#magic!writes

You had seen this before.

Plenty of sappy, romantic movies ending with the man and woman tying the knot at the church. If not for the climatic music, melodious chirping of birds or the lustrous sun peeking amidst the clouds just to shine on them—as if nature itself had twisted it's course for the couple to feast on their union. Bouts of joy would trail down their eyes as they promised devotion to one another and share a chaste kiss whilst memories of all their beautiful and tragic moments—in which they held onto each other—would dance before their eyes. 

Zayne and you shared anything but that.

Therefore, when he said I do you didn't mind the lack of cadence to his tone. 

You didn't mind the chill pricking your skin when he held your hand. You didn't mind the scarcity of desire or warmth in the kiss that he pressed on your lips. 

You didn't mind that this marriage was only a farce; a union made in order to appease the public rather than join two hearts into one. 

After all, when you agreed to marry Zayne, you knew—wishing for love would only end in shambles.

Several Hours Earlier

Zayne's shoes scraped on the pavement, echoing the soft, rhythmic beat of his steps amidst the stale morning air. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the giant oak trees, gleaming in his eyes once in a while. Although December had sauntered in with its chilling wisps of wind, snow hadn't begun pouring in Linkon city and for a winter morn’, he'd consider today to be pretty warm.

Maybe some of the last days of mellow ambling over Linkon city before the thick blanket of white covered it all. 

It was on these days that families planned all their picnics and get-togethers of this year. Days on which departmental stores stayed open an extra hour because Christmas would follow in three weeks.

Something about winters always bothered Zayne. He couldn't pinpoint it but maybe it was the contradiction of it all. He never understood how the bleak and empty season could ever stir a mood of festivity in anyone. 

The central park was a common spot for Zayne. He'd find himself strolling the grounds every time he’d need an escape. The pond glittered with the golden light falling over it, gusts of wind swirling the leaves and the pink camellia blooming on the shrubs just made the scenery all the more beautiful.

Zayne didn't want to find it beautiful.

Because beautiful meant he was alive and if he were alive then it meant he had memories, and in those memories lived a woman. A woman whose beauty transcended heavens; a woman, for whom he’d sacrifice forever just for a chance to hold her once. And if he thinks about holding her then he’d remember he can't hold her.

He can't hold her.

He does not have her.

He does not have his life.

Then how could he be alive?

Because beauty was in her eyes when she held his gaze, beauty was in her voice when she called his name, beauty was in her mien when he watched her bath under the moonlight and he had silently thanked fate for sending this woman to him. 

She was beautiful but she wasn’t here anymore. And when she left, she took all the colours, all the birds and all the sunlight—leaving this desolate world to plunge into a grayscale crest. 

That's why he can't find it beautiful. He can't find anything beautiful. 

It was suffocating. 

Two hours had passed since the wedding and now, you are sitting in your bridal suite with a woman touching on your make-up. You had changed into a particularly lighter gown—meant for your reception and you'd had taken a second to admire the dress, if not for the turmoil brewing in your mind.

Honestly, it was easier at first. 

The only reason you said yes to this marriage was because you wanted to escape from your family. You wouldn't essentially speak bad about them; after all, they never swayed from paying for your education and lifestyle—something you'd eternally be grateful for. But it was the unnamed things that stirred the tension in you.

It was your wedding today; a day you are supposed to cherish for the rest of your lives but you had just spent the last two hours sitting ideally in your bridal suite as the walls taunted you for your doomed marriage. 

Zayne had said that he needed to answer an urgent call and that he'd return soon. But as you saw, the soon transcended seconds into minutes and minutes into hours. So much so that your makeup artist had arrived but not him.

But you weren't complaining. You stepped into this arrangement with your own will and you could understand why Zayne would behave the way he did. Any man would. 

You were a taint on your family's name. Tarnished and ruined beyond repair; if only you weren’t so stupid, none of this would have happened. In spite of your family drowning the scandals, some rumours never truly die and this was one of them. 

Therefore, it was more than enough that someone had agreed to marry you. And you shouldn’t be greedy when the tides are against you.

“My, my, you look so beautiful!” 

As if plunged out of a dream, you look up to see your makeup artist grinning down at you. God, you had forgotten she was still in the room. Deflecting your gaze towards the mirror, you beheld your expression. 

“Wow,” you gasp, completely fazed out with the work she had done on your features. Nothing heavy, and it'd be a lie if you say you say you weren't impressed by her craft. “I look… good.”

“You look beautiful,” she exclaimed, “I bet your husband wouldn't be able to take his eyes off you.”

Only if he looked at me…

You decided to keep the unwarranted thought to yourself and plaster a half smile on your lips to show your content. “Thank you. You are very skilled.”

The corner of her lips curl up, eyes narrowing into half moon, “All the credits belong to my model.”

Before you could reply, you heard the click of the lock to the suite and soon enough, a man emerged inside—decked in a crisp navy blue suit with white floral patterns stitched on the fabric—her husband. Looking every ounce of handsome and unbothered yet when his eyes fell on you, you averted your gaze as soon as possible.

Because what were you supposed to say to a man you had married only hours ago? 

Thankfully, your makeup artist didn't wait around to bombard your husband with her questions; seems to have been picked up on the uncharacteristic dynamic shared amid the couple. Whatever the reason may be, she passed a soft smile to you before bidding her farewell.

You heard some rustling; probably Zayne going though his belongings. From the corner of your eyes, you caught him fixing his cufflinks, his back turned to you. You hadn't noticed but the suit he donned currently was starkly different to the charcoal suit he had worn to the wedding. 

When did he change?

Although curious, you refrained from asking any idiotic question and worsen the awkward heat swirling in the room. Lifting your phone from the dresser, you swiped it back to life—not upset by the lack of messages to pop up on your screen. You had one unread text message from your mother—timed to have been sent just after the ceremony. 

Why do you have to be so…  You didn't need to read the entirety of the message to know its contents. Besides, there was enough evidence of plight as the seconds ticked by, you didn't need her to remind you of everything. 

“Did you order room service?”

Caught off guard, you whirled your neck to see your husband staring back at you. “Huh?”

“Did you order room service?” He repeated.

“I, uh–” Stretching your gaze across the vast expanse of the room, you tried to pinpoint what caused him to ask that, “no…?”

Great way to make an impression.

You shut down the devil in your head, masking the quiver in your voice with a cough, “I didn't…”

“You should have,” he said, picking his watch from the nightstand and wrapping the silver belt on his wrist, “It's been long since the ceremony ended.”

“Yeah but I just… I thought– the reception…” 

“I understand.” 

With that, your first conversation ended with your husband.

What was wrong with you? You were acting like a nubile school girl dousing in dopamine whilst she talked to her crush. However, unlike the dopamine or butterflies in reference, what settled in the pit of your stomach was a gnawing nausea on the verge of climbing up your throat. You resisted the urge by downing a tumbler full of lukewarm water.

“Oh, before I forget,” Zayne spoke, walking up ahead, “your mother said she will come to meet you.”

“Why?” The squeak in your voice wasn't expected but Zayne didn't seem to catch on it. Clearing your throat, “I mean… why? Why would she want to meet me?”

“If you don't want to then it can be arranged as well,” He replied with the same diplomacy.

It's not everyday that you are being asked for your wishes but you ignored all the Sparks that alighted your mind. He is just being decent.

“I don't mind,” you said, twisting a strand of your hair, “as your wife, I'd meet anyone you want.”

“No, you wouldn't,” He snapped and you immediately bowed your head like a child on being caught for their miscreants, “And you are not my wife. If you have forgotten, then let me remind you that this marriage means nothing to us.”

Were you stupid? 

Can't you just get one thing straight into your thick skull?

They had told you Zayne was cold and aloof most of the time but with the knives he threw at you, you pondered on the possibility that whether he was a capricious man.

No. What were you thinking?

Zayne's stance wasn't venomous. No, he was entirely right in his place, only you had to go on and utter such rubbish. Still… why did his words send beads of anguish through you? Pain bubbled up to your eyes, throat clogging with hundreds of apologies—none spoken aloud and if you heart were a living which you could clasp in your fist, you could feel the blood leaking out the crevices of your fingers.

You had dug your own grave by your own stupidity, the least you could do was sit and writhe on it like you were meant to. Expecting love from Zayne would be equal to a dream come true; unfortunately, you had been shrouded by nightmares your entire life.

“I don't like to repeat myself,” he continues, turning his back to you—oblivious to the throes his utterance did to you, “But please, refrain from associating such titles with yourself.”

Zayne didn't know when it became a ritual but sooner than he could comprehend, he found himself retracing the steps he took with her five years ago.

He had always enjoyed his own company and with her gone—he didn't find any meaning in filling the gap with anyone else. He doubted anyone else ever could. 

“Here you go, sir,” the old lady in the flower shop said as he handed him a bouquet of fresh purple hyacinths. “Lovely choice of flowers sir, I assume they are for your wife.”

“My… Love,” because what else could he possibly call the woman to whom he had lost his heart ages ago; and now, lost her altogether. “I need to apologize to her.”

The lady tilts her head, clasping her hand back with a soft beam gracing her lips. She mutters something about young love which he couldn't hear before adding, “Well, I hope she forgives you and next time, I hope you get her red roses” she hums, “a young man like you must know what they mean.”

He did.

But he didn't think he'd ever have to buy roses. She never had any interest in them in the first place. However, he kept the words to himself.

When Zayne retraced The steps to the Graveyard, he was glad. This was that one place where he didn't have to pretend; didn't have to explain the tightness in his chest or The reason his hands trembled as the leaves crunched beneath his boots. 

Grief was a funny thing. 

At one moment, he’d be perfect—fine even. The next second, his breath would escape in short bursts of white, his shoulders would tremble with the weight of the world and again, he'd find himself wandering in this soulless world. Grief didn't arrive dressed in black, never with wailing in the corners—it came quietly; sitting beside him, as he'd meet his patients in the chamber, or when he'd hear someone laugh and remember there was one he hadn't heard since long.

And even now, five years later—grief would twist him in its chains, take him hostage to the home he once had shared with her and upon asked, why can't he leave that home, he couldn't give an exact answer. Therefore, he laid on the bed, looking for the fragrance she had left behind, looking for the visage which haunted him everywhere.

Zayne lowered himself in front of the headstone; vines had grown deep, clambering to the apex with the dirty green leaving it's marks on her name inscribed on it.

He placed the bouquet of purple hyacinths near the base, clasping his hands to utter a solemn prayer. 

Purple hyacinths. A florist would say they were a symbol of sorrow and deep regret. A flora advised to gift someone when one would like to request forgiveness. 

But when Zayne offered those flowers to the only woman he loved, his intent wasn't to ask for forgiveness.

“I hope you never forgive me for marrying her.”

You didn't mean to snoop around. Honestly, you didn't.

But what were you supposed to do in this huge family home with no one else to keep you company.

4th April

I dreamt about you today. You were standing in the meadows, you had your favourite lilies in your hand and you were smiling. God's, you were smiling and I didn't just how much I missed it. Yet, you asked me to bring you roses. I don't understand; you never liked roses. Do you like them now? I suppose, this is your way of telling me to bring you roses the next time I visit. But you hadn't mentioned the colour, I guess I'll just have to bring you each of one colour now.

Five years since you have left me and I can't fathom how am I still alive? Days bleed into nights, the seasons change and yet, I try to find bits and pieces of you in every face. And every time, I drown in disappointment because a semblance of you resides in neither. I carry your voice in my heart like a melody, playing the soft lilt that I have grown to love. 

Would you like to know a secret, my love? If I could trade my life for yours, I would.

Dew clung to the jasmine petals creeping the pristine pillars of the gazebo—the saccharine fragrance mingling in the cool air. The white lacecloth on the table fluttered with the incoming breeze, your half-filled teacup sitting on it languidly. From the distance you could make out the soft chirping of crickets, traces of last night's rain lingered around and for what it was worth, you'd had loved to recline back on the wooden bench and bask in the tranquil glow of the atmosphere if not the presence of certain people who disrupted your peace. 

“Why is he so late?” Your mother sneered, consulting her wrist watch for the fifth time. “What kind of man arrives late for a brunch?”

“From what I heard, he isn't the type to cut slack,” your father added, trying to soothe the brewing tension in the air. Yet, you didn't quite miss the furtive glance he shot towards his phone; worry creasing between his brows. “Whatever's been keeping him must be important.”

“Typical of this sort. People who rise from nothing always remain uncouth.” She huffs, picking up her water glass before swinging one knee over another and leaning back. “Maybe a watch would be suitable for his dowry– at least, that would keep him from giving us frugal excuses.”

“I suppose, he'd be busier than people who think kitty parties count as cardio.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” A faux cough emitted off your lips. Slightly did you rotate your posture, evading your mother's scrutinizing gaze shooting daggers at you; while you brought the lukewarm cup of tea up to your mouth.

“Don't act smart with me, child,” She scoffed, her perfectly manicured nails digging into the armrest of her chair. “If you had an ounce of shame left anywhere, you'd know better than running your nasty mouth in front of us.”

You had grown accustomed to her unrelenting taunts—it wasn’t anything new. The best course of action laid in rolling off the insults with a dismissive shrug. Yet, it was her next choice of words that cracked your composure.

“Sneaking behind our backs, spreading your legs for every man with a pulse. Please—” disgust flared her tone and all of the sudden, the gazebo felt smaller; shrinking down until all you could see were their shadows, “—you should be grateful, we haven't tossed you in the slums by now.”

In an instant, your bones turned to ice. The cup hanging between in front of your face and for a heartbeat—you couldn’t speak, couldn’t breath. Only listen. The sharp bite of wind as it sliced your skin to the droplet falling off the lattice. 

What was it? You were left rooted in your spot; rigid, like a deer caught in headlights. Your heart hammered in your ribcage, sweat pooling in your palms and the cup felt heavy. So heavy, that you had to wrench it down. Even then, your fingers trembled—causing some of the liquid to trickle out of it as your breath escaped in abrupt bursts.

“Alright, that's enou— oh! There you are, Mr. Zayne.” Your father stood up, ambling out of the shade to welcome your supposed fiance.

And just like that, the tension dissipated, transcending to a melancholic state as all of you assumed your parts in playing the perfect, happy family—unscathed from any scandals of the press. Yet, the damage was done and you clearly weren’t in tune with your soul for the remainder of the meal. 

As malleable as they had trained you to be, all you did was sit back—assessing the embroidery on the table cloth. Even though the shadow of memories didn't engulf you anymore, you couldn’t really bring yourself to pay attention to their conversation. An abrupt exhaustion seemed to cling to you resulting in your silence; and maybe, your parents preferred that. It was good they were with you to stall the air from getting gnarly. They kept themselves busy being absolute sycophants to their guest—filling his ears with flattering praises of their dearest daughter. 

“Oh dear, why don't both of you take a wall in the garden? I am sure a one-to-one interaction will help you come to an understanding.”

That's how you found yourself here. Loitering the stone tracks amid the lustrous greenery of your mansion—with a stranger who’d most probably end up as your life partner. 

You cradled your right arm, pressing on the scarce bruises; a gift from your mother's sharp nails when she gripped you—urging you to follow your fiancé. Although, her visage was contorted into a mask of maternal affection, the vehement stab of her tips only elicited one order: don't ruin this.

Well, she'd be glad to know you hadn't ruined any of their flawless plan to save face. Because neither you, nor Zayne had spoken a word to each other.

He walked half a step behind you. From your edge of your vision, you caught fragments of his side profile: sculpted jawline, unruly charcoal strands brushed aside except for one defiant lock that grazed his forehead. The black shirt clung to his frame just right, fitted with gray slacks; for an informal invite, his choice of outfit was suitable. And if you had to remark on his appearance, you’d say he far surpassed your expectations in a groom. As for his personality, there was little you could trust—given, you knew nothing about him, save for the thirty minutes of chatter over an appetizing meal. You could still give him minimal credits for letting you take the lead in this aimless stroll and helping you descend the acute flight of steps of the gazebo.

As if sensing your gaze, Zayne angled his chin towards you, “Is there something?”

“Uh, no.” With a move too quick, you turned away.

Thus, silence filled the gaps again.

Honestly, you didn’t mind it. However, you knew nothing good would come if you continue to indulge in this idle detour and circle back to the tyrants of your fate. You were certain, Zayne had his queries of his own but he didn’t seem to plummet you with them just yet. 

What was he waiting for?

Was he aware of what you’d done? Something in you said, he didn’t. Maybe it was your intuition confirming that your parents were no fools to choose a groom for you, who was privy of your past. Or, it was the simpler truth that if he did know, he’d never have agreed for this arrangement.

Either way, you decided to break the ice.

The branches of the ancient willow tree was always a shield against the sun’s merciless glare. You halted your stride beneath the canopy, Zayne following suit. Drawing a deep breath, you pivoted to face him. “Mr. Li–”

“Just call me Zayne.”

“Okay… so Zayne,” you began, the corner of your lip lifted, “I am sorry, I don’t know how to quite do this but–” reaching up, you held a strand of your hair–toying with it. “My parents said it was you, who helped me that night from uh… you know–”

“You don’t have to mention it,”  He intervened, “I just did what anyother person would.”

“Even so,” you persisted, a shrug easing your shoulders, “I owe you my life. The least I can say is a thank you.”

“Its alright."

Although the tone he used was laced with detachment, you refused to let it dampen your mood, “I don’t know what came over that night to drive like that.” You had to applaud yourself for lying so flawlessly. “I usually handle my alcohol well… on most days, I’d say.”

To which, he fixed you with an unreadable gaze, “Drinking while driving is a serious offence.” He said it so briskly that you’d have missed it, if you weren’t so attentive. Then, his focus drifted; no longer were you the matter the interest. A leaf tumbled down and he caught it mid-air—the stem pinched between his fingers. “But I suppose, some people are privileged enough to have others clean their mess.”

Something about that felt odd to you. Your eyebrows scrunched, “What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” The leaf slipped from his hand, landing on the space between you. And this time, when his eyes found yours—something had shifted. The warmth from earlier was snuffed out, as if it never existed. In the place of the man, who had accompanied you until now was a stranger carved from steel. “There’s no point in dwelling over the past and it's clear small talk isn’t our forte. So let’s just get to it.” A pause. Then, “What are your demands?”

Your eyes widened briefly, “Demands?”

“I believe someone like you wouldn’t acquiesce to a marriage to an 'uncouth' commoner like me unless you have ulterior motives.”

You pursued your lips, not liking the way those words tumbled from his lips. It was true that the reason you wanted to tie the knot was for a noble reason or merely altruism, you couldn’t let him know the dishonour this union was supposed to hide. No, it was unacceptable. And yes, maybe telling the truth would make it easier for the both of you but… but what if he left this arrangement after you laid it bare? What if he backpeddaled as soon as you told him that you weren’t an innocent lamb they flattered you to be? 

Therefore, you chose to lie again. 

“What if I don’t?” You asked, clasping your hand behind your back. “What if I just want to get married because I think it’s about time that I settle down? What if I just want a happily ever after?” 

Your joke was met with an inert veneer. For a second he closed his eyes, elliciting a weary breath, “Then I’d say you’re quite foolish.”

“Yeah… I have heard that quite a lot,” a murmur escapes you. Then, straightening your posture, you pressed your lips together, “This marriage is my demand, Zayne.” Holding off for a second, “I understand if you are bothered by its setup but there is no point in suspecting that I am doing this for a greater plan– I am not.” Tilting your head, “I just want to get married, that’s it.”

For a second, he stayed silent; rooted in his position. The next, he closed his eyes, brows furrowing into a reluctant surrender. “Fine.”

“Huh?”

“Its a yes from me,” He clarified, dusting off his sleeve. “That is enough to make you happy right.”

“Absolutely.” Not. But you managed the chirp in your voice, “I’d let my family know—”

“There’s no need for that.” This instant when he cut you off, he held a rather mellow tone. “Your father already knows.”

“Oh…!” You drew out the word but couldn’t help perk up on this piece of information. “That makes it easier for us, I guess?”

“Yeah.” He replied, “I should return—”

“What about you?” The question flew out before he could plant the notion of leaving. 

Zayne merely raised his brow at that. 

“What are your demands?” You insisted. “Even you must have a demand for agreeing to marry someone like me?”

“Just 0ne,” He averted his gaze from you; staring up at the sky which was beginning to coruscate in hues of nightfall, “Don’t look for love in this marriage."

The moment you stepped into his house, Zayne made it clear you weren’t welcomed anywhere near his personal space.

Stepping down from the black SUV, you were briefly muddled on how to manage your gown—the hem dragging on the concrete—and follow the brusque strides of your husband. After his outburst in the morning, he had tramped out of the bridal suite—not returning until the nth second until the reception began. And for the entirety of the ceremony, he had held this demeanour. Even during the couple dance, his gaze was distant, movements robotic–as if he was a puppet being pulled on the whims of a master and you were no more than a prop for him. He didn’t acknowledge your presence unless provoked by a guest or either of your families; who’d cajole that the heavens hadn’t made a prettier pair than the both of you.

If only they knew…

Now, you weren’t shallow. You knew you had overstepped your boundaries by proclaiming yourself as his wife when he clearly didn’t want to do anything with you. That was the reason, you didn’t take offence to your husband’s callous behaviour and followed him up to the suburban home in measly steps. 

As soon as you walked past the threshold of his house, your lips parted with a gasp.  Circular stairway leading to the first floor, large windows overlooking the city—which currently provided a flawless view of the  dreary sky—whilst the furniture were donned in hues of white and gold. The sleek, modern interiors were an embodiment of how minimalism and luxury went hand in hand; and it’d be a lie if you said, you weren’t impressed.

You weren’t a stranger to wealth, family mansions you had left in the altar would stretch double the expanse of his home; yet, you couldn’t blindside an exceptional indoors. So you remained stranded, letting your arduous gaze roam over the surroundings with a childlike curiosity. 

“Take the guest room,” it was only when your husband’s words floated to your ear that you were broken out of the daze. You hadn’t noticed until then but Zayne stood atop the landing on the stairwell. He fixed you with an impassive glance—one that beckoned you to straighten your posture. His coat was discarded, draped over his forearm and he was in the midst of unbuttoning his collar when he continued, “Two doors to the left,” he jerked his head in that direction, “your luggage would be in there.”

“Oh… okay?” Your reply arrived as a reflex. “What about… you?”

“What about me?” He raised a brow, “Are you questioning if I would share a bed with you?” 

“What? No.” You stepped back, hands raising immediately in an act of denial, “I didn’t mean that. No- I was just… I meant–”

“Good,” he declared, a solemn breath wafting off him, “At least you aren’t deluding yourself with foolish notions where I’d ever share a bed with you.” 

Raking his finger through his hair, he resumed his pace up the stairs. “Good night.”

“Good ni– no, wait… Zayne!”  You called aloud, trying to catch up to him. Task not needed because he halted at once.

“What?”

You inhaled deeply, revising the words you had been meaning to tell him all evening, once again. “I am sorry.” Finally, you let it out, “For what I said in the afternoon… I- I remember our agreement very well and I… I don’t know what incited me to say that but I promise it was the last time—”

“What are you rambling about?” Zayne interrupts in an instant, a crease forming between his brows while he regards you with an almost irate glare. “Sorry? For what exactly?”

If there was something crueler for a heart that has been raised to apologize for every mistake, then it’d be the gruelling punishment of being forced to utter their crime. You swallowed a lump down your throat, “I called myself your wife– I thought you’d be upset…”

Zayne didn’t speak for the next five seconds and the house was left to bask in throes of tormenting hush that the only semblance of passing time was evident from the ticking clock. For the world it was mere seconds, for you, it was eternity; until a spark of realization crossed his eyes.

“You are talking about that?” He questioned, but it almost sounded as a sneer.

“Well…” you drawled, fidgeting with your fingers as your eyes drooped downwards, “you weren’t really talking to me in the reception… so I thought—”

“You thought wrong!” He responded in an instant, prompting you to seal your lips shut. “Dear lord…” he pinched the bridge of his nose, a curse falling off his mouth before he turned his attention back to you, “Has it ever crossed your mind that I ignored you because I simply don’t find any reason to interact with you unless absolutely necessary?”

It's okay. It's okay. Calm down.

Your gown creased under the grip you had on them, right hand clamped on your other elbow–nails digging so deep with ferocious will to draw blood. “I- I see…” by heaven’s blessing you managed a normal response despite the emotion clogging your throat, “that’s… good to know that you didn’t mind my stupidity.”

“I am not a child to pout over words,” although his tone laid on the brims of matter of fact, you caught a hint of disgust in them. 

You heard his footsteps climbing the stairs but you couldn’t find the courage to look up. It was evident that he was retiring for the night and he had no qualms of making sure you were settled in or comfortable in this new space. That was good. If he left you alone in this dreary hallway, then at least you could navigate to your designated room and finally collapse in solitude. Holding back the cracks in your veneer was difficult as it is, you didn’t need an audience and let your reputation become a circus again.

And it would have been so good if Zayne left you alone for the night. So good, if you could have been rewarded with the possibility of breaking down on your own. So damn good, if only he hadn’t turned back to say those words to you.

“Don’t overthink it,” He announced, sparing you a last glance, “You aren’t important enough to ruin my days, wife.”

You couldn’t sleep that night.

For reasons you’d not like to name, the hours were spent tossing and turning on the bed. And before you could have procured ease in your rigid frame, dawn’s rays filtered through the blinds. From your room itself, you heard the click of the main door; implying Zayne must have taken his leave. After the events of last night, you couldn’t bring yourself to face him. Neither did you wish to. You remained in the swaddle of your fluffy blankets for another hour or so, before rousing to begin the day. 

And your reflection wasn’t kind enough to feed you with lies. As you went forward with your morning routine, it was hard to ignore what stared back at you from the bathroom mirror. Deep shadows settled beneath your lower lashes, the white of your eyes had tinged red due to all the tears you shed last night and your mussy hair stuck out in frantic strands around your face—every flaw, a testimony to your exhaustion. As if that wasn’t enough, a splitting headache ripped your skull as soon as you stepped inside the shower. The gliding waterdrops had long since turned their backs on you; no longer providing you comfort. Now this.

With all the misfortune raining on you, you couldn’t help but wonder: by some miraculous way did you piss off the gods?

That thought earned a chuckle from you. You finished the rest of your shower and changed into a fresh outfit. By the time you stepped out of your room, you had hid all the recesses of weariness under a thick coat of concealer. Treading into the main hall, you were hit with the stench of lemon and sandalwood. Your gaze fell on a woman, dusting the showpieces kept on the shelves—a bottle of disinfectant kept aside.

Spotting you from the corner of her eyes, she ceased her chores and greeted you with a pleased smile, “Good morning, ma'am.”

“Good morning,” you wished back, entwining your fingers in front. “You would be…?”

“My name's Medea,” saying so, she resumed her work, “I am Mr. Li's househelp. Just give me some time then I'll serve you. What would you like to have, Ma’am?”

“Anything is fine for me.” 

After feasting on a light breakfast consisting of toast and coffee, Medea bid you her farewell and thus again, you ended up all alone. It was rather odd that she didn’t question you about the nuances of your relationship with Zayne. Which husband leaves their wife to rot alone only on the second day of marriage? But the rational side of you begged to differ. Considering she had been working for him long before you came into the picture, this mustn’t be an unexpected occurrence to her. Besides, from the mere information you were rewarded with—regarding your husband—the hectic schedule of a surgeon would seldom allow for leisure.

However, when you looked into your situation; you found it to be absolutely hilarious. Only twenty-four hours into your marriage and here you were—stuck in this frigid mansion with all the time in the world, yet none of it was worth living. While you were never a working woman yourself, this feeling of redundancy was foreign to you. 

Therefore, you found your steps back to your room. Leaning on the headboard of the bed, you picked up your iPad from the nightstand. The screen flashed to life as soon as the fingerprint sensor detected its owner. You figured you could spend a quarter of your time by aimless scrolling. But your hope of ignoring the truth of your unhappy marriage was shattered when your finger slipped on the national daily.

THE MOST UNEXPECTED WEDDING OF THE DECADE

To those who claim love is a fickle object; this union will make you rethink.

On the 7th of December, under the golden glow of the chandeliers of Waldorf Astoria, the daughter (Ms. S) of Linkon’s one of the most influential industrialists (Mr. K) ties the knot with her fiancé (Mr. Z), the chief cardiac surgeon from Akso hospital. The news sent ripples through high society—stirring disbelief and whispers to float around.

Ms. S, known for her grace and influential lineage has always been the face of refinement; her life reads between reads between driving luxurious cars and visiting art museums. Mr. Z, on the other hand has built his life amid the sterile stench of hospital corridors rather than red carpets; his popularity garnered by becoming the youngest chief cardiac surgeon and leading 18-hour surgeries without breaking a sweat.

“They are so different,” says one guest, “She is born with a silver spoon in her mouth while he comes from a world of labor and yet, when I see them together, they are the perfect match.”

The ceremony was a blend of simplicity and elegance. Ivory roses, classical music and a power couple whose appearance was enough to silence the room. Although the event was filled with people whose legacy transcended half a century, you could feel the intimacy in the air. The poet pens as: ‘In a room full of faces, the only one I’ll search for is yours.’

Mr. K states, “We never expected her to bring someone like him home. But as you know, matches are written in stars but I believe they were written by the heavens itself.”

Tales like this make us believe in the magic of love. Money, class, society are mere brilliance that loses its shine when two hearts begin to beat as one. Perhaps, all that love needs is the need to choose each other again and again and again. In spite of the differences and obstacles that might frolic our path. And the proof of it was given this night; when the heiress and the surgeon said: I do.

The silver lined silhouettes against the black background painted a clear picture of the couple. You and Zayne. The silhouettes were unmistakable—you and Zayne. Posed in front of a black screen but your expressions were obstructed due to the ambient light striking your bodies in such a way that illuminated the outline in hues of silver—creating a dramatic effect to suit the headlines.

To say, you were dumbfounded would be an understatement. Because all what the article contained were straight up lies made in order to craft you and Zayne as this romantic couple who survived plundering obstacles insinuated by class and society and emerged victorious. While in reality, both of you were no better than strangers—compelled to cohabit a residence and put on this facade to please everyone. 

A dreary laugh bubbles up your throat as you scroll more articles; each one crafting one fabricated tale over another. 

THE WEDDING THAT IS TURNING HEADS IN THE NATION.

FATE AT CROSSWORDS: FROM CLANDESTINE AFFAIRS TO A CATHEDRAL.

FAIRYTALES ARE REAL AND THEY LIVE AMONG US: HERE IS A OVERVIEW OF THE GRAND WEDDING IN LINKON.

You could only wonder how many hearts crumble in disappointment if they were to ever learn the truth about the union. Just a stage play organized to drown out the upheaval that had the same articles calling you a multitude of names only an autumn ago. It's rather jocular how people can turn their backs to the headlines of the past as soon as you give them a new circus.

Multitude of such articles flooded your screen only after a few minutes of screening. Although you were tempted to open the comment section but you weren’t sure if this gamble was worth it (your subconscious told you it wasn’t). Your finger hovered over the icon—the extremes of your wits warring against each other. In the end, cowardice emerged victorious and the tablet tumbled on the mattress with a thud.  

With your back against the plush, you stared up at the ceiling. There was nothing that particularly caught your attention and you could lay there—wandering upon the endless possibilities of the universe—until slumber consumed you. Considering, your lack of sleep in the previous night and the hectic schedule imposed on you due to the schedule—it’d be a wise decision to snooze for a few hours.

However, you took a step back to reflect. That’s when you came to the realization that the next days would only be as mundane as today. Your feet padded across the room and led yourself out. Assuming if you were going to live here, you could at least, familiarize yourself with the layout.

With that aim on your shoulder—you began your exploration.

You didn’t mean to snoop. It was never your intention to linger around private chambers and you maintained your stroll well within the corridors decked with indoor plants and souvenirs. In your defence, you assumed the open area in the first floor was merely a miniature library due to the stacks of books piled on the racks. Who would have informed you that it was his study room? Thus, it wasn’t entirely your fault that you came across those letters. And you’d blame it on your curiosity that led you to read them.

Would you like to know a secret, my love? If I could trade my life for yours, I would,

The paper was crisp under your skin—warm and delicate. With precise rhythm, you folded it on the crease lines; smoothening the wrinkled before tucking it back in the envelope. A heavy breath flew past your mouth and your gaze shifted to the large glass window.

For any woman, to come across letters written by her husband to another woman must be equal to have her heart fractured into pieces. To think, all this time you were merely a placeholder in a pretend family while his favourite colour was the shade of his first lady love. A tale of his past romance he grieves till date. And if you sift through the archive of his memory, they wouldn’t consist family picnics or the nights you stayed awoke for him; but of her. Of the one that got away.

Such a scenario is no less than a horror story.

To devote your life to a man who’d trade it all for another woman was pure madness.

And yet, when your palm grasped the envelope with a little too much strength—you couldn’t find yourself to hate Zayne.

Because it is easier to love someone knowing they are out there somewhere. The futile sense of hope that maybe— just maybe— one day, fate would be kind to him. Maybe one day, he’d reunite with the one that got away. Maybe this instance, he’d hold on a little longer, learn to be a more patient and love her enough that he wouldn’t mind following her to the end of the world.

Love only demands that: hope.

But how does one love someone who no longer belongs to this realm? How can one heart beat for a wandering soul? How much strength does it take to hold someone so dear to him only in his memories—all while being aware she won’t ever return? How much did he love her to still devote himself to her even five years after her demise?

All of a sudden, Zayne’s emotional detachment didn’t seem foreign to you. He was merely grieving for his late girlfriend, The woman had held his heart in her two palms and you knew, he would have let her destroy it into a thousand fragments without a single regret. But you also knew, she—the woman he loved—had only one notion when the fragile tissue was left under her care. To nurture it; and she did. Because if she hadn’t, these letters would have never been written.

It was a paradoxical tale. Even though, she was a tale of his past.

But… the past never dies. It stays buried underground, waiting for the right moment to be brought up and create the same storm again. The storm of your past lives in you. In every breath, in every turn, in every glance—it hijacks your very being to the point where you can’t tell yourself from the other. No amount of steps towards a better future can override the demons of your past. They will haunt you, follow you, twist every interaction until you are caged in a prison of misery until you are back to square one.

As if clockwork, a strange sense of nausea consumed you. Your fingers trembled, stones clogging up the air way and before you could compose yourself—something in you couldn’t tell yourself apart from the husk of a grain as beads of water trickled down your lashes. 

Your tears drenched the worn-out envelope. How can anyone love you to the point they write letters that’ll never be read?

Don’t look for love in this marriage.

You could never forget those words he said to you; and you knew that it was futile to expect love from someone whose only bled ice for you. Even then, when you pressed the letter to your chest, you could only conjure one thought.

Oh, to be loved by Zayne.

Greyson knew Dr. Zayne could be a workaholic, but he never thought that man would spend the succeeding days of his marriage loitering the halls of Akso Hospital.

“Wait— don’t tell me you’re on duty tonight?”

“I am” Zayne made no effort to look up from the file his assistant had handed him. “Is there a problem?”

“No but—”

“No is a statement in itself,” The cardiologist finally darted his gaze to his colleague, closing the folder. “I believe there is no need for a follow-up reason.”

As a doctor, Greyson had major respect for Zayne and his friend’s antics weren’t unfamiliar to him; but he had to admit the man had a oblivious know-it-all attitude in himself which caused an ire of vexation to arise in him. “I know, but…” he drawled, pressing his forefinger on his glabella, “but man, you just got married. Shouldn’t you be on a week’s leave? Coddling your wife or planning vacations.”

Zayne wasn’t expressive and he kept up the front with an unemotional expression. “I still don’t see how my marriage requires me to neglect my patients. Unless— I have had my license revoked, is that what you want to say?”

“What? No!” Greyson exhaled; it was clear that he couldn’t get this man to understand the social constructs. Therefore, “Leave it. I have to resume my rounds in ten. Wanna grab some tea before that?”

Lifting his left hand, Zayne checked his wrist watch, “I guess, I do have a few minutes to spare.”

“Great then,” Patting his arm, Greyson took the lead. Zayne tucked the folder between his arm and the side of his torso—following suit.

As there shadows faded from the isolated corridors, their steps halted after they found themselves within the cubic elevator. The voices becoming a distant whilst the machine descended to the ground floor until, “Does you inform her that you won’t return tonight?”

He didn’t. But there was no reason for you to wait for him. Besides, he had informed you about your rooms and he assumed, Medea had already prepared your meals for the day. And you accepted the terms before stepping into this relationship so you must learn to reap the seeds of your mistakes. That this would be the new normal and you should not expect him for more.

So he answered, “Yes.”

Zayne had grown accustomed to the smell of hospitals.

The metallic stench of iodoform and antiseptics lingered in every corner. Stretching from the sterile ICU to the waiting rooms, from his chamber to the corridors, from the cabins to the reception. It followed him everywhere—haunting him like a ghost—reminding him of the white rooms and muffled cries he could never escape. It lived inside him now. The miasma entwined him on days he would stroll the care units at 1 AM. Sleepless and caffeine surging in his veins.

And the same cloud overshadowed his sky on a day he was supposed to be nowhere near the hospital ward. Yet, here he was. Standing afore the ER unit, his eyes fixed upon the glass—trying to look past the shield hindering his field of vision. The muddled sound of beeping monitors and the crutch of nurses’ shoes reached his ears but no luck. The red light of the operation theatre gleamed bright; a stark contrast to the dull crimson staining his cufflinks.

Zayne retreated towards the benches, slumping down on one of them. He heaved a sigh before pinching his eyelids shut—and instantly, he was back on the highway.

Zayne wasn’t even on duty today. Merely returning from his parents’ and he had decided to take the long way home. The high road remained mostly soulless at this hour and he was trying to find delight in the silence when an Aston Martin running at a speed above the entrusted limit—overtook him with a sharp turn. Even before, he could register the number plate or feel flabbergasted, he heard the crash.

Fumes erupted from the vehicles as it broke out of the barriers of the road and strode headfast into a barn before it was essentially stopped by smashing into an oak tree.

The next few minutes swept past like a breeze. Literally like a breeze. Because only bleary memories coruscated before his eyes when he tried to remember what he did. He couldn’t give a rational answer and have it make sense with time because he was acting purely on instincts. His sub conscious had controlled him for long and before he could decipher the events, he was sat askew on the driver seat. Gripping the steering wheel with all his strength, the side of his face pressed to his phone—calling the nearest to inform about the emergency while his gaze glided back and forth from the rearview mirror; the backseat of his car was dying red.

Fortunately, your phone was with you when they rolled you into the cabin and Zayne left it on the staff to inform your family. Although he had no relations with you or whatsoever, he refused to move away or clean himself of the blood. He just couldn’t. His moral conscience kept him within a cage of despair, heart beating on miles per hour within his ribcage; it was impossible to leave before he received the signal that you were stable.

The water warded off the stains from his hand. Webbing his fingers after sprinkling some disinfectant on his palms, he mushed his hands clean. He leaned down, splashing some water on his face before straightening up. The droplets clung to his brow and some of it got into his bangs. He wiped off his face the best he could; the rest remain untouched. A bead trailed down his cheekbone, halting at the angle of his jaw; it waited a second before creating a splotch on his shirt.

Zayne exited the restroom, carding his fingers through his moist strands when he was stopped by a man. Donning an expensive Armani with a bright smile plastered over his face; Zayne would never have imagined him to be the father of the frail girl holding on to life with the last threads, if he hadn’t introduced himself.

Now, he found himself standing in the bleak backroom, Mr. Klaude had asked him for an inch of his time but every second he spent in the company of this old man, was another second being added onto his dread. Something about the man didn’t click right and it stunned clear the moment he opened his mouth.

“How much would you like to have, son? Two million? Five?” He questioned and immediately Zayne’s brows scrunched in confusion. Klaude huffed a laugh, “You saved my daughter’s life. Sure, that kind of bravery deserves a reward.” He explained before continuing, “So tell me, how much?”

“I don’t need any reward for that. I just did what anyone else would,” he replied, gaze dodging from the man as he prepared to walk away. “Just take care of her now… that’d be enough.”

“Son this isn’t—”

“I’d like it if you didn't call me son.”

“Now, what else should I call my son-in-law?”

Zayne’s posture turned rigid in a second. His eyes widening, “Excuse me?”

“What?” Your father shrugged, “You didn’t think I was gifting you a cheque just to drink past your conscience on a Sunday or were you? It’s the first instalment for marrying my daughter or what they call— ah yes, dowry,”

“I don’t need any dowry!” Zayne had to control his tone, so as to not shout at the man, “And, I am not marrying your daughter.”

Briefly did Klaude’s eyes widened, as if the notion of being refused never crossed his mind. “Now, why not? Is the deal unsatisfactory to you, son?”

“I am not your son!” Zayne teetered close to the end of his wits now, his teeth ground against each other as his hands formed into tight fists at his side, “And I do ‘not’ want to marry your daughter because I just won’t.”

For a whole minute, Klaude kept his shrewd gaze steered on Zayne. And the latter couldn’t decode what sickness was surging through this vile man’s mind.

Zayne was prepared to call this circus off and walk away until, “You are the one who brought my daughter here, right?”

“Yeah…?”

“Where was she? What happened to her?”

Zayne was confounded with these obvious questions being thrown at him but so as to not make the situation worse, he answered. “She was on the highway when—”

“When you hit her, is that correct?”

“Excuse me?”

Klaude fished out a pack of cigar from his pocket. His eyes drifted to the nicotine sticks and he uncapped the box, “I am just recounting the events of tonight. Weren’t you the one that hit her?”

“No, I didn’t,” Disgust flared within Zayne’s chest as this man strung these vile accusations on him. “She was the one rash driving when the car—”

“Now, don’t turn the story on my innocent daughter,” With a click of the lighter, he lit the stick, “She was only trying to switch off with a late-night drive when you— under the high influence of alcohol hit her car and now, she has to spend a month in care unit.”

“That’s a load of bullshit! None of it happened. You’re—” The ground slipped beneath him; realization finally dawning on the young man and his lips parted with sheer bewilderment. “—you’re blackmailing me?”

“You see, Zayne…” Klaude drawled, heaving out a chunk of smoke. “I have had my men check the car long before I arrived— What? You didn’t I stewed this proposition without any preparations right?” A huff akin to a laugh escaped the man, tilting his chin upward, he looked down on him. If malice were to ever take a humanoid emotion, then it’d be the smile stretching on his lips, “I am a businessman, lad; ensuring a deal done is barely child’s play for me.”

Revulsion wrinkled his nose as though the air itself had turned foul. In some way, it had. From the fragments of his memory, he recalled the Aston Martin to be silver in a silver shade—a limited edition luxury car. He should have known then and there, no civilian would be sane enough to drive at a speed of 200 mph with alcohol churning their livers unless they had enough supremacy to get out unscathed.

Capitalist pigs and their spoilt brats.

“Broken fenders. Blood on the bumper—it’ll take very little effort to prove you were the drunk driver.”  

Zayne could feel his blood turning into icicles, the frost accumulating the tips of fingers. So much so, he had to physically restrain himself to doze down on the intensity of his emotions and think rational. As if that was possible.

“But you see…” Klaude continued, “As little effort it’d take me to turn the story, the more of you would have to lose. Like just imagine— three years in prison and your medical license being terminated—”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Oh? But I would.” Klaude assured, taking a puff of his cigarette, “I, most definitely would.” Tapping the end of his stick, he watched as the grains of ash tumbled to the ground, “Truth is flexible, Zayne. Especially when money is involved.” Pausing again, “Its your choice in the end. You can choose to become a part of my family or… you can choose to be a killer.”

His jaw tightened, a bitter taste filling his mouth. The weight of authority and media hung in the air like a funeral shroud. And true to the vile words being used to blackmail him, Zayne really had everything to lose here. But, “Why do you want me to marry her? I am sure an echelon like you could find someone better among yourselves to appoint as a pretend-fiancé.”

 “Now, now, son,” Even Klaude’s jovial laughter sounded wicked to his ears; or maybe it was one. “You can get a front row seat to the drama when you become an official member of our house, isn’t it? Until then… leave the details to the ones in charge. For now, I’ll transfer you five million.”

“I don’t your money.”

 Klaude knew Zayne would surrender under the threat he threw at his door. And watching the man’s aversion to even relenting to this fate was an icing to the cake. For a man like Zayne, who valued human life over anything—losing his medical license would be equal to tearing him off the purpose in his life. And every human needed a purpose, a will—to continue living; or else, when the grim reaper arrives, he’d find the man has turned to corpse long before his body decomposed.

“A word of advice, son,” He spoke up, halting Zayne mid-stride. Klaude lifted his chin, breathing out the smoke which faded into the starry sky, “Use every unfair advantage at your disposal to get ahead in life. The world isn’t fair—so there’s no need of keeping your hands clean in the long run.” He threw the half brunt stick across the concrete, “And learn to not refuse free capital. People lose their lives over it.”

Klaude was left waiting for a response. Perhaps, a word of gratitude or another snarky remark that unfairness isn’t fair and the same bullshit but the one he received, surpassed his expectations.

“Don’t call me son.”

As Zayne continued to sprint from the audacious aura of the man, he reflected on how fast his sentiments regarding you, in a matter of few hours. When he entered the hospital, he was pleading the Gods to keep you tethered to the brink of life if it was possible. To keep you alive until the professionals could operate on you. However, when he passed the threshold of the hospital, his emotions were vehemently on the opposite side. Because:

Zayne hadn’t regretted saving a life until yours.