***
The low hum of a piano echoed through the grand halls of Velaria, where golden chandeliers dangled like frozen rain and whispered light onto polished marble floors. At exactly 5:00 PM, the restaurant exhaled the scent of aged wine and truffle oil, mingling with conversations soft enough to pass for secrets.
Zayn sat alone in a corner booth, tucked away beneath a velvet curtain that barely brushed the edge of his table. The warm amber glow bathed his face, casting sharp shadows beneath his eyes—eyes that hadn't blinked much in the last fifteen minutes. His posture was immaculate, the tailored charcoal suit on his frame unwrinkled, untouched, as if he had been carved into the seat rather than seated in it.
A waiter approached, dressed in black and white, his smile trained but hesitant.
"Sir, would you like to order?" he asked gently, his voice almost blending into the background music.
Zayn didn't even flinch. His gaze remained fixed on the glass of still water in front of him, the ice long since melted.
"No," he said calmly. "I'm waiting for someone. I'll order after some time."
The waiter hesitated. He had heard these words before—vague promises from guests who thought time bent for them.
"I'm sorry, sir," he began, delicately choosing each word, "but this is our prime time. There are many guests waiting. Would you mind letting someone else have this table?"
Zayn's jaw tightened.
The word "late" already grated on his nerves, and now this—pressure, disruption. He hated being disturbed. Hated being told what to do by people who didn't understand the weight of things.
His voice was clipped, colder now.
"Didn't you hear me? I said I'm waiting." He paused, eyes finally meeting the waiter's, sharp as broken glass. "And don't worry—I don't enjoy making others wait either."
The waiter opened his mouth to apologize, but a sudden, familiar voice cut through the tension like a knife draped in velvet.
"Zayn, have some humanity. Don't scold him for my mistake."
Zayn didn't move. Not a glance. Not even a twitch in recognition. But his silence grew heavier.
Danish stood just inside the archway, dressed in a dark blue coat that still carried traces of autumn rain. His presence was like a shadow—subtle, yet impossible to ignore. That voice—deep, composed, husky—still knew how to land like a slap.
The waiter, sensing the shift, turned away. Zayn spoke, eyes still averted.
"Bring me anything. Whatever you recommend."
The waiter nodded quickly and disappeared into the kitchen, grateful to escape.
Danish stepped forward and took the seat opposite Zayn, shrugging off his coat with casual elegance.
"You invited me," he said, eyebrows slightly raised. "Shouldn't you at least ask what I'd like to eat?"
Zayn's voice was flat, every syllable like a lock clicking shut.
"First of all, you're late—and I've waited too long."He looked past him, out the large window, where the sun was halfway gone. "Second, don't make it sound like I've been counting the days for you to return from abroad."
Danish leaned back, unfazed, scanning Zayn's face for something—regret, emotion, nostalgia. Nothing.
"Alright, alright. Don't be so inhuman." He chuckled softly. "By the way, why here? Not your usual spot—Brew & Sip Café?"
Zayn's tone sharpened like the edge of a blade.
"I didn't want to ruin that place by bringing you there."
Danish scoffed under his breath. "As if I can't go there on my own."
"Don't even think about it."
That made Danish smile. He tapped his finger on the table rhythmically. "Still got sharp ears."
Before Zayn could reply, the waiter returned and placed two elegantly plated dishes between them—a roasted duck glazed in dark citrus sauce and a delicate tower of saffron risotto, adorned with microgreens.
No more words. Just silverware clinking gently as they took in the smell of the meal.
Zayn finally spoke, his voice low and purposeful.
"So, what are you here for?"
Danish's grin returned, playful but laced with something darker.
"It wouldn't be thrilling if I told you straight away, would it?"
Zayn's gaze slowly lifted. When their eyes finally met, it was like ice colliding with fire. Zayn's stare was empty but charged. Cold, yet burning.
"I'm not here for games." His voice held no tremor. "I'm here to protect someone. An innocent."Danish leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
"Like you did years ago?"
A pause. Zayn blinked slowly, as if the memory physically hurt.
"That was your rule back then." His tone was steel. "Now... it's mine."
Danish's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Illegally? Wouldn't that make you just like me?"
Zayn didn't flinch.
"You really think we're the same?"
A moment passed.
"No," Danish said, eyes narrowing. "And that's exactly why I hate you."
Zayn exhaled and leaned back, fingers laced together, the leather of his gloves creaking faintly.
"This conversation isn't getting us anywhere." He rose from his seat. "I'll find out the truth—whether you help or not."
Danish didn't miss a beat.
"Not as easy as catching the traitor who leaked your company's info, right?"
Zayn froze.
"How do you know about that?"
Danish's smile widened, but there was no humor in it.
"Nothing about you stays hidden from me."
Zayn's tone darkened, his words heavier now.
"I know someone's helping you. I'll find them too. And when I do—just be ready."
He reached into his coat and straightened it with a swift motion, preparing to leave.
"I'm late. I should be going."
Danish picked up his fork, casually stabbing a piece of duck.
"Tch… your dramatic lines made my food cold. Leaving already? Not even a bite?"
Zayn paused near the table's edge.
"I won't eat with someone like you." He adjusted his sleeve cuff. "But don't worry—I'll pay."As he walked toward the counter, Danish called out, "Alright then. Bye. And I don't give a damn about paying. You know how much power I've got in my hands."
Zayn ignored the comment, reaching the cashier and pulling out a sleek black wallet. He slid a few large bills across the marble surface.
"The food I ordered—please give it to someone in need. And here's something extra for that."
The cashier looked up, startled but grateful. "Thank you, sir. Please visit again."
Zayn turned, adjusting his coat collar, stepping toward the large glass door.
But just before he exited, he glanced back.
Danish was still watching him—smirking, chewing, eyes full of riddles.
Zayn gave him nothing.
Not a nod. Not a word. Not even disdain.
He simply walked out of Velaria, leaving behind only the echo of tension—and a plate of untouched food growing cold in his absence.
[To Be Continued...]
***