Zayn turned to leave but paused at the threshold, his hand resting on the doorway. He glanced back, his voice dropping into a low, teasing register.
"When did all this begin?"
Faqair's entire body stiffened at the question. "Nothing began!" he snapped, his voice tight. "Don't go assuming nonsense."
A low chuckle escaped Zayn as he shook his head and walked out.
Faqair closed his eyes, letting out a long, weary sigh. "ohhh god…" he muttered under his breath. He signaled for the maid to clean up the area before heading back into the living room.
The family had settled back into their usual spots. Grandpa turned his attention toward Zayn, who was reclined in his seat. "How was the date?"
Zayn didn't look up immediately, his gaze fixed lazily on his phone screen. "Good," he replied shortly.
A small, hopeful smile played on Grandpa's lips. "Shall I move things forward, then?"
Zayn's brows drew together in a slight frown. "Grandpa… I don't want to get married right now."
Grandpa shook his head dismissively. "It's just an engagement for now. And besides, you're not getting any younger."
Zayn inhaled sharply, the sound of his breath audible in the quiet room. "Grandpa, please. I want to focus on my career."
"Career?" Grandpa snorted. "Your career is already set. You own the No. 1 company in the world. What more do you want?"
From the side, Faqair leaned in, his voice a barely audible but pointed whisper.
"…Meher."
Zayn's head snapped toward him, shooting Faqair a deadly glare that promised retribution.
Grandpa, however, nodded thoughtfully. "He's right. You should get married."
Zayn didn't argue further. He turned his face toward the TV, though his eyes weren't tracking the images on the screen. He crossed one leg over the other, his thumb beginning to rub absentmindedly against the fabric of his thigh a nervous habit he usually kept buried deep.
Suddenly, the noise of the room faded. A face flashed in his mind Danish. The memory was sharp, unbidden, and carried a weight that changed the calculation behind Zayn's eyes.
A cold, strategic stillness settled over him. He leaned back into the plush upholstery, his voice quiet and strangely hollow.
"Grandpa, do whatever you think is best."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Grandpa's eyes widened, his hands trembling slightly on the arms of his chair. "Really? You mean it? Should I talk to them tomorrow?"
Faqair's jaw actually dropped. He looked at Zayn as if the man had suddenly grown a second head.
"As you wish, Grandpa," Zayn repeated, his tone smooth as glass.
Grandpa scrambled to his feet, his face transformed by a joy that looked almost youthful. He pulled Zayn into a crushing hug, whispering a fervent "Thank you, God" against his grandson's shoulder.
Zayn stood and returned the embrace, his movements stiffly polite. But over Grandpa's shoulder, a slow, predatory smirk crept across his face a look that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with a move on a chessboard.
Faqair saw it. He froze, a chill crawling down his spine. This wasn't a surrender; it was a deployment.
Zayn pulled back, his expression instantly resetting to one of dutiful concern. "Grandpa, it's late. You should sleep. Did you take your medicine?"
"Yes, yes, I did," Grandpa beamed, patting Zayn's cheek. "I'm going now. I'll sleep well tonight."
"Good night," Zayn said, his voice steady as he watched the old man leave. Without another word, he turned and began the walk toward his own suite.
Faqair trailed behind him in a tense, heavy silence, his mind racing to figure out exactly what Zayn was brewing.