*Chapter 16: The Cracks Beneath the Surface*
Elira stood at the balcony, her arms folded against the cold breeze, yet it wasn't the chill of the night that had her trembling. It was the silence from Zayn.
He had returned late again—quiet, distracted, and with that same tired excuse: *"Meetings ran late."*
But something in his eyes had changed. She couldn't quite describe it. Was it guilt? Indifference? Or something far worse—distance?
Earlier that evening, Lyra had found Elira in the kitchen, stirring a pot she had long forgotten to turn on.
"You're doing it again," Lyra said gently, touching her sister's shoulder.
Elira blinked, finally noticing the uncooked stew. "Oh."
Lyra frowned. "You've been... somewhere else lately."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not."
There was a pause, then Elira turned toward her sister. "If someone changes... if the way they look at you shifts, like you're a stranger... would you feel it too?"
Lyra didn't speak at first. Then she said, "Do you think Zayn is hiding something?"
Elira didn't respond. But her silence screamed *yes*.
By midnight, Elira heard the click of the front door.
She didn't move.
Zayn entered the room, unbuttoning his coat. His tie was loose, and he looked exhausted.
"You're still up," he said.
"I couldn't sleep."
He walked past her toward the bedroom. No hug. No eye contact. Just distance.
Elira followed him slowly. "Zayn… can we talk?"
He hesitated, back still turned. "I'm tired, Elira. Can we do this tomorrow?"
Her heart cracked a little more. But she nodded, knowing "tomorrow" would never come.
The next morning, Elira woke up alone. His side of the bed was cold.
A message blinked on her phone: *Meeting early. Didn't want to wake you. Take care.*
But the words felt manufactured.
Later that afternoon, Elira wandered into Zayn's study. She wasn't snooping—just... looking for answers. Something to tell her she wasn't imagining things.
She opened his drawer to put away a notebook—only to find a *photograph*.
It wasn't of her. It was Zayn. Smiling.
With another woman.
Her breath caught.
They were standing close. Too close. The kind of closeness you don't share with a coworker. Her fingers trembled as she turned it over. On the back, in messy handwriting:
*"You looked happiest this day. – N"*
N?
Her chest tightened.
Who was this woman?
When Zayn returned that night, Elira didn't wait.
"Who is she?"
He blinked, clearly caught off guard. "What?"
She held up the photo. "Don't insult me, Zayn."
He stared at it. Then, after a long pause, he said quietly, "It's not what you think."
"That's the thing," she whispered, voice cracking. "I don't even know what to think anymore."
"Elira—"
"Do you love her?"
Silence.
Her heart shattered.
That silence was louder than any confession.
She turned away from him, a sob escaping her lips.
"I gave up everything to marry you… and you couldn't even give me honesty?"
Zayn reached out, but she stepped back.
"I need space," she said firmly. "I need to breathe."
Elira spent the night at Lyra's.
She stared at the ceiling, memories swirling like ghosts in her mind—the day she married him, the vows he barely repeated, the cold nights, the avoidance, the woman in the photo.
She whispered into the quiet, "Why did you marry me, Zayn?"
No answer came.
Only silence.
And for the first time, Elira realized she deserved more than silence.
She deserved the truth.