Chapter 2
The brothel was tucked away in a part of the city where even the stars refused to shine. The streets outside were a labyrinth of whispers and shadows, the air thick with the scent of cheap perfume and despair. Zayn had never imagined himself stepping into such a place, yet here he was, driven by a loneliness so profound it swallowed his pride whole.
He entered quietly, the door creaking on its hinges like it was warning him to turn back. The room was dimly lit, the air saturated with smoke and muffled laughter. Women moved about in silk and satin, their painted smiles hiding lives of shattered dreams.
Zayn didn’t belong here. He knew it, felt it in the way the other patrons glanced at him- his tailored coat, his polished shoes. He looked like a man out of place, but perhaps that was fitting. He was always out of place, no matter where he went.
He sat in the corner, nursing a glass of something strong and bitter, trying to disappear into the shadows. He wasn’t here for pleasure, not in the way others were. He was here because he had nowhere else to go, no one else to speak to, and the silence in his mansion had become unbearable.
And then he saw her.
She moved quietly, gracefully, her presence more like a whisper than a shout. Her hair fell in soft waves around her face, and her eyes… they carried the weight of too many unspoken sorrows.
When her gaze met his, something inside him shifted. For the first time in months, maybe years, he felt seen.
She approached him cautiously, her heels clicking with a rhythm that felt more annoyed than seductive.
"You look like you need a drink and a therapist, buddy," she said flatly, looking him over. "What, you lost a bet or something? Or are you just really, really bad at making decisions?"
Zayn took a long sip of his drink, raising an eyebrow at her. She was so direct it almost threw him off, but there was something refreshing about it. Something real.
"What’s your name?" he asked, his voice a little rougher than he meant it to be. He wasn’t expecting her to say anything nice, but he wanted to hear her voice again. The chaos in her was interesting. It felt different from everything else in his life.
"Names don't matter here," she replied quickly, as if she had rehearsed it a thousand times. "But since you seem desperate for some kind of connection, you can call me whatever you want, Romeo."
Zayn leaned back, his lips curling into a smirk. "Alright, I’ll call you Laila."
She gave him an exaggerated look, eyes wide in mock surprise. "Oh my God. How original. Wow, you’re the first guy to name me after a dead girl. Do I get a prize?"
Zayn chuckled despite himself, shaking his head. "You don't like it?"
"I mean, how could I not? It’s not like I’ve ever heard that one before," she deadpanned, pulling her chair out and sitting down with a sigh, as if she was doing him a favor by even being there. " ‘Double D'- is my what they usually call me."
Zayn studied her for a moment, realizing she wasn’t even trying to impress him. That, in itself, was kind of fascinating. "Well, you sure know how to make a guy feel special," he muttered, sipping his drink again.
"Hey, I’m a realist, not a magician," she shot back. "I don’t pretend. I don’t ‘mystify’ myself, or whatever you rich guys think you do with your carefully curated tragedies."
He raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean by that?"
She shrugged, rolling her eyes. "I mean, you're sitting here in your fancy suit, looking like someone who just had his soul ripped out by a woman- probably named Laila- and now you’re here for ‘company.’ If you think I'm gonna sugarcoat it for you, keep looking. This ain’t the place for that."
"Ah, so I’m just another tragic story for you, huh?" he said, his voice low.
She leaned in, her face blank but her eyes sharp. "Oh, sweetheart, you're not that interesting. Trust me, I've seen it all. You know, the whole ‘rich guy with a broken heart’ routine. Boring. Been there, done that. Now, if you want something real, something worth your time, you better ask the next girl. Because I’m not here to save you."
Zayn smirked, impressed by her brutal honesty. "You’re not exactly the ‘saving type,’ are you?"
She shook her head. "Hell no. You need saving? Try your mother. Or your therapist. This is a brothel, buddy, not a shrine to your emotional baggage."
Zayn leaned back in his chair, studying her with a mixture of amusement and something else he didn’t want to recognize. "You’re… different."
"Different?" She snorted, the sound harsh and dismissive. "I’m just tired. Tired of pretending I’m anything other than what I am. And I can already tell, you’re the kind of guy who’d rather be miserable with someone than be miserable alone. So if you want someone to talk to, here I am. Otherwise, I’ll be over there, pretending to enjoy life. Choose your poison."
Zayn looked at her, his lips twitching as he tried to suppress a smile. "Alright, Laila. You’ve got a way with words. I’ll give you that."
She rolled her eyes. "Please. I’ve got a way with sarcasm and an attitude problem. Call me when you’re ready to keep up."
---
As the night wound down, Zayn found himself standing, his body moving toward the door almost of its own accord. He hesitated, looking back at her.
"You don’t recognize me, do you?" she said suddenly, breaking the silence, her tone almost too casual.
Zayn blinked, taken aback. "What do you mean?"
She tilted her head, a faint, almost imperceptible smile curving her lips. "Nothing..."
"Will you be here tomorrow?" he asked, his voice quieter than before.
"Yeah," she said without missing a beat. "I’m always here. You’ll find me. It’s not like I have anywhere else to go, you know? Unlike some people who pretend they have options."
Zayn paused, a strange pull in his chest. "Goodnight, Laila."
She gave him a lazy grin. "Goodnight, Romeo. Try not to cry too much on your way home."
Zayn smiled, shaking his head as he turned toward the door.
___
Zayn sat at the edge of the small, dimly lit table, nursing his drink, his eyes fixed on the woman across from him. Laila. Her eyes, sharp and guarded, looked back at him, but there was something else there too. Something raw, like she couldn’t keep it hidden anymore.
“So what’s your story?” Zayn asked quietly, unsure of how to break the silence.
Laila’s lips curled into a sarcastic smile as she sat back in her chair, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass with a practiced ease. “Oh, you want the fairy tale version? My father sold me to a brothel. A real charming guy. He told me I’d ‘make something of myself’ here. So here I am. Making something of myself by sitting on strangers' laps and pretending I’m worth a damn.”
Zayn’s gaze didn’t falter. He wasn’t looking for pity or a sob story. He didn’t need her to sugarcoat it. But her words… they landed with a dull, sinking weight.
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a low, almost bored tone. “I’m really good at what I do, you know. Not everyone can fake it that well. I’ve mastered the art of pretending that the man lying next to me is anything other than an asshole.” She paused, letting the words hang in the air before adding, “You’d be amazed how many assholes pay to feel important.”
Her eyes flickered up to meet his, and she saw something there that unsettled her. Was it pity? Or maybe just curiosity? Either way, she wasn’t ready for that. She wasn’t ready to see someone actually care- even if it was just an act.
“Anyway,” she continued, her voice laced with sarcasm, “I’m a real catch. Father sells me off, I get a great education in sex, and now I’m here. Living the dream, huh?”
Zayn didn’t look away. He wasn’t shocked. He wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t know how the world worked. But something about her delivery, her unapologetic attitude, made him want to listen more.
“You don’t seem like you belong here,” he said quietly.
Laila snorted, a bitter laugh escaping her. "Right, 'cause I’m really the type to grace the halls of a mansion or something. You think I like it here? I didn’t exactly draw the winning ticket in life’s lottery." She paused for a second, her lips twisting into a rueful smile. “I get it, Zayn. I’m damaged goods. You don’t have to look at me like I’m something special. I’m just another girl in a sea of broken things.”
Zayn’s brow furrowed slightly. She was self-deprecating, sure, but there was something about the way she spoke, as if she had long ago accepted her place in this messed-up world. Something in him pushed back against that, wanting to show her that she didn’t have to belong here. But he didn’t say anything. Not yet.
“I’m just trying to survive,” she added, her voice lowering. "And if that means selling my body so I don’t starve, so be it."
Zayn studied her for a long time, his mind whirring. He’d known women like her- women who had been broken down by the world, by circumstance, by men like him. But none of them had this- this sharpness, this raw honesty, this lack of pretension.
"You know," Zayn said finally, his voice almost too soft, "you don’t have to pretend with me. I’m not here to judge you."
Laila leaned back, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve been listening to too many damn rom-coms. Trust me, you don’t want to get involved in my shit. I’m not the cute girl next door who gets saved by some rich guy. I’m the broken one who gets left behind.”
Her voice cracked slightly on the last words, but she quickly covered it with another laugh- this one more hollow than before.
Zayn wasn’t put off. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t move. He was still staring at her, his eyes calm, unbothered by her words. “And I’m not trying to save you,” he said, each word deliberate, clear. “I just... I don’t know. I get it.”
Laila’s eyes flashed with something- a mix of bitterness and disbelief. “You get it? Really? You get it because you feel lonely too?”
"Yeah," he said, the word heavy between them. "I do."
Her gaze softened, almost imperceptibly. She wanted to argue, to scoff, to pull away. But something inside her- the same thing that always made her skeptical of anyone who tried to get close- made her pause. Maybe this time, she wasn’t going to push him away so quickly.
“I think you and I,” Zayn said slowly, "might just be more alike than we want to admit."
Laila rolled her eyes. "Oh please, don’t start with the ‘we’re so alike’ nonsense. Next thing I know, you’ll be giving me a sob story about how you had to sleep with a seventy year old for food."
Zayn smirked, leaning back. “I wasn’t going to. But now that you mention it…” He paused. “I could tell you about the mansion I can’t stand to go home to. Or the fact that I don’t even know what it’s like to have a conversation without pretending to be someone I’m not.”
She tilted her head, watching him intently. “How very deep of you.”
"Or maybe I’ll just tell you I’m tired of being alone," he said softly, the weight of it hanging between them.
Laila was quiet for a moment. For a brief second, the walls she’d built around herself cracked just a little. “Yeah, well… I’ve got my own brand of loneliness. And trust me, Zayn, it’s not pretty.”
He gave her a small smile, one that wasn’t meant to mock, but to understand.
She didn’t say anything for a while. She didn’t have to. The silence was filled with something unspoken, something raw and real between them.
Before he met her, everyday he would drink alone, but now, the brothel became a second home to him. Laila his companion, and his true love remained a wishful thinking.
---
Five years slipped by, each one blurring into the next, and I convinced myself that this was how life was meant to unfold- silent, distant, and at peace with my own solitude. The brothel became my second home, and Laila, despite her darkness, was my only companion. But peace, even if it was all I thought I desired, was never enough. My life, quiet and muted, wasn’t happy- it was hollow, always yearning for something more. A hunger I couldn’t name. And greed… greed never brings fulfillment. I wanted more, and in the end, I lost everything.
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