Chapter Eight – Daniel's Questions
The morning sun felt cruel as Zara dragged herself out of bed. Her body ached from the restless night, replaying the hooded man's words over and over: One week. Or the world will know.
She splashed water on her face, applied her makeup with shaky hands, and slipped into a tailored dress she had borrowed from Tasha's closet. Today wasn't about looking nice—it was about looking unbreakable.
At noon, Daniel picked her up. His smile was warm, but there was something in his eyes that made her stomach twist.
"You look tired," he said softly.
"I'm fine," she lied. "Just a long night."
They drove in silence for a while before pulling up to a quiet café tucked in the corner of the city. It was small and simple, the kind of place Zara hated because it offered no stage, no grand lighting for her performance. Here, it was just her and Daniel—with no filters, no distractions.
Once they were seated, Daniel leaned forward, his hands folded on the table. "Zara… we need to talk."
Her pulse quickened. "About what?"
He studied her, his gaze gentle but sharp. "About us. About you."
Zara's chest tightened. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Daniel began carefully, "I feel like you're hiding something from me. I know your world is glamorous and busy, and I don't expect to be part of every detail. But sometimes…" He hesitated, searching her face. "…sometimes I wonder if what I see is really you."
Her throat went dry. He was too close to the truth.
"Daniel, I—" she started, but he held up a hand.
"Please don't get defensive. I'm not accusing you. I just… I care about you, Zara. I want the real you, not the Instagram version. If there's something you're struggling with, you can tell me."
Zara forced a laugh, though it cracked at the edges. "Daniel, you're overthinking. My life looks crazy because it is crazy. Fashion events, brand deals, influencers—this is just how it goes."
He leaned back, unconvinced. "And yet, you never let me in. Every time I ask about your family or your work, you change the subject. You're always running from something."
Her hands shook under the table. She wanted to scream the truth, to pour out every secret—the debts, the fake luxury, the blackmailer who was closing in. But fear held her tongue. If Daniel knew, he'd leave. And losing him would hurt more than any scandal.
"I'm not running," she whispered. "I just… I like keeping parts of my life private."
Daniel's jaw tightened, but he nodded slowly. "Okay. But know this—whatever it is, I'd rather hear it from you than from anyone else. Secrets have a way of destroying things."
The words stabbed deep. If only he knew how true they were.
Before she could reply, her phone buzzed on the table. Zara froze. The screen lit up with a new message. Daniel's eyes flicked toward it, curious.
She snatched it quickly, heart hammering.
Unknown Number: Six days left. Don't forget.
Her hands went clammy. She forced the phone face-down, praying Daniel hadn't noticed the way her blood drained from her face.
But his gaze lingered, sharp and questioning.
"Who was that?" he asked quietly.
Zara's lips parted, but no words came.
And in that moment, she realized her worlds—the fake, glittering life she showed to the world and the fragile love she held with Daniel—were colliding faster than she could control.
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