The next morning, the penthouse felt strangely quiet. Amara wandered into the living room and found the space empty, save for a glass of untouched whiskey on the marble coffee table. It wasn't there the night before. She glanced toward the hallway that led to Zayn's study. The door was shut. She had never dared open it. That room was his sanctuary, his control center, and a line she hadn't crossed. But something told her he hadn't slept.
She poured herself a cup of tea in the kitchen and tried to shake the tension off her shoulders. Every day with Zayn felt like a dance around landmines. One wrong step and his walls would snap back into place. And yet, she couldn't ignore the memory of his voice last night. Softer. Human. For a moment, she had seen more than just a CEO trained to conquer.
The door to the study creaked open. Zayn stepped out, sleeves rolled up, dark circles under his eyes. He looked less polished, more vulnerable. Her heart clenched at the sight. He was always so composed. This version of him looked real.
"You didn't sleep," she said, keeping her voice even.
He glanced at her. "Neither did you, it seems."
"I slept a little," she admitted. "Your drink's still sitting out."
Zayn followed her gaze to the glass and walked over, lifting it. He stared at the amber liquid for a second before tipping it into the sink.
"I thought about my father last night," he said, not looking at her. "He built everything from nothing, then watched it all crumble before he died. I've spent my life making sure I never repeat his mistakes."
Amara was stunned. This wasn't a confession she expected over breakfast.
"You've done well," she said gently. "No one can question your success."
"But at what cost?" he muttered, wiping a hand down his face. "I don't even know if I trust anyone anymore. Everyone wants something."
She wanted to ask, Do you think I'm one of them? But she already knew the answer. To him, she was the girl who married him for money. No matter how sincere she was now, he only saw her past decision.
"I want to earn your trust," she said instead, surprising even herself.
He looked at her then, eyes tired but piercing. "That's a dangerous thing to offer, Amara. My trust comes with expectations."
She stepped closer. "And I'm not afraid of expectations."
A silence passed between them. Then, without another word, Zayn turned and walked toward the hallway. But this time, he left the door to his study open behind him.
Later that day, Clara brought in a delivery—a sleek white box with Amara's name etched in cursive. She opened it and found a designer dress inside. Midnight blue, off-shoulder, with a flowing train. She gasped. It was from a collection she'd admired online but never dared hope to own.
There was a note inside. For tonight. You're representing my name again. Z.
Her fingers trembled as she held the fabric. Was this a gesture of appreciation—or strategy?
As evening fell, Amara dressed carefully, applying makeup with a practiced hand. When she emerged, Zayn was waiting in the foyer again, dressed in another flawless suit. But this time, when his eyes landed on her, there was no coldness. Just a slow, appreciative once-over that made her pulse quicken.
"You'll silence every room," he said.
"You picked the dress," she replied with a small smile.
His lips curved slightly. "I made a good investment then."
They arrived at an elite art gala, attended by the city's wealthiest. The walls were lined with abstract canvases and shimmering sculptures. Zayn moved through the crowd like a king among lesser nobles. And Amara, on his arm, felt both invisible and exposed.
People stared. Not at Zayn—he was a known spectacle—but at her. The wife no one expected. She heard the whispers.
"Is she a model?"
"No, I heard she was… ordinary. From a poor family."
"He married her to cover something, maybe. His reputation?"
Amara kept her smile intact, her grip on Zayn's arm steady. She'd grown up hearing worse. But it wasn't the words that hurt—it was the fact that Zayn didn't correct them.
When he stepped aside to greet an old investor, Amara found herself by a sculpture of a woman with her head bent, carved from black marble. It looked strong and broken at the same time. She reached out and traced the line of its arm.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" a voice said beside her.
She turned to find a woman in a silver gown. Elegant. Older. With eyes that knew more than they let on.
"I'm Lydia," the woman said. "Zayn's godmother."
"Oh," Amara replied, a little surprised. "Nice to meet you."
"You're not what I expected," Lydia said without malice. "And that's a good thing."
Amara blinked. "Thank you?"
"I knew his father," Lydia continued. "And I watched Zayn become colder after each betrayal. He doesn't let people in easily. But he brought you here tonight. That means something."
"I don't know what it means yet," Amara admitted.
"Then let me give you advice." Lydia leaned in slightly. "Don't try to melt his walls all at once. They're made of ice, yes—but even ice yields to constant warmth."
Amara was still processing those words when Zayn returned. His hand found the small of her back—a gesture so natural, it startled her.
"Ready to go?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered, meeting his gaze.
They returned home in silence, but not the suffocating kind. It was quiet contemplation. In the elevator, Amara glanced at their reflections. They looked like a power couple. But the distance between them was still vast.
When they reached the penthouse, Zayn paused before entering his room.
"You were graceful tonight," he said, not turning around. "Even with all the noise."
Amara stepped closer. "I'm used to noise. But thank you… for trusting me again."
He gave a small nod and disappeared behind his door. This time, he didn't shut it all the way.
That night, Amara lay in bed wide awake, Lydia's words echoing in her ears. Even ice yields to constant warmth. But how much warmth did she have left to give before her own heart froze?
The next day brought an unexpected change. Zayn invited her to lunch—not at home, but at a rooftop restaurant overlooking the city. She arrived first, nervous, unsure what version of him she'd meet. He came five minutes later, dressed down in a dark shirt and jeans. Less CEO, more man.
"You waited," he said, sitting down across from her.
"I said I'd be here."
The waiter brought their orders. Light dishes. No wine. Zayn watched her eat for a while before finally asking, "Why fashion?"
Amara smiled, surprised by the question. "Because clothes let you rewrite your story. I grew up with hand-me-downs and pity stares. When I design, I get to decide how the world sees me."
He nodded slowly. "Makes sense."
They ate in companionable silence for a while. Then he leaned back.
"I don't do relationships, Amara. You know that."
"I do."
"But I respect ambition. And you have it. So if you want to build that boutique… I'll invest."
She froze. "You're offering me money?"
"I'm offering you a platform. Not because I pity you, but because I believe in returns. And you've proven you don't waste opportunity."
Her throat tightened. "I want to earn it, not take it as a handout."
"Then pitch me," he said, almost smiling. "Tomorrow. Prepare your proposal. Make it professional. Impress me."
Amara nodded, her heart racing.
This wasn't romance. Not yet. But maybe, just maybe, it was the start of something real.