"See, I told you'd call. I don't just predict the future, Zainab—I know yours. And right now, it tells me you couldn't sleep without hearing my voice."
Zainab's voice came out shaky, "I… I didn't want to call you. My finger just… pressed it. And you—you picked up after one ring. I didn't even have the time to cut. It was a mistake."
Her words tumbled out nervously, almost breathless. She didn't know what excuse to use, what shield to hide behind. Her heart pounded, her pride burned. Of all the people she could have called, why him? At this hour? What would he think—that she was desperate for his voice? That she needed him?
On the other side, the caller chuckled softly, "If it was a mistake… then let it happen again—every night. I don't mind being your accident, Zainab."
Zainab swallowed hard and moved her swing gently with her toes, the chains creaking in the quiet night. The stars above shone faintly, but her mind was caught between guilt and a strange pull toward his voice. She whispered, almost shyly, "Can we… can we talk every night?"
All the pride she carried seconds ago vanished like smoke in the breeze.
"Every night, every hour—whenever you need me. I'll answer before the first ring ends. Even if you call me at dawn, even if you wake me in the middle of the darkest hour… I'll always be there."
Zainab stayed quiet, her breath brushing against the speaker. The swing creaked softly as it moved under her. She didn't know what to say next. Was it right to keep talking to someone whose face she had never seen? He was only a voice in the night, and still, he made her feel caught—like she was stealing something that didn't belong to her. She wasn't doing any crime… but why did it feel like she was a thief?
The caller's voice cut through her silence.
"Why so quiet? Are you sad?"
She hummed softly. How could she say that today she learned her father had another life, another wife… and that her closest friend, Nayla, was actually her step-sister? The same sister her father had loved, while she, his real daughter, was left starving for his kind words. The father who never once spoke gently to her had given his warmth to someone else.
Zainab shook her head as if that could chase it away. "Not sad. Just… thinking. I wanted to ask you something. If… if we could meet. Before my eighteenth birthday."
She stopped, biting her lip. "It feels so far away… too long to wait."
"Oh? You really can't stay without meeting me, can you? That's what it is. You're restless already. So desperate for me that you're counting days. Tell me, Zainab… is my voice not enough for you anymore?"
Zainab's cheeks burned hot, and she shook her head even though he couldn't see her. "No… no, it's not like that! I'm not desperate. I was just… a little curious, that's all. Anyone would be. You talk so mysteriously, you never say who you are… so yes, I thought about it. But don't twist it. I'm not dying to meet you."
"I know. I know you're dying to meet me. You can lie all you want. I can hear it in your breath. But tell me—when you do, what excuse will you give your family? You can't exactly say you're meeting the man who keeps your nights awake."
Zainab's back stiffened. She sat straight now, both legs firm on the ground, the swing creaking to silence. Her voice came out faster than her mind could stop it.
"I'll think of something. I don't care if it's a lie. A friend's house, even a late class—I'll say whatever I need to. Just tell me where. A café, a restaurant—I know plenty of places."
"Restaurants? Cafes? That's sweet. But do you really think it's that simple?" He didn't sound amused, "One phone call and your brother will know exactly where you are. You're hidden but not invisible. Some people close to Ibrahim know you. Imagine if one of them saw you with me. Imagine your brother's rage when he learns his little sister sneaks out to meet a stranger in the dark."
She whispered, almost stammering,
"You… you know about my family?"
"From the first day. I know you're the secret daughter your father hid away. His precious weakness he locked from the world. He didn't want anyone to see that the mighty empire had a soft spot. You are that weakness. The hidden jewel."
She gripped her phone tighter, her nails digging into her palm. "So you know… you know everything about me."
"Everything. Now tell me, do you still want to meet me? Or will you run to Ibrahim and complain about the man who already knows your secrets?"
Her throat was dry, her pride broken into dust again. She didn't even recognize her own voice when she whispered,
"Can… can we meet tomorrow?"
She didn't even know why—why the hell she wanted this, why she wanted to step closer to this man. But she wanted it.....
"I'll meet you.... but not where you expect. I'll find you in the most unexpected place… when you least think of me. Good night, little dove."
And then—click. The line went dead.
Zainab lowered the phone slowly, staring at the dark screen as if it still held his presence.
"Little dove…" She whispered, her lips shaping the words carefully, almost tasting them. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
Next Morning.
The sun was sharp, pouring down on the wide driveway of the Rahman mansion. Zainab walked out with her school bag on one shoulder and a half-empty water bottle in her hand, sipping as she went. The black car was waiting for her at the end of the path.
From the opposite side, Ibrahim came back from his early jog. His grey joggers clung to his legs, a plain black t-shirt hugged his frame, and sweat glistened on his skin under the daylight. A white towel hung loose around his neck as he wiped his forehead. The guard hurried to him with a chilled water bottle, but Ibrahim waved it away. Instead, he caught sight of Zainab and, without asking, plucked her cute pink bottle straight out of her hand.
Zainab frowned, watching him lift her little bottle to his mouth like it belonged to him. The pink bottle looked ridiculous in his large hand.
"Ibi…" she muttered in protest.
He sipped without a care, "When you're back from school, let's go out. Or better—forget school for a while. Take a break. It's been too long since we had a proper trip. A holiday would do us good."
Both siblings looked completely normal, calm, like they hadn't spoken about those secrets last night. He was simply her brother again.
Zainab swallowed her own thoughts. Vacations with family usually meant far places, countries where no one knew the Rahmans, where they could walk freely without the weight of media. But today—no. She couldn't. She had a different meeting to keep.
Her lips pressed into a pout. "Not now, Ibi. I have too many plans this year. Maybe I'll have to go to Malacca soon for a school project. Next year… you plan it then."
Ibrahim took another long sip from her bottle, watching her over the rim with narrowed eyes. "Strange. You're the one always ready to pack bags at a moment's notice. And now you're turning me down? What changed, Zainab?"
She looked at him straight and said, "You're planning this trip because you want to dig into how I found out about Nafisa's aunt's death. Let me be clear—yesterday I told you, and I'll say it again. I don't want to investigate anything. And you don't have to justify every move you make. I'm sad but sadness doesn't bring the dead back. So let it stay buried. No more of this talk, Ibi."
She snatched the bottle from his hand and walked straight to her car. If anyone says sisters understand their brothers better than anyone, they are right.
Ibrahim stood there, watching her leave. He had the strange urge to call her back. But the words stayed locked in his throat.
"Sir… should I serve you breakfast?" A maid's hesitant voice broke the silence. "You didn't say when you'll be leaving for the office."
Ibrahim turned his head slightly at her voice but gave no reply, only walking past her toward the corridor.
The maid sighed in frustration. Serve it or not? Breakfast was always an unsolvable riddle with Ibrahim. Sometimes he left early for the office and had it there. Sometimes he stayed back and skipped it. Sometimes breakfast and lunch blurred into a single "brunch," and she never knew whether to heat food or leave it cold.
She muttered under her breath, "Even drama heroines don't act like this…"
Ibrahim, now at the end of the corridor, paused mid-step and asked, "Did you say something?"
The maid jumped. "N-no… sir. Nothing…"
How on earth did he hear her murmur from all the way down the corridor?.....
It was the second-last period of the day. Zainab had no intention of listening to the teacher's lecture about whatever boring topic they were covering. Her mind was somewhere else entirely. Today, she had brought her phone with her—strictly against school rules. Electronic devices were completely banned, but she didn't have another choice. Without her phone, she couldn't contact… him. And that was more important than any history or math class.
Nayla and Yusuf were both absent today, leaving Zainab to sit alone at the back. Well… not completely alone. Aqil was beside her as usual.
His eyes caught a glimpse of something inside her bag, a shiny rectangle partially peeking out.
He leaned closer, whispering, "You… you brought your phone today?"
Zainab, without looking at him, gave a quick, sharp kick to his boot under the table. "Shut up," she hissed. "If you tell anyone, I swear—"
Aqil tried not to laugh. "Okay, okay! I won't tell. But… come on, what's the reason?"
Zainab shot him a glance, half-exasperated, half-amused. "I'll tell you later. Honestly, I don't even know how to explain it… and if I do, you'll probably laugh."
Aqil blinked, trying to hide a grin. Little did he know, soon his heart was about to shatter in ways he couldn't even imagine.
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