Morning came too soon.
Sunlight slipped through the curtains, soft and golden, mocking the heaviness in my chest. For a brief second, I forgot where I was—until I heard movement in the room.
Zayn.
I sat up instantly, pulling the blanket closer around myself. He stood near the wardrobe, buttoning his cufflinks with practiced ease, already dressed in a sharp black suit. Cold. Controlled. Untouched by the sleepless night that had left dark circles under my eyes.
"You should get ready," he said. "We have breakfast with my family."
My stomach tightened. "Already?"
"Yes." His tone didn't allow questions.
I nodded and went to the bathroom, splashing water on my face, trying to steady myself. Today wasn't just another morning. Today, I had to play the role of a wife in front of strangers who would judge every smile, every move.
When I stepped out, Zayn looked up.
For a moment—just one—his eyes lingered.
Something unreadable flickered across his face before it vanished.
"You look… appropriate," he said.
Appropriate.
I didn't know why that word hurt more than silence.
The dining hall was grand, filled with quiet conversations and clinking cutlery. Zayn's mother sat at the head of the table, her gaze sharp yet curious as she studied me.
"So," she said, smiling politely, "how is married life treating you, Ayla?"
I hesitated.
Zayn's hand suddenly covered mine beneath the table.
"Perfect," he answered smoothly. "Ayla is adjusting well."
His thumb pressed lightly against my skin.
My breath caught.
I forced a smile. "Yes. Everything is… fine."
The lie tasted bitter.
Throughout breakfast, Zayn never removed his hand. To anyone watching, it looked intimate. Protective.
To me, it felt dangerously close to something real.
When we finally stood to leave, I pulled my hand away too quickly.
Outside, I faced him. "You didn't have to do that."
"It was necessary," he replied. "Public image matters."
"You crossed a line," I said quietly.
He stepped closer, his voice lowering. "You forget, Ayla. We agreed to appear convincing."
"And you forget," I shot back, "that this is still a contract."
Something hardened in his eyes.
"Exactly," he said. "A contract. Don't read meaning where there is none."
Silence stretched between us.
Then he added, softer, "Lines exist for a reason. Don't cross them."
My chest tightened. "Then don't pull me toward them."
For a second, I thought he might say something else.
Instead, he turned away.
That night, the room felt smaller than before.
I sat on the edge of the bed, lost in my thoughts, when Zayn spoke from the other side of the room.
"There will be events. Dinners. Appearances," he said. "You'll need to stay close to me."
"And emotionally?" I asked before I could stop myself.
He paused.
"Emotionally," he said slowly, "we stay exactly where we are."
Far apart.
I nodded, even though my heart refused to agree.
As the lights went off, I realized something terrifying:
The lines were already blurring.
And the closer we stood in public,
the harder it was to stay distant in private.