If Zayn Malik wanted a professional relationship, I was going to give him a masterclass in it.
I spent the morning of the first day of Ramzan in my studio, the familiar ache of fasting already settled in my stomach. Normally, the first day is full of family chatter and shared excitement for the evening Iftar, but today, every time I heard a car door slam next door or a deep male voice in the hallway, my heart did a frantic little stutter before I forced it back into line.
I wasn't angry. Anger was too loud. I was just... done.
By 2:00 PM, I had to head to the old community center—the site of the future library. The grandfathers had insisted we meet there to "walk the grounds."
When I arrived, Zayn was already there.
He was standing in the middle of the dusty, sun-drenched hall, looking entirely out of place in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was staring at a cracked marble pillar, a tablet in his hand.
"You're late," he said, not looking up. His voice echoed in the empty space, cool and rhythmic.
"I'm exactly on time, Zayn," I replied, my voice light and completely devoid of emotion. I didn't look at him. Instead, I walked past him toward the far wall, pulling a measuring tape from my bag. "The site foreman said the north wing has damp issues. I'll be starting there."
I felt his gaze on the back of my head. I didn't turn around.
For the next hour, I treated him like a piece of the architecture. When he asked for the original floor plans, I handed them to him without touching his hand. When he pointed out a structural flaw, I nodded once, noted it in my sketchbook, and moved to the other side of the room.
No barbs. No witty comebacks. No eye contact.
"Alayna," he said, his voice dropping a fraction as I passed him to inspect the window frames.
I stopped, but I didn't turn. "Yes, Mr. Malik? Did you find a discrepancy in the budget?"
The silence stretched between us, thick with the dust motes dancing in the afternoon light. I could hear his steady breathing. I knew he was waiting for me to snap, to bring up the tea from the night before, to give him an opening to be "right" again.
"The light in this corner," he said finally, his tone shifting back to that clipped, CEO edge. "It's too dim for a reading area. We'll need to knock out the upper masonry."
"I've already accounted for that in the aesthetic brief," I said, finally turning to look at him. I kept my expression as blank as a fresh canvas. "I'll email you the revised sketches by Suhoor. Is there anything else? If not, I have a gala meeting to attend."
Zayn's eyes narrowed. He looked at me—really looked at me—for the first time since he'd arrived in Karachi. I saw a flicker of confusion in his gaze, a slight tightening of his mouth. He wasn't used to being ignored. He was used to being the center of the storm, not the one being left out in the cold.
"No," he said, his voice stiff. "That's all."
"Great." I tucked my sketchbook under my arm and headed for the exit.
As I walked out into the heat of the afternoon, I felt a strange sense of victory. It was small, and it was hollow, but it was there. He wanted a world where people were just functions and figures? Fine. I would be the most efficient, most distant function he had ever encountered.
He had spent five years forgetting me. I was going to make sure that being remembered by him was the most uncomfortable thing he did all month.