The silence in the room stretched like a taut wire between them. Amara's fingers trembled slightly as she held the pen. She stared at the marriage contract before her, the ink still fresh from Zayn's signature. Every line of the agreement felt like a noose tightening around her neck.
Zayn sat opposite her, his expression unreadable, eyes cold and still like a glassy lake before a storm. He didn't blink, didn't flinch. To him, this was business—a solution to a problem. Nothing more.
"You may sign now," he said, voice clipped and formal.
Amara looked up at him, searching for some trace of hesitation, some flicker of humanity behind his impassive face. There was none. She lowered her gaze again, forcing her hand to move. With one stroke, then another, her name joined his on the page.
A wave of nausea rolled through her. That was it. She was married. To a man who didn't believe in love. A man who said he would never touch her, never care. A man she barely knew.
Zayn stood, collecting the document and slipping it into a sleek black folder. "You'll move into my penthouse by tonight. I'll have my driver pick you up at seven."
She nodded slowly, unsure of her voice. "Do I need to bring anything?"
"Just yourself," he said. "The staff will handle the rest."
Before she could respond, he was already turning away. No warmth. No congratulations. No smile. Just cold efficiency. It wasn't a wedding. It was a transaction.
Amara sat there long after he left, fingers still curled around the pen. Her mind screamed questions—what had she just done? What future had she signed into? But her body wouldn't move. Only the faint sound of a clock ticking broke the silence.
Later that evening, her mother hovered anxiously as Amara packed a small suitcase with essentials. "Are you sure about this, Amara?" she asked for the third time. "You can still change your mind. Marriage shouldn't be like this."
Amara zipped the bag and turned to her. "I know, Mama. But it's done. We need the money. You need your treatment. I'll manage."
Tears welled in her mother's eyes, but she said nothing more. Just held her daughter tightly at the door until a sleek black car pulled up at the curb. The driver stepped out, bowed slightly, and took her bag. Amara turned back once more to her mother's frail figure standing in the doorway. Then she climbed into the car and left her old life behind.
The penthouse was everything she imagined and more—glass walls overlooking the city, marble floors that clicked under her heels, and the faint scent of pine and wealth hanging in the air. But it felt hollow. Too big. Too silent.
Zayn met her at the door, dressed in black slacks and a navy shirt that hugged his broad shoulders. "Your room is down the hall. Last door on the right."
"Room?" she repeated, her voice small.
"Yes," he replied. "We'll keep things simple. Separate rooms. Separate lives. As agreed."
She nodded, trying to ignore the sting in her chest. "Right. Of course."
Over the next few days, Amara settled into a rhythm. The staff were polite, almost invisible. Meals arrived like clockwork. The apartment was always pristine. And Zayn? He was a ghost. He left early, returned late, and barely acknowledged her when he did. They shared a home, a name, and nothing else.
One morning, she found herself staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows, sipping tea she barely tasted. The city below moved on, oblivious. She didn't belong here. This wasn't her world. She was a placeholder, a symbol, nothing more.
But she wouldn't let it break her.
She enrolled in an online fashion course, brushing off the dust on dreams she had buried long ago. In the afternoons, she sketched. Her fingers came alive on paper, bringing color and curves where silence reigned. Her world was shrinking, yes—but inside, she was quietly expanding.
One evening, as she worked late on a design, the soft sound of footsteps behind her made her jump. She turned to find Zayn standing there, watching her.
"I didn't hear you come in," she said, heart racing.
"You were focused," he replied. "That's rare."
She bristled slightly at his tone but kept her voice steady. "It's my passion. Fashion. I used to dream of owning a boutique one day."
He nodded once, his gaze flicking to the sketches spread on the table. "You're talented."
It was the first compliment he had ever given her. She blinked in surprise. "Thank you."
He lingered for a moment, eyes scanning the designs. "You should do something with them."
"I'm trying," she said. "But this marriage… it's temporary, right? I won't be here forever."
He looked at her then, really looked, and for a moment she thought she saw something soften in his eyes. But it vanished just as quickly.
"We all play roles, Amara," he said quietly. "This is just one of them."
She stared after him as he walked away, her heart heavy. What roles had life forced him into? What pain did he hide behind that cold armor?
Later that night, she stood in her doorway, watching him sip whiskey by the window, his silhouette outlined by the city lights. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. What could she say that would reach him?
She retreated to her room and lay in bed, her mind racing. The line between pretend and reality was beginning to blur. She had expected silence, distance, coldness. But now, something else lingered in the space between them. Something unnamed.
The next morning brought a surprise. On the breakfast table, beside her usual coffee, was a leather-bound sketchbook. New. Unused. High quality.
She picked it up and ran her fingers over the smooth cover, heart pounding. Inside was a note in neat handwriting.
"For your designs. Let them breathe." – Z.
Her eyes misted. It was a small gesture. But it cracked the ice.
Maybe he wasn't made of stone after all.
But even as warmth flickered, she reminded herself of the contract, the cold clauses, the expiration date ticking quietly in the background. Whatever this was, it had boundaries.
She wouldn't let herself forget.
And yet, her heart had already begun to betray her.