The door to my bedroom clicked shut, cutting off the distant sound of Nawal's laughter and the clinking of dessert spoons from downstairs. I didn't turn on the lights. I didn't need to. The moonlight filtering through the large windows of the Malik estate was enough to illuminate the room I had abandoned five years ago.
I pulled off my tie, the silk feeling like a noose I was finally loosening.
I walked over to the window, looking out at the darkened garden. My eyes automatically drifted to the right—to the warm, amber glow coming from the Siddiqui's second-floor studio.
She was in there. I knew her routine. After a heavy family dinner, she'd retreat to her canvases to wash away the day with paint.
I leaned my forehead against the cool glass, a sharp, stinging memory of the study hitting me.
"If you find my 'corporate' attitude disrespectful, feel free to walk back into the living room and tell your grandfather I'm the problem."
The words tasted like ash in my mouth now. I had sounded exactly like the man I'd spent years trying to become—cold, efficient, and entirely untouchable. But seeing the way her expression had shifted—the way her eyes had gone from fiery defiance to a sudden, hollow stillness—felt like a physical blow to my chest.
I hadn't just been professional. I had been cruel.
I'd treated Alayna Siddiqui like a line item on a budget sheet. I'd talked to the girl who used to share her secret sketches with me as if she were a stranger asking for a handout.
"Damn it," I whispered to the empty room.
I walked over to my suitcase, flipping it open and digging past the tailored suits until my fingers brushed the corner of the sketchbook I'd brought from Islamabad. I didn't open it. I couldn't.
I knew what I should do. I should walk across the driveway, knock on her door, and apologize. I should tell her that the "Islamabad Zayn" is a mask I wear so I don't have to feel the vacuum she left behind.
But I stayed exactly where I was.
We humans have a terrifyingly good ability to lie to ourselves. I adjusted my cufflinks on the dresser, my face reflecting in the mirror—composed, stern, and utterly blank. By the time I walked downstairs tomorrow morning, the guilt would be tucked away in a neat, labeled folder in the back of my mind.
I would be the CEO again. I would be the grandson Junaid expected me to be. I would treat her with the same icy distance because it was the only way I knew how to survive being near her.
If she thought I was a heartless machine, let her. It was safer for both of us if she hated the man I had become than if she discovered I was still haunted by the boy I used to be.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the phone on the nightstand. One text. That's all it would take.
Instead, I set my alarm for 5:00 AM for Suhoor and turned off the lamp.
The darkness was easier to manage than the truth.