yours.”

They nodded rapidly and loaded Yousef onto the stretcher.

As the ambulance doors opened, Zamil didn’t hesitate. He climbed in beside him, sitting with that same ruthless calm-but his hand remained on Yousef’s wrist, feeling the pulse. Steady and Alive.

Because that was all that mattered.

As the siren wailed and the ambulance sped into the night, Zamil stared out the back window, emotionless as ever.

But inside?

He’d just walked to the edge of hell.

And this time, he was dragging his only family back with him.

_______________________________________________________

Translation:

” Zamil… My love…. I’m here.”

Chapter 12

“حبه شرس، كاللهيب، كجريمة

يحترق ببطء في وقتٍ مستعار

تعد الساعات بقلبٍ مرتجف

تدعو الله أن يعود هذه الليلة”

“His love is fierce, a flame, a crime,

Burning slow through borrowed time.

She counts the hours, breath held tight,

Praying he’ll come home tonight.”

____________________________

The hospital buzzed with the usual urgency of life and death – nurses paced briskly between rooms, machines hummed low and steady, monitors blinked with stubborn rhythm. But deep within the private wing of the building, where access was guarded and silence was sacred, a different kind of tension loomed.

Zamil Al Mansur stood just outside Room 207.

This part of the hospital was restricted to high-profile patients. Armed security flanked the hallway, their stance stiff, alert. The lights overhead were dimmed, casting long shadows against the polished floor. Zamil’s eyes, sharp and unreadable, stared ahead – at the door, at the emptiness, at nothing in particular.

Then, the door creaked open.

Dr. Adam, wearing a white coat and the heavy burden of years of experience, stepped out, tablet in hand. He removed his mask and approached Zamil with calm professionalism.

“Mr. Al Mansur,” he began, his tone measured.

“Your friend suffered a fall at high velocity. He has a non-displaced fracture on the seventh rib, mild contusions along the right arm, and a strain in the left thigh. No internal bleeding. CT scans are clear. He was unconscious due to shock and minor concussion, but he’ll regain consciousness soon.”

Zamil gave a short nod, jaw tight.

“He’s stable?”

“Yes. But he’ll need rest. A few days at least. You can see him now.”

Zamil didn’t respond. He walked past the doctor without a word, pushing open the door to Room 207.

The room was quiet. The sound of the heart monitor echoed softly, matching the subtle rise and fall of Yousef’s chest. Tubes were connected to his hand, bandages wrapped his arm, and his forehead bore a faint cut just above the brow.

Zamil stood beside the bed – silent, unmoving – watching the boy who had never left his side.

He remembered how Yousef always laughed too loud in serious meetings, picked fights with people twice his size, and yet somehow saved him more than once. Loyalty like that came rarely.

A soft buzz broke his thoughts.

He glanced at his phone.

A video file had arrived, short and grainy. He opened it. It was a clip from the racetrack, likely captured from a distance. Nothing looked unusual. No figures, no cars tampered, just the scene post-blast. But something about the angle felt intentional – staged.

Then, as he swiped back to exit, something else caught his eye.

A DM, buried deep beneath newer messages.

It was the same message he’d received back at the office. This time he opened it. A strange mix of alphabets and numbers.

At first glance, gibberish. But Zamil looked closer.

The numbers… they were codes from an old system he once used – they translated to danger codes.

And the alphabets, spaced strangely, could spell “fire” if rearranged.

His eyes darkened.

This wasn’t a random accident.

Someone had known.

Someone had tried to warn him.

He immediately dialed a number.

“Trace this sender. Everything – device ID, IP, location. I want full intel in my hands before morning. Don’t miss a single detail.”

The line went silent for a beat.

“Understood.”

Zamil turned back once toward Yousef, then gave a silent nod to the guard as he stepped out.

“Stay alert. Don’t leave this door. Inform me the second he wakes.”

He descended the hallway, footsteps sharp, phone still in hand.

Outside, the wind was beginning to pick up as he stepped into his waiting car. He was headed back to the mansion – not for rest, but to retrieve an important document because he wants answers.

____________________________

The grand mansion was unusually still, yet something heavy lingered in the air. Whispers had begun to circulate among the maids and guards-news of an attack. The atmosphere inside felt frozen in time, weighed down by dread.

Inside the marble-floored halls, Ayat paced restlessly near the front door, her hands clasped tightly as if in prayer. Her lips moved silently, whispering du’as for Zamil and Yousef. She hadn’t sat for even a second since the guard murmured the news outside the kitchen. Her heart trembled, not knowing what state they were in.

A clock somewhere chimed twelve. Midnight.

And then…

Click.

The main door creaked open.

Ayat’s head snapped toward the sound, and there he stood-Zamil, in the dim halo of the chandelier light, his face unreadable and clothes still bearing the dust of the chaos he’d survived.

Without thinking, Ayat rushed to him.

“Za…Zamil!” she cried, her voice trembling. She grabbed his arm with both hands, her eyes frantically scanning him. “Are you okay? Did you get hurt? Say something-are you hurt anywhere?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

He simply stared at her-eyes locked on her worried face, stunned, as though someone had just placed a mirror to a world, he’d never believed existed. Someone worried for him. Someone who waited.

She was breathless, eyes glassy.

“I’m fine,” he finally said, his voice quiet, hoarse from exhaustion. “Nothing happened to me.”

She exhaled sharply and let go of his arm, lowering her gaze. “And brother Yousef? How is he?”

“He’s stable now. Still at the hospital under observation.”

“Thank God,” she breathed again. Then gently, she added, “Come. You haven’t eaten anything. Let me bring dinner.”

Without waiting for his reply, she turned and moved toward the kitchen.

Zamil watched her go, something strange flickering in his gaze. Then he moved upstairs, into his study to retrieve the documents he’d come for.

___________________________

Ayat was busy warming the food. The kitchen smelled of kabsa rice and Grilled herb chicken, the warmth comforting in contrast to the chill of the night. She carefully laid out the table, placing a Creamy Mashed Potatoes beside the Fettuccine Alfredo.

When Zamil returned, he didn’t say anything – just sat down at the head of the table and started eating.

Silently.

Ayat gave him space. She knew he was exhausted, both mentally and physically. She didn’t interrupt, just quietly moved back into the kitchen to bring the juice.

But when she returned…

The dining hall was empty.

He had eaten.

And left.

Ayat stood there, holding the jug in her hand, a bittersweet smile playing on her lips.

He didn’t say thank you. He never did.

But he was safe. That was enough.

She walked to the window, placed the jug down, and looked up at the moonlight spreading across the lawn outside. Her lips moved in another silent prayer.

“Ya Allah… keep him safe.”

_____________________

The hospital wing remained quiet, the kind of quiet that only money and power could buy. The private floor was sealed off, with armed guards outside each room and no unnecessary footfalls echoing through the halls.

But there was one room where silence never stayed long – Yousef’s.

Inside, the space buzzed with his voice, filling the air with humor, complaints, and casual teasing, as if he hadn’t just survived an explosion.

Zamil sat near the window, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded, his dark eyes fixed on Yousef but his expression unreadable. Still in his black shirt and coat, with faint ash stains on his sleeves, he looked like a storm that hadn’t passed yet.

Yousef, leaning back against the pillow with an IV in his arm, lifted his brows.

“I woke up and thought I died. But then I saw your pretty angry face and figured, nope… hell wouldn’t be this cold.”

Zamil didn’t react.

Yousef chuckled.”I’m serious though. Car gave the warning – engine overheating, temp spiked. I didn’t wait. Jumped out before the blast.”

He pointed to his bruised ribs.”These? Friendly reminder that flying isn’t for humans.”

Zamil looked up with a faint smirk.”You never do things halfway.”

Yousef narrowed his eyes.”And you never give sympathy, even when your best friend is clearly a war survivor.”

Zamil raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Then Yousef leaned forward, eyeing him suspiciously.”You stayed the whole night, didn’t you?”

Zamil shrugged, glancing at the window.”No. I left after the doctor updated me.”

“Liar.”Yousef’s voice was quiet now.

“When I was nineteen and burning up with fever, you sat by my side till morning. Same look on your face… like the world could fall apart but you’d still be there.”

He smiled faintly.”You don’t fool me, Zak.”

There was silence…warm, familiar.

“You talk too much when you’re sick.” Zamil muttered.

“And you act too cold when you care too much.” Yousef replied, satisfied.

He stretched a little, wincing.

“Anyway… tell me… what about the ceremony tonight? That I had prepared for you.”

Zamil’s expression shifted.”It’s canceled.”

Yousef blinked.”Canceled?”

“You were in the hospital. There was no point.”Zamil’s voice was low but firm.

“But I’m alive now! The stitches didn’t reach my mouth, I can still show up!” Yousef argued.

Zamil gave him a flat stare.”You’re not going anywhere.”

Yousef slumped back, grumbling.”Unbelievable. I get blown up and you get all bossy.”

Just then, a knock interrupted them. A guard entered with a tray.”Sir… Mrs. Al Mansur sent breakfast. Soup, soft bread, and juice.”

“Ayat?” Yousef’s face brightened.”Did she cook it?”

The guard nodded.”She cooked and packed it herself. For you and sir.”

Yousef beamed.”That girl has a heart. Unlike some people who cancel ceremonies without warning.”

He side-eyed Zamil.”You better not eat all the soup like last time. I’m injured, I have priority.”

Zamil rolled his eyes.”I didn’t even eat last time.”

“Exactly! This time you will. And we’ll pretend we’re normal people eating a normal breakfast in a normal world.”

They ate together, quietly now, sharing food and silence like old brothers used to each other’s moods.

Moments later, Dr. Adam stepped in.

“Yousef my son Alive and louder. That’s a miracle in itself.”

“Careful, doc. I might sue you for that jelly you gave me yesterday.”

Dr. Adam chuckled lightly.

“Mr Al Mansur, he can go. Reports will follow. Just don’t let him run marathons.”

Zamil stood, adjusting his coat.”He’s not leaving my sight.”

Yousef grinned.”Romantic. Now let’s get out of this place before they inject me with something again.”

With guards forming a path, Zamil and Yousef exited the hospital….one quiet and steady, the other limping with dramatic flair.But both alive, bonded, and carrying a loyalty few could understand.

_______________________________________________________

Eid-ul-adha Mubarak to all my brothers sisters and readers.

Stay safe and happy.

And keep supporting me.

I’ll never disappoint you guys . And thanks again for giving “MAFIA” a chance!🥂🌸❤️‍🩹

Chapter 13

“شيءٌ فيه يُخيفني… لكنني لا أهرب.

نظراته تُشبه الليل… هادئة، لكنها تخفي العاصفة.

أشعر أنني أقتربُ من نهايتي،

لكنني لا أستطيعُ سوى التقدُّم خطوةً أُخرى نحوه.”

“Something about him scares me… but I don’t run.

His eyes are like the night… calm, but hiding a storm.

I feel like I’m walking toward my end,

Yet I can’t help but take one more step closer.”

________________________________________________________

The black SUV pulled through the wrought-iron gates of the mansion, its tires crunching softly on the gravel driveway. The guards moved swiftly, opening the door. A pair of crutches were taken out first, followed by Yousef, who stepped out slowly, bandaged but smiling as if he were back from a vacation and not a near-death escape.

Beside him, Zamil walked silently, arms crossed as his eyes scanned the perimeter. Security had doubled. His jaw was clenched. His mind—restless.

From the main doorway, Ayat appeared, her hijab pinned neatly, eyes searching until they landed on the two men. Her heart lifted at the sight of them.

“As-salamu alaikum,” she said, stepping forward, her voice soft but steady.

Yousef’s smile widened. “Wa alaikum assalam, bhabhi.” He threw in a wink. “Now this feels like home. You’re more glowing than this mansion’s chandeliers.”

Zamil gave him a side glance.

Ayat smiled, lowering her gaze politely. “We’re glad you’re okay, brother Yousef. You gave us all a scare.”

“Well,” Yousef said, adjusting the weight on his crutch with mock drama, “what’s life without a little chaos? I just didn’t plan on starring in a firework show.”

Zamil’s deep voice cut in. “He’ll be staying here until he recovers. Make sure everything he needs is in the guest room on the first floor.”

The guard nearby standing nodded and quickly moved.

“Oh? I thought you just missed me,” Yousef teased, nudging Zamil with his elbow. “Admit it. I’m the spice to your salt.”

Zamil didn’t respond but walked toward the house. Ayat turned back to Yousef.

“Come in. You should rest. I’ll have soup and warm food sent right away.”

“You made it yourself?”

“Of course.”

Yousef dramatically placed a hand over his heart. “Then recovery might happen tonight. Honestly, sister in law,you need your own restaurant. Five-star reviews from my soul.”

Ayat laughed softly, gently guiding him inside. “Let me know if you need anything. And don’t flirt too much; your friend might throw you out.”

“Throw me out?” Yousef grinned. “Please. He couldn’t even throw me into the back seat properly without frowning like a villain in a Turkish drama.”

From down the hall, Zamil’s voice echoed dryly. “I heard that.”

Ayat and yousef exchange glance and chuckled.

___________________

At Afternoon:

Zamil sat behind his desk, his jacket draped over the back of the chair, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms. The screen of his laptop illuminated his focused face, jaw slightly clenched, one hand moving the cursor while the other tapped restlessly on the wooden desk.

A message blinked on the screen.

“Sir, we’ve found something. The number that messaged you is still untraceable, but we managed to detect the last IP route,it bounced multiple locations, but the final one is in New York. It’s local. Someone nearby is behind this.”

Zamil leaned back slowly, eyes narrowing. His mind spun through possible connections, alliances, enemies,who was bold enough to play this close?

Just then, a sharp knock landed on the study door.

“Come in,” Zamil said, voice low.

The door opened, and a guard stepped in with a small rectangular box in hand.

“Sir, the parcel you ordered.”

Zamil stood, taking the package and dismissing the guard with a nod.

As the door shut, he placed the box on the desk and opened it. Inside was the phone he had ordered earlier.

He stared at it for a moment.

And then without another word, he walked out of the study.

_________________________

On the other hand:

Yousef looked around the room approvingly as he sat down slowly on the bed.

Ayat brought in a tray….steaming bowls of lentil soup, soft bread,a small dish of marinated olives, and a plate of honey-glazed chicken bites.

“I don’t deserve this kind of royal treatment,” Yousef said, peeking at the tray like it held treasure. “Zamil eats like this every day? No wonder he doesn’t smile….he’s busy chewing elegance.”

Ayat chuckled. “I try to make sure he doesn’t skip meals. He’s difficult.”

“You don’t say.” Yousef dipped the bread into the soup and took a bite. “Wow. You might be the reason I survive this recovery. You’ve got healing hands.”

She shook her head, her smile gentle. “You’re just hungry.”

He leaned back a little, serious for a moment. “No, seriously. Thank you, sister in law. For everything. Not everyone welcomes a broken guest like this.”

“You’re not a guest,” she said kindly. “You’re Zamil’s friend. That makes you family.”

Yousef looked at her for a second, his usual mischief softened by the sincerity in her words. He didn’t say anything back—just nodded.

As Ayat stepped out of the room, leaving him to rest, she glanced back once. Zamil was standing at the end of the hall, arms folded, watching quietly.

He walked towards her in calm, confident strides. The soft sound of his shoes on the polished marble floor echoed slightly, a sound she had grown familiar with. There was no warning in his expression, but something told her this wasn’t just another passing moment.

When he reached her, he slid a hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a sleek, new smartphone,wrapped in plastic.

“You might need this,” he said simply, extending the phone to her.

Ayat looked at it in surprise, lips parting slightly, her eyes rising to meet his. “Phone?”

“Yeah,” Zamil said, his tone cool, almost formal. “You should have it.”

There was a slight pause—an invisible line of tension that flickered between them.

Ayat hesitated only for a second before taking the phone from his hand, her fingers brushing against his.

“Thank you,” she said softly, her voice carrying warmth and restraint at once. A small, grateful smile touched her lips.

Zamil didn’t answer, just gave her the slightest nod, and turned to walk away.

Ayat watched him disappear into the hallway’s soft shadows, her heart beating strangely. Not fast. Not slow. Just… aware.

She glanced down at the phone in her hand, then back at the empty hallway.

Chapter 14

“عينيه لا تبقى،

لكنّها لا تغفل.

هو لا يتدخّل،

إلا حين يصبح الصمتُ خيانة.”

“His eyes never linger,

But they never miss a thing.

He never interferes,

Until silence becomes betrayal.”

_____________________________________

The evening wind danced softly through the grand terrace of the Al Mansur mansion. Shadows stretched long across the marble floor, and in the far distance, a group of trainees moved in sharp, disciplined rhythm. But Yousef stood with his back to them, hands in his pockets, eyes unfocused. His mind wasn’t on the training.

It was on her.

Those eyes…soft, unreadable, yet always genuine. Her smile, that sweet, unfiltered shyness when she’d speak to him. Her voice still echoed in the corners of his thoughts like a whisper that refused to fade.

A small chuckle slipped from his lips.

“Love,” he muttered under his breath, “isn’t about who’s close or far. It’s about who lives rent-free in your mind… and your chest.”

This was the same Yousef who once made enemies cry for mercy with a grin, who joked while dodging bullets, who asked men their last wishes like he was offering a service. But for her…He couldn’t even look into her eyes for more than a second without losing the beat of his own breath.

“You’re smiling like a maniac. Are you okay?” a voice said from behind, pulling him back to earth.

He turned sharply. Ayat stood behind him, in a cozy sweater, a book tucked in one hand.

“Sister-in-law,” he said with a tilt of his brow, “you’re up late. What are you doing here?”

“I should be asking you that. You’re the one laughing at thin air.”

“I was just admiring the stars,” he said coolly, leaning on the railing. “And maybe smiling at a Lady Ghost.”

Ayat chuckled, stepping beside him. “Wow. That’s new. You’re so single now you’re flirting with ghosts?”

“I mean,” Yousef teased, eyes twinkling, “even the supernatural appreciates a man with good taste.”

She laughed softly. “Poor ghost. Must be lonely like you.”

Yousef grinned. “Touche.” Then he nodded at the book. “What are you reading?”

“A business book.”

“At this hour?” he faked a dramatic sigh. “You know girls are supposed to read love stories at night, not business strategies.”

Ayat gave him a side-eye. “Girls can like business too. Not all of us want roses and heartbreaks.”

He nodded, this time more serious. “You really love it, huh?”

She looked down. “I do. I wanted to graduate in it. But… life happened.”

Yousef turned to her, his smirk fading. “You didn’t finish?”

“I couldn’t make it to the final year. Things got complicated after my parents passed.” Her voice faltered just slightly, but she held her poise.

“My father… he always dreamed I’d run the family company someday.”

The evening air turned heavier, as if the stars above leaned in closer.

“I’m sorry,” Yousef said softly. “Losing a dream… it’s a different kind of grief.”

She nodded, forcing a smile. “It is. But it’s okay.”

She didn’t know someone stood behind the terrace door, silently listening.

Zamil.

He’d come looking for Yousef.Instead, he found her voice….soft, sincere, telling a story he hadn’t heard before. He didn’t step forward. He didn’t speak.

He just listened.

Then quietly, he turned… and walked away.

__________________________

The early sunlight spilled through the grand windows of the mansion like liquid gold, casting long shadows on the marble floors. The soft rustling of maids, the clinking of breakfast cutlery, and the smell of fresh bread and tea filled the air.

The long walnut dining table was neatly arranged with a balanced breakfast: soft-boiled eggs, avocado slices, buttered toast, fresh berries, plain Greek yogurt, and a pot of mint tea. The simplicity felt oddly comforting.

Yousef, dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants, sat casually at the table with a mischievous glint in his eyes, sipping tea as if it were a reward for surviving a war.

Zamil arrived shortly after, his usual calm and unreadable expression resting on his face. He greeted them both with a subtle nod, sat down, and quietly began his breakfast.

The morning passed in ease — until the mansion’s doctor arrived for Yousef’s checkup.

Inside the guest room, the doctor inspected his ribs, checked his vitals, and nodded in approval.

“You’re doing much better now, Mr. Yousef,” Dr. Adam said with a grin. “You can rest at home from now on.”

Yousef gave a dramatic sigh, clutching his heart. “Doctor, you mean to say I must return to my lonely kingdom? Without royal breakfast? Without—” he glanced at Ayat, “—my sister-in-law’s divine cooking?”

Zamil, standing at the doorway with arms crossed, raised an eyebrow. “You’ll survive.”

Dr Adam chuckled,and took his leave as one guard escorted him to the main door.

Yousef turned to him dramatically. “What a heartless man. No compassion for his patient. And here I thought I was special.”

Zamil’s lips twitched, ever so slightly. “You’re not.”

Ayat chuckled behind her hand.

With a theatrical pout, Yousef stood up. “Fine, I’ll leave. I’ll go. But just so you know…” He pointed a finger at Zamil. “I was only staying here for your wife’s cooking. Your company? Zero stars.”

Ayat laughed fully this time while Zamil rolled his eyes.

Yousef turned to her with a mock frown.“Sister-in-law, your food kept me alive more than the medicine. Goodbye. I’m heartbroken. If you ever feel like sending food to a starving soul in company, call me.”

Ayat smiled warmly. “Take care of yourself, brother Yousef.”

“I always do.” He gave her a wink and then saluted Zamil. “Commander of silence, I take my leave.”

Zamil simply moved aside from the door.

Yousef finally left with his bag and a small drama-filled huff, making the guards chuckle on his way out.

The moment the door shut behind him, the atmosphere shifted to a more quiet note.

Ayat turned to Zamil, her voice softer now. “You shouldn’t have said it like that. He might’ve felt bad…”

Zamil didn’t look at her. “He didn’t.”

A sigh escaped her lips. “Still…”

As she was about to turn toward the stairs, his voice stopped her.

“Wait.”

She turned back, eyes meeting his.

He was calm. Composed. “I need your university records and documents.”

She blinked. “Why?”

Zamil looked straight at her, voice steady and emotionless. “you should complete what you had started. Education is your right.”

For a moment, silence wrapped around them. Her eyes widened, lips parted slightly. Did she hear that right?

Zamil stands there watching her.Her lips slowly curved into the biggest smile she had ever worn in front of him, eyes shining with disbelief and gratitude.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

But as she turned to leave, her smile still lingering, he found himself watching her longer than usual. That smile ,genuine, simple, unfiltered…. stirred something odd in his chest.

Was it… difficult to breathe?

He looked away sharply.

__________________________

Ayat entered her room and opened the small drawer near her bedside. Nothing. Her bag, empty. Panic hit for a moment until she remembered…. all her documents were left behind in her apartment the night she was taken.

Without hesitating, she made her way to Zamil’s study.

The door was slightly ajar. Zamil was standing near his desk, scrolling through emails on his iPad.

She knocked softly. “Zamil?”

He looked up. “What is it?”

“I don’t have the documents here… They’re in my apartment. Everything.My certificates, ID copies, degree forms.”

“I’ll send someone.”

She hesitated, then quickly shook her head. “No. There are… personal things there. I don’t want any man going through my stuff.”

He paused, reading her face. She wasn’t being stubborn,just protective. Of dignity.

A long silence stretched.

Then, calmly, he said, “Fine. I’ll go with you.”

She blinked. “You will?”

“And from there,” he continued, eyes fixed back on his tablet, “I’ll take you to the university.”

The silence returned this time, from her.

She was staring at him now, wide-eyed, lips parted. And then came that same radiant smile again. The one that reached her eyes and softened everything around her.

She whispered, “Thank you,” and turned, nearly skipping as she left the study to gather her things.

Zamil stood still, staring at the open door.

Twice.

Twice now she had smiled like that… and twice it had felt like something pressed tight in his chest.

He exhaled.

It was going to be a long day.

______________________________

The black SUV stopped outside an old apartment building. It was early afternoon,the streets still, a few birds perched on the wires above.

Zamil stepped out first. Two guards followed but stayed at the entrance, giving them space. Ayat led him up the old staircase, each step echoing slightly in the tight stairwell.

When they reached the door, she hesitated before unlocking it.

The apartment was just as she had left it,untouched, undisturbed. A thin layer of dust on the windowsill, books still piled on the desk, her prayer mat folded neatly in the corner. A faint scent of her old rose perfume still lingered in the air.

She moved quickly, collecting her folders, ID, and certificates. Zamil stood in the living room, hands in pockets, eyes scanning the place, not with judgment, just calm observation.

There were no pictures. No laughter in the walls. Just quiet.

she said from the room. “I never got time to come back here… Everything happened so fast…”

He didn’t respond.

When she returned with the documents in her arms, she gave him a nod.

“Done?”

She nodded again.

He said, “ Let’s go.”

Inside the car, Ayat turned to Zamil, her tone cautious but hopeful.

“Umm… can I go see Mrs. Jenkins? Just for a few minutes. She must be worried. I used to help her with groceries, and she’s like… family.” she said to him with hope in her voice.

Zamil, seated beside her in the driving seat, shifted his gaze to her with that usual unreadable stillness. For a moment, he said nothing, as if evaluating a hundred possibilities in silence.

“No. This isn’t the time for casual visits.” he said with neutral expression.

Her face fell slightly, eyes lowering to her lap. But she didn’t argue. A quiet nod, respectful and slightly disappointed.

But after a moment, something changed. Maybe it was her silence, or maybe it was something else he couldn’t name.

He said in a direct voice.“…Fine. Eight minutes.”

She looked up at him instantly , surprised and lit up like someone just handed her a piece of herself back.

“Really?”

He gave a small nod, glancing away.

“Go. A guard will follow you. I’ll wait in the car.” he said with that cold and commanding voice.

Without wasting another second, Ayat stepped out, practically running toward the building as the guard followed at a distance.

Ayat knocked on the faded green door. Within seconds, it swung open, revealing an elderly woman with warm brown skin and a headscarf tied loosely around her curly gray hair.

“Oh Lord have mercy—AYAT?!” Mrs Jenkins scream with surprised.

Ayat was instantly wrapped in a tight embrace.

Ayat softly said to her “I missed you.”

Mrs Jenkins questioned her.“Where on earth were you, girl?! I thought something terrible happened! One minute you’re here, the next, gone like a ghost!”

Ayat smiled gently, pulling back, telling,“I got married.”

Mrs. Jenkins blinked. Then blinked again. “Married?”

She again questioned her,“Married to who?”

Ayat hesitated, cheeks warming.

Ayat: “He’s…a good man.”

Just then, a knock echoed from the front door, a precise, authoritative knock.

Mrs. Jenkins shuffled toward it, but the guard was already stepping aside to let Zamil in.

Clad in black, tall and commanding, Zamil walked in without a word, eyes sweeping the room before landing on Ayat. She looked startled. Time was up.

Mrs. Jenkins raised her brows slowly.

Mrs. Jenkins whispered loudly to Ayat “That’s him?”

Ayat gave a shy nod, standing by the window now like a child being caught sneaking candy.

Mrs Jenkins complemented Zamil.“Lord, Ayat… he’s handsome, but he looks like he could bankrupt a man just by staring at him.”

Zamil gave her a blank glance — neither amused nor offended. Just neutral.

Mrs. Jenkins is still whispering.“And cold. But still… handsome. You got a taste, I’ll give you that.”

Ayat bursts into a soft laugh, covering her mouth, trying to hide her blush.

Mrs. Jenkins grinning, “May I see a little grandson and granddaughter next time you visit.”

Ayat went still.

Zamil didn’t move either.

There was a beat of silence. Then Zamil slowly turned his head toward Ayat, eyes narrowed slightly.

Ayat looked at him.

Zamil looked at Mrs. Jenkins.

Mrs. Jenkins winked.

Ayat blushed even harder and quickly looked away, biting her lip.

Zamil said in a direct tone.“Time’s up.”

Mrs. Jenkins gave them both a warm goodbye. As they walked back down the narrow stairs, Ayat walked a little faster than usual. She didn’t dare look at him.

He walked in silence. But once, just once, he glanced sideways at her… expression unreadable and then looked ahead again.

__________________________

The university was quiet in the mid-afternoon sun, its red-bricked buildings standing tall between wide green lawns. Birds chirped on tree branches, and the occasional group of students passed by, laughter echoing softly through the open courtyard.

Inside the main administration office, Zamil sat across from the university head. He wore a tailored black suit — crisp, clean, and intimidatingly formal. Ayat stood just outside the glass-paned door, waiting, her hands gently twisting the strap of her handbag. She didn’t intend to eavesdrop… but she could hear him.

“Her admission is to be processed under her maiden name,” Zamil said with his usual calm authority, sliding a completed form forward.

“And one more thing — her marital status stays off the record. You understand?”

The head looked up, momentarily surprised. “But—”

“I’m not asking,” Zamil interrupted, his tone sharp but composed. “If there’s a concern, speak now.”

The head hesitated, then nodded. “No problem, sir. It won’t be mentioned.”

Ayat’s eyes widened just a little. Her breath caught in her throat.

He thought of that?

For someone who rarely spoke more than necessary, a man whose cold presence could silence a room, the simple gesture hit her like a wave. He wasn’t loud, or overly kind… but somehow, he always acted in silence, when no one expected.

The door creaked open. Zamil stepped out without looking at her, walking ahead like nothing had happened.

“Let’s go,” he said casually.

______________________________

The SUV pulled away from the university campus, humming along the quiet New York streets. Zamil was at the wheel, focused, his phone resting silently in the console.

Ayat sat beside him, fingers curled into her lap. She glanced at him once or twice, lips parting to say something ,but didn’t.

“Thank you…” she finally whispered, just enough for him to hear.

Zamil didn’t respond. But she saw the way his jaw tensed for a second , and then relaxed.

Just as the silence settled again, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the caller ID , eyes narrowing slightly. He answered, listening for a few seconds without a word, then cut the call short.

“Change of plan,” he muttered, pulling the car to a slow stop near the side of the road.

He tapped his earpiece. “Tariq,Pick her from this location. Drop her at the mansion. Stay close.”

Ayat turned to him, puzzled. “You’re not coming back with me?”

Zamil opened the door, already stepping out.

“Something came up,” he said simply. “Just go with Tariq.”

And with that, he was gone, the car door closing with a heavy finality.

Ayat watched him walk toward a second black vehicle parked at the corner, his figure swallowed by the growing shadows of the city.

She didn’t know where he was going… but what stayed with her was that moment in the office.

He didn’t say it aloud ,but in his way, he made sure she could have her education, her space… and her dignity.

She leaned back in her seat, clutching her bag to her chest, and whispered with a soft smile,

“Cold man… but not heartless.”

________________________________________

Chapter 15

“لم يحملني بذراعيه،

لكنّه أخذني من كلّ مكان.

نظرةٌ منه…

كأنها أمرٌ لا يمكن كسره.”

“He never held me in his arms,

But he took me everywhere.

Just one look…

And it felt like an unbreakable command.”

_______________________________________________________

The heavy metal door creaked open as Zamil Al Mansur stepped into the cold, dimly lit basement, his hidden world beneath the empire. The thick scent of iron and sweat lingered in the air. The single bulb above flickered faintly, casting long shadows against the stone walls.

A man sat tied to the steel chair in the center, soaked in blood. His head was lowered, breath trembling. Standing beside him was Yousef, arms crossed, jaw clenched.

Zamil walked in without a word, his boots echoing sharply on the concrete. He stopped just inches away from the broken man.

Yousef looked up. “He’s the one who set up the car.”

The man jerked, lifting his face…. battered, swollen, barely recognizable. “P-please… I didn’t know who it was,” he cried out, his voice rasping. “He just gave me money… told me where and when… I swear I don’t know his name. He was just a messenger. Please…”

Zamil didn’t blink. “And you accepted it, like a dog,” he said quietly, cold, calm. “You almost got Yousef killed.”

“I didn’t know—”

“You chose not to ask,” Zamil interrupted. Then without turning, he spoke to the guard near the wall. “Give him a ride.”

The guard smirked darkly, pulling the man up. He screamed as he was dragged toward the back door, the meaning of “ride” in Zamil’s world never ended well.

Zamil turned and headed up the stairs in silence. Yousef followed. He stepped into the courtyard, lighting a cigarette, his eyes fixed ahead.

Yousef stood beside him, rubbing the back of his neck. “That guy… he’s from one of those lower-tier street gangs. They take contracts. No loyalty. No names. Just money.”

Zamil didn’t respond. He stared out into the garden, the flame of his lighter still dancing at his fingertips. His mind was turning.

“That means someone higher is involved,” Yousef added. “Someone with reach.”

Zamil exhaled slowly. “They want a message.”

“Then give one back,” Yousef said. “But first… Zamil, the rumors are spreading. About Ayat. About the girl you ‘forced’ to live with you. It’s bad. Journalists. Clients. Investors. They think you’ve lost control. It’s starting to affect business.”

Zamil didn’t look at him. “Then make it official.”

Yousef raised an eyebrow. “for sure!”

Zamil finally turned to him. His voice was low but steady. “Arrange the celebration. Tomorrow night. Make it clear — she’s my wife.”

Yousef nodded. “ok.” Then without another word, Zamil turned and walked toward his car, the cold night air brushing against his face like the storm he was about to unleash.

_________________________

The shrill chime of Ayat’s alarm broke through the soft silence of her room. She sat up, eyes still heavy with sleep, and reached over to silence it. After a few moments, she pushed the blanket off, rose from her bed, and walked over to the corner of her room where her prayer mat was already laid out.

The first light of dawn filtered through the curtains as she stood in quiet submission, performing her morning prayer with calm reverence.

Once finished, Ayat folded her mat neatly and sat down on the edge of her bed. She reached for her phone…a small hope fluttering in her chest. Maybe… maybe she’d see Zamil today.

Unlocking her phone, she noticed a notification — a message from him.

Zamil. Sent last night.

Her thumb hovered for a second, then tapped it open.

“There’s a celebration tonight. Be ready by 7. The dress will arrive before evening.”

Short. Clear. His style.

She blinked, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly. No explanation. No question. Just a command dressed in simplicity.

She typed only one word in response:

“Okay.”

Then she set the phone down and slipped into her slippers, heading downstairs.

As she descended the grand staircase, the scent of coffee drifted faintly through the air.

In the hallway near the dining room stood Lady Nova, sorting through a tray of mail. She looked up with a warm smile.

“Good morning, Ayat dear.”

“Good morning,” Ayat replied softly. Her eyes glanced past her, toward the main door. “Zamil… did he leave already?”

Lady Nova nodded. “Left early. He had business.”

Ayat’s expression didn’t change much, but something in her posture shifted, a subtle disappointment. “He messaged… about some party tonight.”

Lady Nova raised a brow. “ohh ok.”

“Do you know what it’s for?” Ayat asked, her voice casual but curiosity gently laced every word.

The older woman shook her head with a small smile. “No details. But there’s an announcement.Something important, I suppose.”

Ayat simply hummed in response, unsure of what to feel. Her heart wasn’t racing, but it wasn’t still either. She looked toward the kitchen.

“Come,” Lady Nova said kindly. “I made your favorite coffee. You’ll need the energy for whatever this party is.”

Ayat smiled lightly. “Thank you.”

The two of them walked into the kitchen together, the warmth of familiarity wrapping around them like the scent of fresh coffee.

________________________

The clock struck seven.

The heavy front doors of the mansion opened as Zamil Al Mansur stepped inside, the dying sunlight streaking gold across the dark marble floors behind him.

He moved with effortless power… tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a custom-cut black suit that hugged his sculpted frame like it was stitched directly onto him. The white shirt beneath was crisp, the top two buttons undone just enough to reveal a sliver of the tattoo inked near his collarbone,the same one that whispered secrets no one dared to ask about.

A silver Omega watch circled his wrist, and the subtle scent of Tom Ford Noir Extreme lingered around him,intense and unbothered.

His jet-black hair was slicked back with a natural messiness that suited him too well, and his sharp jaw was dusted lightly with a dark stubble. Eyes cold, unreadable, and sharp like steel, scanned the space around him as he waited in silence.

And then—

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed above.

Ayat came running down the stairs — careful, but fast, as if the idea of being even a minute late to him mattered deeply. She paused at the bottom step, just a few feet away from him, slightly out of breath.

She stood there.

Wearing a modest, elegant gown in a soft shade of ivory,the kind that flowed like silk water with every step she took. The sleeves were long, delicately embroidered near the cuffs with golden thread. The dress hugged her slender form gracefully but with full modesty — a quiet, regal presence. Her hijab, a matching ivory with a shimmer under the light, was pinned with perfect simplicity, framing her face like a portrait.

Her skin glowed warm in the light. Those soft almond eyes, lined faintly with kohl, blinked up at him. Her lips parted slightly.

“Am I looking al…right?” she asked, voice unsure but gentle.

Zamil didn’t respond right away.

He just stared.

For a second — a single, unguarded second something in him softened.

His cold stare broke just a little. His lips parted slightly as if the words were stolen by her presence.

She looked like the kind of woman who belonged in poetry, not in his violent world.

And then — the switch flicked back. His jaw clenched, and his face returned to its usual stillness.

“Yeah,” he said lowly, voice unreadable.

He turned away, tone cold again.

“Let’s go.”

The guards opened the front doors without a word.

Outside, a sleek, black Rolls-Royce Cullinan waited at the base of the steps.

They both stepped out.

The guard opened the rear door, and Zamil let Ayat get in first. Then he followed, silent and unreadable as always.

But even as the door shut behind them, the image of her, standing under the chandelier in that soft gown lingered in his mind like an echo.

_______________________

The black Rolls-Royce Cullinan pulled up to the private event venue — a grand hotel lit with golden chandeliers visible even from the tall, glass entrance. Media vans lined the front, reporters and paparazzi already crowding near the entrance.

Ayat’s heart skipped.

She froze for a second, her fingers nervously brushing over the edge of her dress. As the car door opened, the flashes began — loud voices, questions thrown like confetti.

“ Mr Al Mansur Is it true you forced her into this?”

“Who is she?”

“Is this an arranged marriage or—?”

Ayat hesitated.

Zamil noticed. Without saying a word, he leaned in slightly and placed his hand on her waist — protective, commanding.

“Stay with me.”

His tone left no room for argument.

With his hand firmly guiding her, they walked inside, past the sea of flashing lights and noise.

Inside, the lighting turned golden and warm. Waiters in black uniforms moved between crystal chandeliers, guests in tuxedos and gowns filled the hall. The air buzzed with wealth and whispers.

Yousef was already there, standing near the entrance with a champagne flute in hand. His face broke into a grin the moment he saw them.

“sister in law! You’re glowing like a bride straight out of a fairytale,” he said teasingly, then winked at Zamil.

“Bro, I can’t believe you got married with a fairy.”

Zamil didn’t respond — only offered the smallest smirk.

Yousef chuckled and led them further in.

Then, a tall man approached — French, dressed in a navy velvet suit. He kissed Zamil lightly on both cheeks in the Parisian style.

“Monsieur Zamil, c’est un plaisir de vous voir.”

(It’s a pleasure to see you.)

“Le plaisir est pour moi, Pierre.”

(The pleasure is mine, Pierre.)

Pierre glanced at Ayat, eyes curious.

“Et cette magnifique dame…?”

(And this beautiful lady…?)

Zamil didn’t flinch.

“Ma femme.”

(My wife.)

Pierre smiled with a polite surprise.

“Félicitations. Elle est ravissante.”

(Congratulations. She’s lovely.)

Before Ayat could even process the conversation, a woman’s heels clicked against the marble floor.

She appeared like a scene from a movie — tall, blonde, dressed in a backless silver gown with a thigh-high slit and diamond earrings that sparkled with every movement.

“Zamil,” she purred, walking straight up to him and placing her manicured hand on his shoulder, completely ignoring Ayat.

“You got married? Without telling me?” she smirked, voice sweetly poisonous.

Then she turned to Ayat, her blue eyes sweeping her modest dress with disdain.

“I didn’t know you liked… village girls.”

Ayat’s expression didn’t hide a thing. Her eyes were burning.

Zamil looked the woman straight in the eye — his voice flat.

“And I didn’t know you were still relevant.”

The woman’s fake smile dropped. She turned and walked away, heels echoing in the silence.

Ayat watched her go with a death-glare that could slice glass. She was ready to throw hands, hijab and all.

Zamil leaned in close, his breath brushing her ear.

“Don’t glare like that.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

Ayat shot back, flustered, “I didn’t.”

Just then, a group of men approached Zamil for business talk. Without hesitation, he called over his shoulder:

“Yousef.”

Yousef came forward.

“Stay with her,” Zamil said.

Yousef nodded, stepping beside Ayat as Zamil disappeared into the crowd.

They stood near the glass bar, and Yousef chuckled.

“I swear, your man walks like he owns the world.”

Ayat gave a small smile.

“He kinda does.”

They talked casually — about how different this life was for her, about her studies, and how she hadn’t expected this kind of party to be her first public event.

A few minutes later, Zamil returned — expression unreadable, presence magnetic.

He walked directly to the center of the hall.

The crowd hushed as he took the mic.

He turned slightly, holding Ayat’s hand gently in front of everyone.

“I’d like to introduce my wife, Ayat Khalil. And make it clear — our marriage is not up for speculation, commentary, or opinion.”

Gasps. Whispers.

Some smiled, some exchanged glances. But one thing was certain.

Zamil had just claimed her publicly — in front of New York’s elite.

As the night continue the after a dinner they said there final good bye to everyone and left.

_______________________

The Rolls-Royce Cullinan moved smoothly through the midnight silence of New York. The city lights faded behind them as they headed back to the mansion. Inside the car, everything was quiet—except for the soft hum of the engine and Ayat’s thoughts racing louder than ever.

She sat beside Zamil, stealing glances.

He was leaning slightly back, his sharp features highlighted by the subtle lighting in the car. His cold expression hadn’t softened, even after the crowd, the attention, the cameras.

And he was now glued to his phone.

Ayat cleared her throat softly and finally spoke, her voice uncertain.

“Your parents… are they here? I mean—do they live abroad or…?”

Zamil didn’t even look up from his phone.

“They’re dead.”

Her heart sank a little.

“Oh… I’m really sorry.”

Silence again. Awkward. Thick.

Ayat sat back, looking out the window. Then—because quiet made her fidgety,she tried again.

“How many languages do you speak?”

That made him glance up.

His eyes, dark and unreadable, finally met hers.

“More than six.”

Her jaw dropped slightly, eyes wide.

“Seriously?! That’s insane. Like… what are you? Google Translate in human form?”

Zamil blinked once.

She smile nervously, but he said nothing.

Now she started talking fast—asking the most random things just to keep it from falling silent again.

“Do they rehearse those camera questions at events like these?”

“Do all rich people greet you with air kisses?”

“Whoever designed the chandelier, do you think they were emotionally stable?”

Zamil turned his head slowly and stared at her.

That look.

One brow raised. Lips in a straight line.

‘What the hell is she saying?’ written all over his face.

Ayat clamped her mouth shut and blinked.

“Okay. Wow. I’m just… going to stop talking.”

He didn’t say a word, just looked back out the window.

But the question burning in her chest couldn’t stay buried for long.

After a pause, she finally asked softly:

“That woman… the one at the party. She seemed really close to you.”

Zamil didn’t look at her.

“She’s no one.”

Ayat waited for more. A name. A clarification. Anything.

But he didn’t speak.

She noticed the slight shadow under his eyes. The exhaustion in the curve of his posture.

So she leaned back and said nothing more.

Within minutes, her head began to dip from drowsiness. The gentle movement of the car, the tension of the evening, her sleepless night before… it all caught up to her.

Unintentionally, her head rested softly on Zamil’s shoulder.

Zamil looked down, surprised.

He stiffened slightly , about to wake her but then stopped.

Her face was calm. Innocent. Lips slightly parted in sleep.

He turned his head away, letting her stay there.

The car continued in silence.

When they finally reached the mansion gates, Ayat was still sleeping.

Zamil gently tilted his shoulder, letting her head rest against the window as he stepped out. He walked around the car, his footsteps quiet against the stone driveway. The driver opened her door.

Zamil bent slightly, trying to wake her.

“Ayat,” he said, voice low.

She didn’t move.

Her lips murmured something incoherent, still deep in sleep.

Zamil sighed under his breath.

Of all the stubborn times to fall asleep.

With no other option, he slipped one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back — lifting her effortlessly.

The maids at the entrance, including Lady Nova’s assistant, stood frozen in place, shocked.

Zamil didn’t even glance their way.

He walked straight through the grand hallway, past the marble floors and dim chandeliers, into the guest wing.

Her door creaked softly as he entered.

He placed her gently on the bed, fixing the pillow beneath her head. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake. He pulled a soft beige blanket over her, tucking it gently around her.

Then he stood there… just watching her.

He didn’t know what it was about her that made him linger.

But he did.

And after a few seconds, Zamil turned around, quietly shutting the door behind him.

---

Sorry guys for late update…

Actually i was attack by honey bees Yesterday.one of there solder bite me on hand…😭😭😂😂 But I’m kinda fine now…

Have a great day and take care of yourselves .

Suggestions:

Don’t ever mess with bees.😫👍😭😂

Chapter 16

“أنا متأكدةٌ أن قلبي أحمق،

يرى الخطرَ في عينيه… ويُعجب به أكثر!

يبدو كأنه فصلٌ من روايةٍ ممنوعة،

ومع ذلك… أنا أنتظرُ الصفحةَ التالية بشغف.”

“I’m sure my heart is a fool,

It sees the danger in his eyes… and likes it more!

He feels like a chapter from a forbidden novel,

And yet… I’m dying to read the next page.”

________________________________________________________

It was 4:07 AM.

The mansion was silent, bathed in the pale glow of dim hallway lights. Zamil stood near the staircase, dressed sharply in a black tailored shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a sleek wristwatch on his arm. His jet-black hair was still damp from a quick shower, pushed back with casual perfection. His expression was unreadable as he spoke into his wireless earpiece, eyes on his phone.

He was in the middle of a business call,not the New York office, but his main base in Pakistan.

“Saman Karachi port par phansa hua hai?”

His voice was firm, clipped.

(“The shipment is stuck at Karachi port?”)

There was a short pause. His jaw tightened.

“Kitni der lagegi? Main delay afford nahi kar sakta.”

(“How long will it take? I can’t afford delays.”)

Another pause.

“Balochistan ka route check karo. Kisi bhe movement ki update muje sub se phele chyiee.”

(“Check the Balochistan route. And I want a prior update if there’s any movement.”)

He ended the call as footsteps approached.

Turning slightly, his cold eyes softened ever so faintly.

Ayat stood there.

She looked like she had just stepped out of prayer. Her prayer scarf still clung softly around her head, a long white dress covering her modestly, her small hands folded in front of her. Sleep still lingered in her lashes, but her gaze was awake, aware.

She hesitated.”Are you going somewhere?”

Zamil’s voice was low. “Office.”

“You didn’t eat anything, right?”she said.

“No.”

“Let me make something. Just wait five minutes.”she insisted.

Zamil’s jaw tensed. His tone was flat. “I don’t have time.”

She stepped closer, her voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s your first day after the party… everyone must be expecting you to rest.”

He didn’t respond at first. Then quietly said, “Rest isn’t for people like me.”

She blinked.

Zamil turned, opened the door, a wave of early morning cold swept in.

And just like that, he disappeared into the cold morning.

__________________________

Zamil was seated behind his wide glass desk, going through some files while his Bluetooth earpiece stayed connected. His tone was calm, calculated, as he discussed the Pakistan base update with one of his top men.

The office door opened without a knock, and Yousef walked in casually with his usual smirk, holding a cup of coffee in one hand.

Yousef said while grinning, “Wow. You still work like you’re broke. Relax a little, Mr. Mafia Billionaire.”

Zamil didn’t even look up as he muttered coldly, “Come in or leave. Don’t hang like a ghost in the middle.”

Dropping himself onto the chair across from him, Yousef leaned back comfortably. “Oh, I’m definitely coming in. And I bring entertainment.”

Zamil finally looked up, his expression unimpressed. “What do you want now?”

Yousef leaned forward, placing his cup on the table with exaggerated drama. “Peace on earth. And also—you and your adorable wife at my place for dinner tonight.”

Zamil blinked once. “Dinner?”

“Yeah, dinner,” Yousef said, nodding like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You know… when people eat food, laugh, act like they’re normal? No guns, no threats, no Zamil death stares.”

Zamil’s face remained unreadable. “ok.”

Yousef replied instantly. “And I swear if you show up in your mafia mode suit with that stone face, I’m making you do the dishes.”

Zamil narrowed his eyes.

Yousef raised both hands. “Okay, fine. Bring your mafia aura. Just leave the guns in the mansion, alright?”

He was almost at the door when he turned back with a final grin. “Oh—and tell my sister in law I made Chinese For her.”

____________________

It was just after lunch when Ayat sat curled up on the living room couch, flipping through a recipe book out of boredom. The sunlight filtered gently through the curtains, casting soft patterns on the floor. She reached for her phone just to check the time — but her heart skipped when she noticed a new message.

Zamil: “Dinner at Yousef’s place tonight. Be ready by 7.”

That was it. No emojis, no extra words. So very Zamil.

Ayat’s eyes lit up. A wide, uncontrollable smile spread across her face as she whispered, “Brother Yousef…” Her mind raced with memories — his kind words, the way he joked with her, how he always appreciated her food like she was some world-class chef. This… this felt like a break from the tension. A small joy. A place she could breathe.

She quickly replied a simple:

Ayat: “Okay. I’ll be ready .”

Then set the phone aside and clasped her hands together, already thinking what she should wear. Nothing too fancy.

She got up, humming softly to herself as she headed to her room, already planning her evening.

________________

Ayat had been ready for over an hour.

Her long, cream-colored satin dress fell gracefully to her ankles, modest yet effortlessly beautiful. A soft nude-toned silk scarf was loosely wrapped around her head, framing her features gently. She’d kept her makeup minimal — just a little highlighter on her cheeks, kohl lining her eyes, and a clear gloss that gave her lips a soft sheen.

She kept checking the clock — 6:00 PM, and then she heard it.

The front door opened. Zamil was home.

After 20 minutes she couldn’t wait longer.so without thinking twice, she picked up the courage and walked straight to his room. Maybe to remind him of the time? Or maybe… she didn’t even know.

She knocked once.

No answer.

She knocked again,and this time, the door swung open.

And there he stood.

Zamil, half-wet, with droplets of water still trailing down his perfectly sculpted torso. A white towel rested around his neck, and his black track pants clung slightly low around his waist. His hair was damp, messy, and wild, and the soft glow from the room made the tattoo on his collarbone shimmer faintly. That one word inked there….Cocaine….bold and mysterious.

Ayat froze.

Her breath caught.

Her eyes, helplessly, traced his chest, collarbone, tattoo, then the sharp line of his jaw… and everything in between.

He noticed.

A smirk curved lazily across his lips as he leaned a little against the doorframe. His voice, husky and low, broke the silence.

“Enjoying the view?”

Ayat blinked, lost.

“Huh?” she let out breathlessly.

Only when she looked up into his eyes, watching that smirk grow deeper, did she realize where her gaze had been stuck.

“Astagfirullah!” she gasped, eyes widening in horror, cheeks flushed red.

Zamil hummed, amused.

“Hmm.”

She turned on her heels, and ran.

Zamil stood there for a second, shaking his head with a low chuckle.

“Astagfirullah,”

he repeated in a teasing tone under his breath, mimicking her voice with a crooked grin.

Then he shut the door and went to get dressed though, for the first time in a while, with an amused smile on his face.

____________

The sound of polished shoes clicked against the stairs.

Ayat, seated by the hallway mirror, lifted her eyes and froze.

Zamil looked effortlessly magnetic.

He wore a tailored navy-blue three-piece suit that hugged his tall frame perfectly. A crisp white shirt peeked out beneath the vest, and a silver chain traced from his pocket watch across his waistcoat. His hair, still damp from his recent shower, was slicked back, revealing his sharp features. His jawline was strong, his wrist held an elegant watch, and the long coat that flowed behind him gave him a silent power.

Ayat’s throat went dry.

And then… her mind betrayed her.

She remembered him shirtless.

Wet hair.

His abs still glistening.

The tattoo near his collarbone is bold and unreadable.

That smirk when he caught her staring.

Ya Allah…

Her cheeks turned a furious shade of red. She quickly turned her eyes away.

Zamil saw it all—the way she couldn’t look at him now. He let a smirk tug at his lips.

“Are we walking or taking the car?” he asked in that dark, calm voice of his.

Ayat blinked, confused. “Walking where?”

Zamil raised an eyebrow slightly, then pointed toward the gate.“One street away. Yousef’s place.”

Ayat followed his finger, her eyes widening when she saw the large villa behind the trees.“That’s where he lives? All this time?”

He gave a small nod.

She looked between the mansion and the other house. “I didn’t even realize it was so close…”

Zamil glanced at her sideways. “Did you think I’d let him live far away?”

“I mean… no. I just—” she stopped, eyes scanning the whole block. Every house, every gate, every luxury car in the driveway looked equally expensive.

As they walked through the lane, people passing by nodded respectfully at Zamil.

“Evening, boss.”

“Sir.”

A security guard stepped aside instantly, lowering his head in respect. Another man waiting at a nearby vehicle straightened at the sight of him.

Ayat blinked.

She glanced at Zamil and then back at the people,one after another greeting him like… like he owned the place.

“Wait…” she started, voice cautious, unsure if she was imagining things. “Is this… your place?”

Zamil didn’t stop walking. “What do you think?”

“I think,” she replied slowly, “you’re not going to say yes.”

He gave a side glance, eyes sharp with amusement. “Then you’re wrong.”

Ayat stopped for a second in her tracks.

“Yes?” she echoed in disbelief.

He pointed toward a sleek metal sign at the end of the road. Her eyes followed and there it was.

“Al Mansur State– Private Entry. No Trespassing.”

Below it, a secondary board read in clear print:

AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY – PROPERTY OF AL MANSUR GROUP

Her lips parted.

Al Mansur.

She knew that name—anyone in New York who followed business or security knew of this place. It was a fortress, the most secure residential area in the city. Entry was strictly forbidden to outsiders unless personally authorized. A place for diplomats, elite businessmen, and high-ranking personalities.

And she was walking inside it… with its owner.

Living under his roof.

As his wife.

Ayat’s stomach fluttered uneasily.

“I—I read about this place once,” she whispered, her voice softer now. “People said it was impossible to even step inside without layers of clearance…”

Zamil didn’t respond immediately, but his smirk returned faintly.

“And here I am,” she continued, almost to herself, “just casually walking in with the guy who owns it.”

“Not casually,” Zamil murmured without looking at her. “You’re walking in as my wife.”

Her steps faltered. A light flush crept across her cheeks again.

He looked ahead. “So maybe don’t act so surprised.”

Chapter 17

“لماذا تتغيرُ نبرتكِ حين تذكرين اسمه؟

لماذا يتحركُ طرفُ شفتيكِ وكأنكِ تخفينَ ابتسامة؟”

“أنا لا أشكّ، لكنني أرى ما لا ترين،

وأسمعُ في صوتكِ ما لم تقولي.”

“Why does your tone change when you say his name?

Why do your lips shift as if you’re hiding a smile?

I do not doubt you, but I see what you do not,

And I hear in your voice what you never say.”

___________________________________

As they stepped into the house, Yousef was already in the hall, flashing his signature grin.

“Finally!” he said, arms open. “I was starting to think Zamil forgot the way.”

Ayat smiled politely. “Assalamu Alaikum.”

“Walaikum assalam, Sister in law!” he said cheerfully, then leaned a bit closer. “You’ve got no idea how long I waited for this moment. Welcome to the madhouse.”

Ayat giggled lightly. Zamil, on the other hand, looked less than amused, his brow twitching.

“Do you plan to let us stand here forever?” Zamil interrupted coldly.

Yousef snorted. “Typical. Come in, come in.”

They stepped inside and settled in the sitting room. Ayat sat with her hands clasped neatly in her lap while Zamil leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching silently.

Yousef, ever the talker, kept the atmosphere light. “So, sister, how are you handling the devil prince? He gives people heart attacks with just his stare.”

Ayat smiled nervously, glancing once at Zamil before replying, “He’s… quiet.”

“That’s his full personality. Silent killer,” Yousef joked, then lowered his voice playfully. “Did he ever tell you what happened in Milan?”

Zamil shot him a warning glare, but Yousef continued anyway, mischief dancing in his eyes.

“He was drunk,very rare and the girl came up to him at the bar, all flirty and bold, asked if he wanted to dance. Guess what he did?”

Ayat raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Yousef laughed. “He looked her dead in the eye and said, ‘Mom?’”

Ayat’s eyes widened in disbelief before bursting into laughter, her hand covering her mouth. Even Zamil’s glare didn’t stop Yousef from chuckling.

“She ran off like she saw a ghost,” Yousef added with a grin. “And since then, he has never drunk at the bar .”

Ayat looked at Zamil, still giggling. His jaw was tight, but the faintest curve of amusement flickered in his eyes for a split second.

Before the teasing could go further, Yousef stood and clapped his hands. “Alright, dinner’s ready. Come before I change my mind.”

Ayat stood up slowly, still unsure if she was allowed to laugh in front of Zamil.

But as they walked to the dining room, she noticed Zamil hadn’t stopped her.

_________________

The dining room was tastefully set, with soft lighting overhead and a long table filled with dishes Yousef had clearly gone overboard with. From roasted lamb to creamy pasta and steaming saffron rice, it looked like a feast prepared for royalty.

“MashaAllah…” Ayat murmured under her breath, eyes scanning the table.

“Don’t be impressed. I just bribed the chef with a Rolex,” Yousef joked, pulling out a chair for her.

Ayat sat gracefully, whispering a soft Bismillah under her breath before picking up her fork.

Zamil took the seat across from her, his expression unreadable as he poured himself a glass of water. His silence held weight…commanding, unshaken, always observing.

Yousef, never one to let a moment be too quiet, served himself a giant helping of lamb. “You know,” he began, eyes flicking between Ayat and Zamil, “this dinner reminds me of the time your beloved husband-to-be left me to die in the desert.”

Ayat blinked. “What?”

Zamil didn’t even look up. “I knew you’d bring that up.”

“How could I not?” Yousef leaned forward with dramatic flair. “You know how people say, ‘I was left high and dry?’ No, Sister. I was left hot, dry, and hopeless. Middle of the Arabian desert. No water. No phone. Just a busted jeep and a camel that hated me.”

Ayat’s lips curved in a small laugh. “Wait—camel?”

“Oh yes,” Yousef said, placing his hand on his chest like a wounded hero. “Zak had this bright idea that we’d take an off-road shortcut through the desert during a business run. Jeep broke down. Satellite phone? Dead. So what does our genius here do?”

Zamil finally glanced up, unbothered. “I walked to the highway. Three hours. Got help. Left you with supplies.”

Yousef’s eyes widened. “He left me with one warm water bottle and a protein bar. That’s it. And the camel.”

Ayat chuckled. “What did you do?”

“I named the camel Shaitan, argued with it for two hours, then tried to ride it.” He threw up his hands. “Worst decision of my life. It bit me.”

Zamil smirked slightly, still not saying much, but Ayat noticed the flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“I still have the scar,” Yousef said proudly, turning slightly to show his arm. “You’d think he’d be sorry. But no. You know what he said when he finally returned with the rescue guys?”

Zamil wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I said, ‘You survived. Stop whining.’”

Ayat laughed now, hand covering her mouth.

Yousef pointed at her like he’d won. “See? Even she’s on my side.”

Zamil leaned back, expression calm. “I knew he wouldn’t die. He talks too much. That’s a survival instinct.”

Ayat’s laughter softened into a shy smile, her gaze shifting toward Zamil… who, despite his reserved demeanor, had a past full of reckless decisions, deep friendships, and silent care.

The warmth of the moment lingered, and for the first time, dinner felt less like formality… and more like something real.

__________________

The walk back from Yousef’s place had been mostly quiet, save for a few casual remarks exchanged between Ayat and Zamil. But the moment they stepped into the house, that silence shattered.

Ayat’s steps froze mid-hallway.

There, standing elegantly under the warm chandelier light, was her,the same woman from the party. Slender figure, lips painted crimson, wearing a skin-tight black dress that looked more suited for a catwalk than a casual drop-in. Her eyes locked onto Zamil like she’d been waiting.

Ayat’s blood turned cold.

Her gaze darted toward Zamil.

Calm. Cold. As if this was just another Tuesday evening.

“Zamil,” the woman purred, walking up to him like she owned the place, “I had to stop by. It’s urgent, I hope you don’t mind.” Her voice was dipped in honey, every syllable a slow seduction.

Without waiting for a reply, she gently held his wrist and added, “Can we talk in private? Your study?”

He gave a short nod and walked ahead, the woman following behind like a shadow. Ayat blinked in disbelief.

What… just happened?

Her chest tightened, but she masked it. Without a word, she turned and stormed into the kitchen, her hijab shifting slightly as she moved with rigid steps. Reaching the counter, she yanked a glass from the shelf, filled it with cold water, and downed it in one sharp gulp. The water barely touched the rage boiling inside her.

A chuckle came from the kitchen entrance.

“Easy there, dear” Lady Nova leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, lips curled in amusement. “That glass didn’t offend you, did it?”

Ayat gave her a glare, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. “What is she doing here?”

Nova stepped in, still amused. “Oh, the mysterious guest? That’s Bethany Hamilton, Boss’s so-called business girlfriend.”

Ayat’s eyebrows flew up. “Business… what?”

“She accompanies him on meetings, some international trips, smiles at board members, nods at press conferences. You know, the usual decorative nonsense.” Nova rolled her eyes. “And yes, she’d love to be more than just that.”

Ayat’s grip on the glass tightened.

Nova moved closer, voice dropping just slightly. “Girls like her don’t play fair, Ayat. They don’t ask for permission to steal a man. So don’t ever give up your place. Not even an inch. Understand?”

Ayat swallowed hard. There was something burning beneath her calm.

She didn’t even realize her feet had moved until she was halfway down the hallway. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears as her fingers curled around the handle of Zamil’s private study door.

She didn’t knock.

The door burst open.

Bethany was seated close to Zamil, the two discussing something on a tablet. Both heads turned at once.

Zamil sat up, visibly annoyed. “Ayat,” he said calmly, suppressing his irritation, “this isn’t the time. We’ll talk later.”

“No,” she snapped. “You can talk now. What does she mean by ‘business girlfriend’? What exactly is this business?”

Bethany raised an amused eyebrow, a smug smirk on her lips. “Should I explain it to her, or will you?”

Zamil’s jaw tightened, but before he could speak, Ayat stepped forward, eyes blazing. “Explain it all. Right here.”

Bethany laughed lightly. “Darling, I’ve been around for years. Your sudden presence won’t change much.”

“Ayat.” Zamil’s voice was like a storm barely held back. “Leave, we will talk later”

She held her ground. She didn’t move even an inch.

For a second, everyone froze.

Bethany smirked, clearly entertained.

Zamil exhaled through his nose, sharp and long. But then—he turned to Bethany, not Ayat.

“You can leave now.”

Bethany blinked. “What?”

“You heard me. Leave.” His tone was final, filled with warning.

Ayat didn’t move. Didn’t blink. She just stood tall, her heart racing,but victorious.

Bethany stood up slowly, rage and disbelief mixing in her glossy eyes. As she walked past Ayat, the younger girl tilted her head slightly and gave her the smallest smirk.

A devilish one.

Bethany paused for half a second, narrowed her eyes, then walked out without another word.

Ayat stood near the doorway, still catching her breath from the impulsive confrontation. Her eyes flicked from the closed door to the man now staring at her—cold, unreadable, composed.

Zamil, leaning casually against his desk with his arms crossed, finally broke the silence, his voice calm but laced with a hint of sharp curiosity.

Zamil: “What exactly do you want to know, Miss Ayat?”

His tone wasn’t angry,yet. It was the kind that warned someone they were threading a thin line. But instead of backing off… Ayat froze.

She could feel his gaze digging into her like a scalpel, precise and intentional.

Her eyes lowered, her fingers tightening at her sides.

Ayat barely above a whisper, “No…thing…”

Zamil straightened. “Nothing?”

She shook her head once, then turned around and run out without another word.

His brows furrowed.

Zamil to himself, confused but intrigued, “What the hell is wrong with this woman?”

He remained still for a moment, watching the door she just exited through.

___________________

Ayat sat on the edge of her bed, her thoughts spiraling as she stared at the wall blankly. Lady Nova’s words echoed over and over in her mind.

>“don’t ever give up your place. Not even an inch.”

She clutched the blanket tighter.

Why was she affected?

Why did it bother her when that woman greeted him like that?

She shook her head, annoyed at herself.

But the irritation wouldn’t fade.

Neither would the image of Bethany walking into his private study… unbothered, as if she belonged there.

Ayat’s jaw clenched.

__________

Meanwhile

The room was dimly lit, cold like its owner.

Zamil sat on the couch near the window, laptop resting on his thighs, screen glowing with graphs and confidential data. His fingers moved with sharp precision, every click a rhythm of control and efficiency.

Then.

a soft knock.

He glanced up, expecting Yousef or perhaps one of the guards.

But the door opened slowly.

And there she was.

Ayat.

Wrapped in a long night robe, her face calm… too calm.

He didn’t speak, only leaned back slightly, his brows lifting.

His tone was neutral. “Yes?”

Ayat walked in without hesitation, barefoot against the cool floor, and stopped right in front of him. She looked straight into his eyes, her voice clear—tinged with something fierce and unfamiliar.

“I’ll sleep here tonight.”

Chapter 18

بدا الهوى همسًا كنسمةِ فجرٍ

يُداعبُ القلبَ بلونِ الزهرِ

نظرةٌ منها أشعلت نارَ شوقٍ

فصرتُ أسيرًا بلا أيِّ عذرِ

Love began as a whisper, like dawn’s soft breeze,

Caressing the heart with the bloom of trees.

One glance from her sparked a burning desire,

And I became captive, with no excuse to retire.

________________________________________________________

Zamil sat on the couch near the window, laptop resting on his thighs, screen glowing with graphs and confidential data. His fingers moved with sharp precision, every click a rhythm of control and efficiency.

Then.

a soft knock.

He glanced up, expecting Yousef or perhaps one of the guards.

But the door opened slowly.

And there she was.

Ayat.

Wrapped in a long night robe, her face calm… too calm.

He didn’t speak, only leaned back slightly, his brows lifting.

His tone was neutral. “Yes?”

Ayat walked in without hesitation, barefoot against the cool floor, and stopped right in front of him. She looked straight into his eyes, her voice clear…tinged with something fierce and unfamiliar.

“I’ll sleep here tonight,” she said confidently.

Zamil finally raised his eyes, brows knitting together. “No.”

“I will,” she repeated, matching his firmness with her own.

He leaned back in his chair, giving her a look. “Why?”

“Because… because every wife sleeps in her husband’s room,” she replied with quiet pride.

That made him chuckle. Slowly, he shut the laptop and stood up. “Weren’t you the one who demanded a separate room the first night?”

Her chin lifted slightly. “And now I… I’ve changed my mind.”

Zamil stepped closer, looking amused but sharp-eyed. “Go back. I have work to do.”

But Ayat didn’t budge. “No. If you don’t let me in, I’ll sleep outside the door… but I’m not going anywhere else.”

That finally made irritation flash across his face. He shut his laptop with a soft click. “You’re impossible.”

She gave him a small triumphant smile. “So… I can stay?”

With a long sigh, he gestured toward the bed. “Do whatever you want.”

Ayat walked in, but her earlier confidence began to crumble under his sharp gaze. Her heartbeat quickened.

Zamil noticed immediately. His smirk deepened. “You do realize, wives don’t just sleep in their husband’s bed… they do a little more than that.”

Her cheeks flamed red. “I-I’ll just sleep.” She scurried to the bed, pulled the blanket over herself like a shield, and grabbed the nearest book.

Zamil chuckled quietly, returning to his work on the sofa.

____________

An hour later, he finally shut his laptop. Crossing the room, he noticed Ayat sitting against the headboard, a book open in her lap. She looked up the moment he stopped in front of the bed.

He unbuttoned his shirt.

Her eyes widened. “W-What are you doing?”

“Sleeping,” he said casually.

“Not like that,” she blurted. “It’s… it’s not appropriate.”

He raised a brow. “This is how I sleep.”

“Well… not when I’m here.”

For a moment, his eyes glinted with mischief. Then, without another word, he slipped into the bed beside her, this time with his shirt still on.

Ayat let out a soft breath, relieved, and put her book aside. Before lying down, she glanced at him hesitantly.

“Hmm… about the university.”

He didn’t look at her. “What about it?”

“Tomorrow’s the joining date. I haven’t received any details yet.”

Zamil finally shifted slightly, still not meeting her eyes, his tone indifferent but efficient.

“It’s settled. You’ll find the confirmation, ID card, and complete schedule on the study table by morning.”

Ayat blinked, a little surprised. She hadn’t expected everything to be handled already.

He added, still coldly, “You don’t have to worry about anything outside of your studies. Just focus on that.”

A moment of silence passed before Ayat softly said, “Thank you.”

He didn’t reply. Just turned his back again.

Later that night, the AC hummed softly in the quiet room, but Ayat’s teeth were nearly chattering. The air felt like ice. She clutched the blanket tighter but it wasn’t helping.

She peeked at Zamil, who was sleeping peacefully like the cold didn’t even exist.

“Zamil…” she called out quietly.

He didn’t answer at first, only groaned slightly in sleep.

“It’s really cold…” she murmured.

In a low, lazy voice, eyes still closed, he replied, “Then come here.”

She instantly responded, “No.”

That made him open one eye, turning his head slightly to glance at her over his shoulder. Her flushed cheeks and fidgeting fingers said more than her words.

He smirked, voice low and dry, “Then freeze.”

And with that, he turned his back fully toward her again, dragging the blanket with him just to be petty.

Ayat let out a tiny gasp, stunned.

“Unbelievable,” she mumbled under her breath.

From the other side, a small chuckle escaped Zamil’s lips …quiet, but very much amused.

_______________

Ayat woke to the sharp trill of her alarm. Blinking away the haze of sleep, she wrapped her scarf and performed her morning prayer, her whispered duas echoing softly in the stillness of the grand bedroom.

When she rose, the other side of the bed was cold. Empty.

Quietly, she walked downstairs.

The sudden creak of the heavy main door made her stop. A tall figure stepped in, sweat glistening across his temples, his shirt clinging lightly to his chest. His dark hair was damp from the workout, and the familiar aura of command clung to him like a shadow.

Zamil.

He noticed her immediately, his sharp gaze softening just a fraction.”The university time is nine,” he said, his voice low and even. “Why are you awake this early?”

Ayat clasped her hands gently in front of her. “I was praying.”

He gave a short nod, then moved to walk past her.

On instinct, she called softly, “Do you… want breakfast? I can make something.”

His steps slowed. For a moment, it looked like he might consider it. But then…

“Not now.”

His tone was final. He disappeared upstairs.

Ayat sighed and went back to the sofa, her fingers unconsciously tracing the spine of her Quran.

Minutes later, heavy steps descended again. Zamil emerged, freshly showered, adjusting the cuffs of his black shirt. But before he could leave, his phone rang.

He answered sharply.

“-What?”

The voice on the other end spoke quickly. Zamil’s expression shifted, eyes flashing with something dangerous. Anger simmered like fire beneath his calm exterior.

“They attacked the base?” His jaw tightened. “Gather the men. Lock down the servers. Protect the IT wing at all costs.”

Ayat, startled by the fury in his voice, rose from the sofa. She had never seen him like this before sharp, commanding, radiating the kind of danger people only whispered about. Her heart pounded, but she stepped toward him anyway.

“Where are you going?” she asked, her voice trembling but firm.

He turned, eyes blazing like storm clouds. For a moment, she thought he might shout. But instead, his tone was clipped, chilling.

“At work.”

His phone rang again. He answered without another glance and walked out of the mansion, his stride fast, every movement crackling with controlled rage.

Ayat stood frozen in the silence he left behind. A knot formed in her chest. She lifted her hands, whispering under her breath, “Ya Allah, protect him.”

____________

By nine, Ayat was ready for the university. At the entrance, a tall man awaited her – broad shoulders, sharp eyes, built like a soldier. He bowed his head slightly.

“Madam, Boss has assigned me as your driver.”

Ayat studied him. He couldn’t be older than late twenties, his stance alert, the unmistakable aura of a bodyguard surrounding him. She gave a polite nod and stepped into the car.

_________

Elsewhere

A dimly lit room reeked of cigar smoke and aged whiskey. Shadows clung to the walls like secrets no one dared whisper.

In the center, a man lounged in a leather chair, his back facing the trembling subordinate standing before him. A glass of amber liquid swirled lazily in his hand.

“Boss,” the subordinate began, voice unsteady. “We struck Al Mansur’s base. Heavy losses. They’re scrambling. The next strike is prepared for tonight.”

The man in the chair chuckled, a low, venomous sound that filled the silence with unease. He leaned forward, the light finally revealing his sharp jawline and cruel smirk.

“At night?” His voice dripped with malice. “Good. Let Mansur learn what it feels like… to suffer the way his father once did.”

The subordinate bowed and scurried out.

From the corner, another figure emerged, a guard, tall and merciless. “Mr. Victor, what are the orders?”

Victor’s smile deepened, his eyes burning with old hatred.

“Prepare the men. Tonight, we make him bleed.”

The room sank into silence again, except for the soft clink of glass as Victor lifted his drink.

__________

It was afternoon when Ayat returned from the university.

Her first day had been overwhelming, new halls, new faces, a completely unfamiliar environment. Yet, she carried a certain glow, a quiet sense of stability, as though she was proud of herself for handling it all with grace.

The moment she stepped into the mansion, she asked for Zamil.

“Boss is in the office, “lady Nova informed her politely.

Ayat nodded, heading upstairs to change out of her abaya. She carefully folded it aside, performed her Salah, and afterward, settled on the bed with her phone.

Scrolling through the news, her eyes suddenly froze. A headline flashed across the screen:

“Attack on Al Mansur Group’s IT Base… Minimal Damage Reported.”

Her breath hitched. The video beneath the headline showed Zamil and Yousef emerging from the building amidst chaos, cameras catching only glimpses of their sharp expressions before Zamil got into his car.

Ayat’s heart raced. Panic crept up her throat. She bolted downstairs, almost stumbling, and called out for lady Nova.

“Lady Nova… did you see this? The news…Zamil…” her words tangled.

Nova, calm as always, reassured her. “Relax, dear. The boss is fine. There wasn’t much damage. Everything is under control.”

Ayat sat on the sofa, phone trembling in her hand. Relief should have washed over her, but her nerves refused to settle. She kept staring at the screen, the urge to hear his voice battling against her hesitation.

Her thumb hovered, then finally pressed the call button.

__________

The conference room was silent except for the steady hum of voices, papers sliding, and strategies being discussed. Zamil sat at the head of the table, his posture commanding, eyes sharp as he listened to every word.

Then his phone buzzed.

He spared a glance at the caller ID. Ayat.

Normally, during meetings like this, he never entertained distractions, not even emergencies. Yet his hand moved on its own, snatching up the device. He pressed the screen to his ear.

“Hello.”

The line was quiet. Too quiet. For a second, he thought she had dialed him by mistake. But then her voice came through…soft, hesitant, almost fragile.

“Are you… fine?”

He stilled. His jaw tightened, but his reply came low and even.

“Yes.”

He heard it then….her breath, shaky, as though she had been holding it back until now. He could almost picture her with her brows furrowed, lips pressed together in nervousness. The sound lingered in his ears far longer than it should.

“Is there anything you want?” His tone was clipped, stripped of emotion.

“No,” she whispered. “Just wanted to know if you’re okay… or not.”

A beat of silence. His eyes flicked to the men at the table, all watching him in shock.

He exhaled, a short hum escaping his chest. “Then bye.”

Without another word, he set the phone face down on the table. The weight of his stare swept across the room…. cold, sharp, lethal. Every man present, including Yousef, stiffened under it.

“Continue,” he ordered.

Chapter 19

“وإن كنتُ صامتًا، فقلبي يصرخ باسمكِ سرًا،

وفي صقيع برودي، تشتعلُ نارُ حبّكِ خفيةً.”

“Even if I remain silent, my heart secretly screams your name,And within the frost of my coldness, the fire of your love burns quietly.”

____________________________

It was midnight. The house was silent, but Ayat couldn’t rest. She kept pacing the living room, her fingers nervously twisting the end of her scarf. Every tick of the clock only made her heart heavier. He hadn’t returned. What if something had happened?

And then,the heavy front door creaked open.

Her heart jumped. Zamil walked in. His shirt was soaked in blood, his face carrying fresh bruises and dust from the night.

Ayat’s blood ran cold. Without thinking, she rushed toward him. “Ya Allah… what happened to you?”

But instead of answering, his eyes flickered to her….cold, sharp, almost annoyed. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” His voice carried a hint of anger, as though her worry irritated him.

Ayat froze for a second, her lips trembling. She wanted to scream at him, to demand answers, but instead, she whispered, “How did this happen?”

“Leave it, Ayat,” he snapped, his voice rising. “I’m not in the mood to talk.” His tone was enough to silence an entire room.

Her eyes widened in shock. He’d never raised his voice at her like that before. Without waiting for her response, he turned and stormed upstairs, his heavy footsteps echoing.

But Ayat didn’t care about his temper tonight. Something stronger than fear pushed her forward. She followed him, up the stairs, and reached his room,only to find the door locked.

“Zamil! Open the door!” she called, her voice trembling. “Let me help you, please!” She hadn’t even realized tears were rolling down her cheeks until she felt the warmth of them on her skin.

For a long moment, there was silence. Then click. The door unlocked.

She hurried inside. He was standing by the dresser, trying to peel his blood-stained shirt off. Ayat didn’t waste a second. She began searching the drawers frantically, her hands trembling as she pulled things out, desperate to find the first-aid kit.

Zamil just stood there, watching her. Something strange flickered in his eyes……like surprise at seeing this fragile girl move with such fire.

Finally, she found it. Ayat rushed to him, her breathing uneven. “Show me your arm.”

“I said I don’t need it. I can do it myself,” he muttered coldly.

That broke something inside her. For the first time, her voice rose against his. “Stop acting like this!” she cried, tears shining in her eyes. “You are hurt, Zamil! Let me help you!”

He blinked, taken aback. No one ever raised their voice to him. Yet here she was….this girl, barely holding herself together, daring to stand in front of him like that.

Her trembling hands reached for his shoulder. “Please… let me see.”

His lips curved into a small teasing smirk despite the situation. “You want me to open my shirt?” His tone carried that mocking edge.

Ayat’s face flushed, but she didn’t back down. “If that’s what it takes, yes.”

For a second, their eyes locked. Then, without another word, he unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off, revealing the deep gash along his shoulder. Ayat’s breath caught, but she quickly composed herself, bandaging it carefully. She dabbed cream onto the bruises on his face, her hands trembling each time her fingers brushed against his skin.

He didn’t flinch….didn’t even move. He just stared at her, silently, almost… bewildered.

This was the first time he had returned from a night like this and found someone waiting. Someone crying for him. Someone patching up his wounds instead of letting them scar.

When she finished, Ayat sat back, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. But then, as if something broke inside her, she suddenly leaned forward and hugged him….burying her face against his uninjured shoulder.

Zamil froze. No one touched him. No one dared. His first instinct was to pull her off. But his body… didn’t move.

She clung to him, her tears soaking into his skin. “Don’t do this again… please… don’t come back like this…”

His hand twitched, almost reaching to hold her….but he stopped himself.

After a long moment, she pulled away, embarrassed, wiping her face. “I’m sorry…”

He stared at her, his voice low. “Are you always going to cry like this whenever I come home like this?”

She sniffled, her eyes still wet but defiant. “Yes. I’ll cry even more.”

Something unexpected happened then. A sound Ayat had never heard before. Zamil chuckled,low and short, but it was there.

Ayat blinked, almost forgetting her tears. “What’s so funny?”

He shook his head, still smirking. “Nothing. Just… strange.”

Her curiosity burned, but she didn’t push. Instead, she asked quietly, “How did this happen?”

His expression hardened instantly. “It’s business.”

Ayat frowned. “Do all businessmen come home bleeding like this?”

His lips curved into a colder smirk, his eyes dark. “Not all businessmen are me, Ayat.”

____________

2am

The mansion was silent. Upstairs, Ayat was curled beneath the blanket, lost in deep sleep. Zamil slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb her. His eyes, however, were far from calm….dark, burning with rage.

He descended the stairs, heading into the basement.

The dim light flickered on, revealing Yousef and a man tied to a chair, drenched in blood, half-conscious.

Yousef stepped forward. “Boss… he’s been asking to talk. Says he’ll tell everything.”

Zamil didn’t respond at first. His cold gaze fixed on the man. He crouched down, his voice low but deadly calm.

“Who sent you?”

The man trembled, lips cracked. At first, he stayed silent. But then,his eyes lifted, and the name slipped out.

“…Victor.”

Zamil’s blood boiled. His jaw clenched, eyes sharp as blades.

“Him… again.” His voice dripped with venom.

He stood tall, his presence filling the entire basement like a storm.

“This time,” he said darkly, “we don’t just defend. We strike. And I’ll make sure he watches every piece of it.”

Before the man could speak again, Zamil’s gun was raised. A single shot echoed. Silence returned.

Yousef’s expression hardened, though he didn’t flinch—he was used to this. He wiped his hand over his face.

“Zak… our source in the underworld says Victor’s moved to Italy. If we’re hitting back… that’s where we go.”

Zamil slid the gun back into its holster, his voice “we are going tomorrow.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “He will pay for his deeds, buddy.”

Yousef nodded, gratitude flashing in his eyes.

_________________

4:00 AM

The soft trill of Ayat’s alarm echoed in the quiet room. She groggily reached out, silencing it before sitting up and rubbing her sleepy eyes. After performing her Fajr prayer, she turned toward the other side of the bed instinctively empty.

Her brows furrowed.

Before worry could settle, the click of the door broke the silence.

Zamil stepped inside, dressed sharply in a black fitted shirt and jacket, his hair damp as if freshly showered. He carried a stack of papers in one hand, his expression carved from stone. If not for the faint bandage peeking beneath his collar, no one would believe he had walked home covered in blood just a few hours ago.

Ayat’s lips parted slightly. “Zamil…” she whispered, her voice soft yet anxious. “Where are you going? You’re injured… you should rest.”

He paused, glancing at her briefly, his sharp gaze unreadable.

“Rest isn’t for me…” he said flatly, then added in a deeper, quieter tone, “…Zawjati”(my wife)

The single word caught her off guard, her heart skipping, but her concern didn’t fade. She stepped closer, bare feet touching the cold marble floor.

“… At least tell me where.”

He shuffled through the papers without looking at her. “Italy,” he said calmly. “A week. Maybe more.”

Her breath hitched, but before she could respond, he started toward the door.

“Wait!” Ayat hurried behind him, following him down the grand staircase. “At least… let me make breakfast.”

He didn’t stop walking. “No need,” he said, voice low and final.

But she stood her ground, clutching the railing. “ please…”

That made him pause. He turned his head slightly, his cold eyes locking with hers for a brief moment, testing her resolve. Finally, he gave a slight nod. “Fine. But make it quick.”

Minutes later, the two sat in silence across the long dining table.

Ayat carefully placed the plate before him, her slender hands trembling slightly though she tried to hide it. Zamil ate slowly, his sharp features calm, composed, almost untouchable.

She watched him quietly, her heart heavy.

Finally, he placed the fork down and wiped his hands with a napkin. As he stood, adjusting his jacket, his gaze briefly lingered on her.

“Don’t destroy the house when I’m not around,” he said casually, his tone low but carrying a faint trace of mockery.

Her brows furrowed. “What does that even mean?”

He smirked faintly…the rare, fleeting kind she wasn’t used to seeing. “You’ll figure it out.”

Before she could respond, he walked past her, leaving a trail of authority in his wake.

Two black SUVs stood waiting outside, engines humming. Yousef stood nearby, arms folded, his expression serious but softening when he saw Ayat approach.

She adjusted her scarf nervously. “Take care of yourself,” she told Yousef, her voice calm but laced with worry. Then her eyes shifted to Zamil. “And… take care of him too.”

Yousef gave her a faint smile. “Always.”

Zamil, already at the car door, paused and looked at her one last time. His face revealed nothing, but his eyes lingered just a heartbeat longer than usual before he slid into the vehicle.

The engines roared to life, and within moments, the convoy disappeared down the dark street.

Ayat stood frozen at the gate, clutching her scarf tightly against her chest.

Under her breath, she whispered, “Ya Allah… protect him.”

---

Hopefully you guys are doing fine….. Thanks for giving your love to ” Mafia”.

And also we are going to reach 20 chapters soon and I’m gonna cry like I didn’t expect this much from you guys always cheering me up to write more….

Well let me tell you a secret…. Hmmm so we are reaching to chapter 20 soon. I’m thinking about to make it more like zamil actual past story and the current living of ayat without zamil… There’s more to come… Ik it’s looks kinda boring but when you read it you will feel it…. I’m sure!

Ok guys have a good night 🙂‍↔️❤️😴

Chapter 20

بردُ كلماتِك يؤلمني،

لكنَّ حلاوتَها تُدفئ قلبي. ❄️❤️

“The coldness of your words hurts me,

Yet their sweetness warms my heart.”

______________

Somewhere above the Mediterranean Sea, 1:42 AM

The private jet hummed softly, cutting through the dark clouds. The cabin lights were dim, bathing everything in a faint golden glow. Outside, the night was endless ….the stars scattered like whispers of forgotten promises.

Zamil sat on the leather couch, his black shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, laptop open but untouched. Across from him, Yousef sprawled comfortably, tossing a grape into his mouth with a mischievous grin.

Yousef smirked.

“Man, this feels romantic, doesn’t it? Just the two of us, 40,000 feet above the ground, candlelight vibes…”

Zamil didn’t even glance at him.

“Yousef.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

Yousef chuckled, unfazed. “Cold as always. One day, you’ll miss my sense of humor.”

Zamil’s gaze stayed fixed on the clouds outside. “Not in this lifetime.

A flight attendant passed by silently, placing two plates of grilled chicken and pasta on the table. Yousef immediately dug in, while Zamil picked at his food without much interest.

Between bites, Yousef spoke, his tone shifting to business.

“The arrangements are set. Our contact in Rome Lorenzo Ricci has secured the safehouse. He owes us big time after last year.”

Zamil finally looked at him. “Location?”

“An old villa on the outskirts. Private, secure, no prying eyes.”

Zamil gave a small nod … approval without words.

Yousef yawned and stood, stretching his arms. “Alright, habibi, I’m claiming the bed before you do. I know how you are.”

“Go,” Zamil muttered, sipping his coffee. “You snore anyway.”

“Hey you!” Yousef laughed, clutching his chest in fake offense. “I don’t snore.”

“You do,” Zamil said dryly, eyes still on his cup. “Even the walls complain.”

Yousef rolled his eyes and within seconds, he climbed onto the jet’s bed, cocooning himself in a blanket. His soft snores filled the cabin.

Zamil, however, didn’t move. He sat there, his long fingers tracing the rim of his untouched glass of water, his cold gaze heavy on the night sky.

And then it hit him.

Victor.

The name whispered like a curse in his mind. He closed his eyes and the darkness dragged him back.

_____

(A dimly lit underground chamber, Turkey)

A sharp crack echoed in the damp room as a whip lashed across a boy’s back.

Fifteen-year-old Zamil knelt on the cold ground, his hands bound behind him, his body trembling from exhaustion.

An old man stood over him, his voice dripping with venom.

“You filthy rat! You dare steal rice from the owner’s plate?”

Zamil stayed silent, his head bowed. His cold, lifeless eyes stared at the dirt floor, refusing to give the man the satisfaction of a scream.

The old man cursed under his breath and left, slamming the heavy door shut. The chamber fell into silence, broken only by Zamil’s shallow breaths.

His back burned, his vision blurred, but he didn’t cry. He pressed his forehead against the floor, whispering softly,

“Mama…”

And just like that, he was seven again.

________

7 year old little boy.

A mansion in Cairo.

His mother laughed softly, placing a homemade cake on the table.

“Eid milad sa’eed, habibi!” (Happy birthday, my love!)

His father handed him a small box, smiling proudly.

“Open it, Zamil.”

Inside was a silver locket with delicate Arabic engravings. He opened it, revealing a tiny photo of himself and his mother.

“Da khass giddan… khalli da ma’ak daiman.” (This is special… keep it with you, always.)

But then…the memory shattered.

Gunshots. Screams.

The sound of glass breaking.

Blood.

Silence.

His parents… gone.

_______

Zamil’s eyes shot open in the memory, back to being fifteen, lying on the prison floor in Turkey. His trembling hands clutched the locket beneath his shirt.

“Wallahi… mash hayseebhom.” (I swear… I won’t leave them.)

A small voice came from the corner of the cell.

“Akhi… inta bikhair?” (Brother… are you okay?)

Zamil turned, surprised to see a little boy no older than ten, sitting against the wall, covered in dirt, his face bruised and pale.

Zamil’s expression softened slightly.

“Ana bikhair…” (I’m fine…) he said quietly, his Egyptian accent heavy.

“Ismak eh?” (What’s your name?)

The boy hesitated, his Gulf accent soft and shaky.

“Ismi Yousef… wa ‘umri ‘ashra sneen.” (My name is Yousef… I’m ten years old.)

Zamil gave him a faint, reassuring smile.

“Ana Zamil.” (I’m Zamil.)

Yousef crawled a little closer, his voice trembling.

“Hadha al-rajul darabak?” (Did that man beat you?)

Zamil shook his head slightly, lying with confidence.

“La… ana qawi.” (No… I’m strong.)

Yousef tilted his head, unconvinced.

“Wallah?” (Really?)

Zamil nodded.” Awa.”. (Yes)

After a moment, Yousef whispered, his voice breaking:

“Kaif ji’ta huna?” (How did you end up here?)

Zamil’s jaw tightened, but his voice was steady.

“Ana min Masr… wahum amsakuni bedoun sabab.” (I’m from Egypt… they caught me without reason.)

Yousef lowered his gaze, hugging his knees.

“Ana min al-Khaleej…” (I’m from the Gulf…) he whispered.

“They… sold me here… because I have no parents.”

Zamil stared at him, silent for a long time, his chest tightening. He saw himself in the boy’s pain, in his loneliness, in his scars.

Finally, Zamil reached out, his voice low but firm.

“La takhaf…” (Don’t be afraid…)

“Ma’ ba’d… ahad mish hay’dir yusibna.” (From now on… no one will hurt us.)

For the first time, Yousef smiled faintly. That night, in a filthy dark prison, two broken meet with each other.

__________

Back to the Jet…… Present Day

A loud thud jolted Zamil awake.

He blinked and found Yousef sprawled on the floor, groaning in pain.

Zamil raised a brow. “What are you doing down there?”

Yousef rubbed his elbow, glaring. “I… slipped off the bed.”

Zamil leaned back, expression unreadable but his lips twitching faintly. “Did the bed kick you off?”

“Wallah, stop laughing!” Yousef snapped.

“I’m not laughing,” Zamil said flatly. “But the bed clearly hates you.”

Yousef narrowed his eyes, grabbing a pillow and throwing it at him.

“Ya ibn al-shaytan! One day, I’ll expose you. You do laugh, Mr. Ice Face.”

Zamil smirked faintly, sipping his coffee.

“Go back to sleep before you break the floor.”

“Ya shatan …” ( you devil )Yousef muttered under his breath, climbing back up to the bed.

For the first time in days, the cabin felt lighter.

________

The sharp ringing of the alarm broke the soft silence of Ayat’s small bedroom.

Her hand reached out lazily, tapping the phone to silence it. Slowly, she opened her eyes and blinked against the faint morning light seeping through the curtains. For a moment, she just lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling that familiar emptiness settle in her chest.

The house was quiet.

Zamil wasn’t there.

She sat up slowly, rubbed her sleepy eyes, and whispered softly to herself:

“Another day, Ayat… Bismillah.”

She slipped off her blanket and padded across the cold floor to the washroom. After performing wudu, she laid her prayer mat and offered Fajr salah, her forehead pressing gently against the soft fabric of the sajdah.

When she finished, she stayed seated, picking up her small Quran. Her lips moved silently, reciting verses in a soft rhythm, letting the calmness settle into her heart.

Closing the Quran, she drew in a deep breath. It was her second day at university, and though yesterday had gone better than she expected, she still felt an odd nervousness building inside.

Walking toward her wardrobe, she murmured softly, “What should I wear today?” as her fingers brushed along her clothes.

She finally chose a light beige abaya with a pastel pink hijab, pairing it with her simple cross-body bag. Standing before the mirror, she adjusted her scarf carefully, making sure every fold sat perfectly in place.

Her phone buzzed with a reminder for her lecture timings. She whispered under her breath, “Ya Allah, make this day smooth for me.”

The university campus was buzzing with life, students chatting loudly, groups rushing toward lecture halls, and the sound of car doors slamming shut as more arrivals poured in.

Ayat clutched her bag tightly, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the strap as she looked around, trying to find her classroom.

She whispered to herself, almost like a small prayer,

“Oh Allah, please don’t let me get lost today…”

She checked her timetable again and walked toward the lecture hall. As she entered, she noticed there were already several students seated in clusters, laughing and talking. Ayat hesitated for a moment, scanning for an empty seat. That’s when a cheerful voice called out:

Emily leaned slightly from her desk, waving her hand.

“Hey! You’re new here, right? Come sit with me!”

Ayat blinked, surprised, and pointed to herself.

“Me?”

Emily laughed softly, “Of course you! Unless there’s a secret twin of you standing behind.”

Ayat smiled shyly and walked over, sitting next to her.

Emily stretched out her hand warmly.

“I’m Emily Carter third-year student, literature major, professional coffee addict… and now, hopefully, your first friend here.”

Ayat hesitated for a split second before shaking her hand.

“Ayat… Ayat Al Khalil Final year and, um… definitely a coffee addict.”

Emily chuckled, “wow! That’s great.”

Ayat smiled faintly, her nervousness slowly melting away.

Emily leaned closer, lowering her voice dramatically.

“So, first impression of the university? Be honest.”

Ayat looked around the buzzing lecture hall and whispered,

“Honestly… it’s big. And noisy. And I feel like I might get lost any second.”

Emily laughed so loudly a few students turned to look.

“Oh, you poor thing! Don’t worry, I’ll be your personal GPS from now on.”

Ayat giggled softly, “Deal.”

Just as the professor walked in, Emily whispered,

“By the way, there’s a secret cafeteria downstairs that sells the best sandwiches in the whole university. After class, I’m kidnapping you there. No arguments.”

Ayat raised an eyebrow but nodded slightly,

“Kidnapping sounds… surprisingly friendly.”

Emily winked, “With me, it always is.”

And just like that, Ayat had found her first friend in a foreign world.

_________

A week later

Ayat sat cross-legged on the bed, hugging a pillow tightly, the silence of the house surrounding her like a thick fog. The TV was on, but she wasn’t watching. The clock ticked louder than usual.

Ever since Zamil left for Italy, everything felt… wrong. Too quiet. Too empty.

She tried distracting herself.. study, reading, even double-cleaning the kitchen ….but her thoughts kept circling back to him.

Her phone rested in her palm, his name glowing on the screen. She stared at it, debating for the hundredth time whether to call.

“What am I even going to say…?” she whispered under her breath.

Before she could overthink any further, she hit the call button.

The line rang. Once. Twice.

Then his deep, cold voice answered, “Ayat?”

Her throat went dry. Words refused to come out.

“Say something! Anything!”

She blurted the first thing that came to mind:

“Um… do you know where the TV remote is?”

There was silence on the other end. Dead silence.

Zamil finally spoke in his cold tone, “You… called me… in the middle of a meeting… from another country… to ask about a remote?”

Ayat squeezed her eyes shut, clutching the pillow tighter. “…I thought maybe you took it by mistake when you packed! The TV won’t turn on without it!”

This time, there was no mistaking it……he exhaled sharply, a sound caught between disbelief and a quiet laugh he was trying to hide.

“Ayat,” he said flatly, “I’m in Italy. If I had your remote, that would be impressive even for me.”

Her cheeks burned. “I was just checking!” she mumbled defensively, lowering her voice.

There was another pause, and then his voice softened, just slightly:

“I’m fine.”

The words carried more weight than she expected, making her heart skip.

Before she could respond, he added in his usual cold tone, “And don’t destroy the house while I’m gone.”

She gasped, her brows knitting together. “I’m not a kid, Zamil!”

He hummed lowly, almost amused. “Good. Then keep it standing until I return.”

The call ended, leaving Ayat staring at the phone, cheeks warm and lips curved into an involuntary smile.

________

Zamil leaned back against the plush leather couch of the penthouse suite, one hand resting on the armrest while the other loosely held his phone.

The room was dim, city lights from Florence spilling through the massive glass windows behind him. Papers and maps of Victor’s network were spread across the coffee table, but for the first time in hours, his focus had shifted elsewhere.

The moment Ayat hung up, a deep silence settled around him.

Yousef, sitting opposite him with his laptop open, noticed the faintest change in Zamil’s expression… not obvious, but enough for someone who’d known him for years to catch.

Yousef raised an eyebrow. “Who was it?”

Zamil, still staring at the phone, answered coldly, “Ayat.”

Yousef smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Oh? What did she want?”

Zamil set the phone down, picked up a glass of water, and said in his usual composed tone, “Apparently… the TV remote.”

Yousef froze. “The… remote?” Then he burst out laughing, holding his stomach. “Ya Allah, she actually called you across continents for a remote?!”

Zamil’s jaw tensed slightly, but there was a subtle twitch at the corner of his lips he tried to hide.

“She said,” he repeated flatly, “that I might have packed it in my luggage.”

Yousef wiped a tear from his eye, chuckling. “Habibi, she misses you. That was an excuse.”

Zamil glanced at him, his sharp gaze cutting through the dim light. “Misses me?”

“Of course,” Yousef said, leaning forward. “You think anyone calls someone in Italy for a TV remote? Come on.”

For a moment, Zamil said nothing, his expression unreadable. He leaned back, fingers lightly tapping the glass in his hand, his thoughts elsewhere.

He replayed her voice in his head …. soft, slightly hesitant, trying to cover her real reason with that ridiculous excuse.

A warmth spread somewhere deep inside his chest, but his face stayed cold.

Yousef grinned knowingly. “You’re smiling.”

Zamil shot him a sharp look. “I am not.”

“Yes, you are,” Yousef teased, leaning back casually. “Zamil Al Mansur, the man who terrifies half the underworld, finally softened by a TV remote.”

Zamil sighed, setting the glass down with a quiet thud. “Yousef.”

Yousef raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, I’ll shut up.” He grinned though, unable to resist adding, “But admit it… it feels good, doesn’t it?”

Zamil didn’t answer.

He picked up the phone again, his thumb lingering over Ayat’s name in the call log for just a moment, before placing it face down on the table.

“We leave at dawn,” he said coldly, changing the subject back to business. “Victor won’t slip away this time.”

But as the night went on and Yousef eventually dozed off, Zamil found himself sitting near the window, staring at the city lights, her voice echoing faintly in his mind.

“I thought maybe you packed the remote…”

For the first time in years, the coldness in his chest felt… less heavy.