The air in the Malik living room wasn't thick with "romance"; it was thick with the scent of cardamom and the uncomfortable weight of things left unsaid.
I sat on the edge of an armchair, keeping my posture rigid. Across the room, Zayn was listening to Grandfather Junaid drone on about the upcoming library renovation. Zayn had his "boardroom face" on—eyes focused, head tilted at a precise, attentive angle, but his hands were buried deep in the pockets of his charcoal trousers.
He hadn't looked at me once. Not even when I walked in.
"Alayna," Grandfather Waqas said, nudging me. "Zayn was telling us about the logistics of the library project. He seems to think it can be done in four months. What do you think?"
I finally looked up. Zayn's gaze shifted to mine, but there was no spark, no movie-star intensity. It was the detached look of a man evaluating a vendor.
"Four months is a pipe dream, Zayn," I said, my voice steady. "Unless you're planning to sacrifice the restoration quality for speed. I assumed a project of this magnitude in our neighborhood would deserve a bit more care than a standard Islamabad contract."
Zayn didn't react. He didn't even blink. He just tapped his fingers against his thigh once, a slow, rhythmic movement.
"It's called optimization, Alayna," he said, his voice quiet, almost bored. "It's how we ensure the budget is respected. Aesthetics are secondary to structural integrity. If you want to discuss the finer points of construction theory, my assistant can forward you the technical specifications."
His voice was so dismissive it was almost polite, which made it ten times worse.
"My 'aesthetics' are the reason the project has community support," I snapped, my calm finally fraying. "Or do you need an assistant to explain that to you, too?"
Auntie intervened, her voice tight, clearly sensing the edge in the room. "Zayn, why don't you show Alayna the floor plans in the study? They're on your laptop. It's easier to see the scale than to argue over tea."
Zayn stood up immediately. He didn't offer a polite gesture or a smile. He just turned toward the hallway. "If she's interested in the scale, the office is this way."
I followed him down the hallway, the house feeling like an icebox. He pushed open the door to his father's old study and walked straight to his desk, sitting down and turning his laptop toward the guest chair. He didn't offer me a seat.
"The CAD files are open," he said, focusing entirely on his screen. "Review the load-bearing requirements and the timeline. If you have a legitimate professional concern, put it in an email. I don't have the time to debate art versus architecture tonight."
I felt my blood run cold. He was talking to me like I was a junior associate he wanted to get rid of by 5:00 PM.
"You haven't changed at all, have you?" I said, standing near the desk. "Still hiding behind a screen, still treating everyone like an obstacle to be managed."
Zayn finally looked up. The blue light of the screen made his eyes look sharp, and for the first time, I saw the true weight of his coldness. It wasn't just professional—it was a deliberate barrier.
"I'm here to manage a renovation, Alayna, not to revisit five-year-old grievances," he said, his voice dropping to a low, flat tone that was more dangerous than a shout. "I've spent half a decade building a life where I don't have to apologize for being successful. If you find my 'corporate' attitude disrespectful, feel free to walk back into the living room and tell your grandfather I'm the problem. But right now? You're blocking the view of the plans."
He turned his chair away from me, effectively ending the conversation. It wasn't a tantrum. It was a cold, calculated dismissal.
I was standing in his study, and for a terrifying moment, I realized he had successfully pushed me out of his world without even raising his voice.