Chapter 8: Shadows in the Glass
The air inside the Kael estate was colder than usual, even though the weather outside whispered of spring. Elira walked down the marble corridor, her footsteps echoing faintly as she carried a tray of untouched food. Zayn hadn't come down for dinner—again.
She had asked the housekeeper not to bother him, but part of her couldn't shake the weight of her role. A wife. Not by choice, not by love, but by force. Still, something in her wouldn't allow her to let go of her responsibility—even if the man she married couldn't stand the sight of her.
She paused outside his home office. A faint light spilled from the slightly ajar door.
Elira hesitated.
Should she go in?
She raised her hand to knock.
"Come in," came Zayn's voice, cold and sharp.
She stepped inside. The room was dim, lit only by the warm glow of a desk lamp. Zayn sat behind a heavy oak desk, his sleeves rolled up, jacket discarded, and his tie slightly loosened. His eyes flicked up to her and then back to the document in front of him.
"I brought you dinner," she said quietly, placing the tray down on a side table.
"I didn't ask for it."
"I know." Her voice was gentle. "But you haven't eaten all day."
Zayn didn't respond. Silence stretched between them like a thick fog. The clatter of her placing the utensils felt too loud, too alive in the suffocating room.
"You don't have to act like a wife, Elira," he said finally. "This marriage may be legal, but that's all it is."
Her fingers curled slightly against the tray. She drew a shallow breath, steadying her voice.
"And yet I'm still here."
His eyes lifted to hers for the first time. A storm brewed in them—frustration, confusion... something else.
"Why?"
"Because walking away is easy. But staying… staying takes strength."
Zayn scoffed, standing up from his chair and circling the desk slowly. "Strength?" he echoed. "Or foolish hope?"
Elira met his gaze. "Maybe both."
They stood there, the tension humming between them like electricity in the air before a storm. For a moment, Zayn looked like he might say something, but he didn't. He turned his back to her instead.
"You can leave now."
But she didn't. Instead, she sat on the leather couch by the fireplace, folding her hands in her lap. "I'm not here to fight with you."
"You shouldn't be here at all."
"You know that's not my choice."
"No, but you're making it your mission to play the perfect little wife. Bringing dinner. Smiling. Pretending this isn't a nightmare."
"It *is* a nightmare," she said softly. "But I'm not pretending. I'm surviving."
Zayn paused mid-step, jaw tight.
"You think I'm cruel," he said, his voice low. "You think I enjoy watching you suffer in this arrangement."
She didn't answer.
He turned to her. "Do you?"
Her eyes met his. "I think… you're angry. At the world. At me. Maybe even at yourself."
He blinked, as if her words had cut deeper than she intended.
The silence grew heavier, but this time it wasn't hostile. It was filled with unsaid truths and the weight of shared silence.
"You didn't choose me, Zayn. And I didn't choose you. But here we are."
He looked at her, and for the first time since the wedding, his expression softened, if only for a second. Then it was gone, masked again by the familiar coldness.
"You talk like this is fate," he said. "But it's just a deal. My father's dying wish. Your family's last gamble."
"I know," she said, standing. "But I still have to live with it. So do you."
She walked toward the door.
"Elira," he called just before she stepped out.
She turned.
He looked like he was struggling with his words.
"Don't wait for me to be someone I'm not."
She offered a sad smile. "Then don't expect me to be someone who gives up easily."
And with that, she walked out, leaving Zayn alone with his shadows and silence.
**
That night, Elira lay awake in her room, the silence pressing against her like a blanket too heavy to move under. Zayn's words echoed in her head.
*"Don't wait for me to be someone I'm not."*
She sighed and turned to her side, staring at the ceiling.
Suddenly, a soft knock came at the door.
Her heart skipped.
She sat up slowly. "Yes?"
The door opened just slightly.
It was Zayn.
Her breath caught.
He didn't step inside. He just leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.
"I ate the food," he said.
It was such a small thing. But it felt like the most important sentence in the world.
Elira smiled faintly. "Good."
A pause.
"Don't get used to it," he muttered.
She laughed softly. "Too late."
His lips twitched—almost a smile. Almost.
Then he was gone.
But the silence that followed no longer felt as lonely.
**
The following morning, Elira found herself in the garden, sipping tea. Lyra had gone out for her university classes, and the estate was unusually quiet. She was startled when Zayn's voice cut through the peace.
"You enjoy early mornings."
She turned to find him watching her, coffee in hand, dressed in a sleek black suit. He looked tired, but less guarded.
"They're peaceful," she said.
He nodded. "They are."
He sat beside her—uninvited, unexpected, and yet… not unwelcome.
For a few moments, neither spoke.
"Did you always love the garden?" he asked.
She looked at him, surprised.
"I did. When I visited with my mother as a child. Your mother used to grow roses here."
His eyes flickered.
"She died in this garden," he said quietly. "Collapsed under that tree."
Elira's heart clenched. "I'm sorry."
"She used to say roses are like people. They bloom where they're nurtured. They die where they're neglected."
Elira looked at the roses. Some were blooming. Others were withering.
"Maybe we're all just waiting for the right gardener," she murmured.
Zayn glanced at her, studying her face.
"You always talk like that?" he asked.
"Like what?"
"Like hope is something you can hold in your hands."
She smiled. "Maybe it is."
He stared at her for a long moment. Then he stood.
"I have to go to work."
She nodded. "Be safe."
As he walked away, he paused.
"Elira."
"Yes?"
"Thanks for the dinner. And the talk."
She blinked, stunned by the softness in his tone.
And just like that, he was gone again.
But this time, Elira felt something bloom inside her—something fragile. Something warm.
Maybe… just maybe… the man who hated her was starting to see her.