She had long, dark hair that cascaded like a river of night, a voice soft and hesitant, a presence that made everything around him feel less alive. She would never look at him. He was too much of the world she never belonged to. His scent- whiskey and smoke- sickened her. Her nose scrunched when she saw him, and Zayn felt the sting like a slap.

He watched her from across the room, and something in him broke. She was sitting there, distant and fragile, like a dream he couldn’t reach. She was the ghost of a life he could never live, untouched by the darkness he had fallen into. But Zayn couldn’t stop himself. He stood up and walked towards her, trying to mask the tremor in his chest.

"If you need any help, tell me. I respected your father. He wasn’t just my secretary- he was one of my own."

Her eyes lifted, shy and uncertain, and for a moment, the world fell away. Zayn saw something in her that was too familiar. The way she tried to hide her fear, her nervousness, the way she shifted in her seat, as though trying to become invisible. It was him, all over again. The younger version of himself- the boy who never had a chance, who had to fight for every scrap of affection, who was always too much of a burden to be loved. She was him, but in the purest, most tragic form.

"Are you alright, Miss Laila?" he asked, his voice soft, almost afraid to break the fragile moment.

Her hands trembled as she tried to speak, her words coming out in a broken whisper, "Wa- water."

Zayn could see the jug across the room, but he didn’t want to be rude. He’d never been good at not being rude. So, he poured a glass for her, careful, measured. "I don’t like to cross-contaminate. Would you mind getting me a bottle of water?"

She looked at him, but there was no warmth, no understanding in her gaze. Only fear.

As soon as he sank into his chair, Laila stood up again. Her hands shook so violently that it made him ache to see it.

"What’s wrong?" he asked.

"I... I’m sorry. I have haphephobia—and please don’t take my name. It scares me."

Zayn wanted to slam his head against the desk. He wanted to scream, to let the tension out, but he didn’t. Instead, he counted the tiles on the floor, breathed in slowly, and reminded himself: She just lost her father.

But the words stuck in his throat. She was so like him. So much like the boy who never knew how to hold on to anything. The boy who thought he could buy happiness, but never could. He saw that younger version of himself in her—raw, unpolished, too full of hope and too empty to know it.

"Would you ever marry?" she asked, her voice trembling with something between hope and fear.

Zayn’s laugh escaped before he could stop it. It was bitter, hollow, a sound without warmth. "For someone who loves their personal space, you’re too keen on invading mine."

Her face paled, and she pulled her hands up in apology, her voice barely a whisper. "I’m sorry... I didn’t mean it in a bad way."

He rubbed his temples, trying to chase away the headache that was building behind his eyes. "No... don’t mind me. And no, I don’t want to marry."

Laila hesitated, as though she was weighing her words. Then, with a quiet resolve, she spoke. "I know about your situation... and as I told you, I have my phobia... And I know you don’t want marriage, but Abba told me that you’ll inherit your father’s fortune as soon as you do. It can be a secret marriage, if you want. My mother... she needs treatment. If you help me, I’ll do anything."

The words hung in the air, a heavy, suffocating truth. Tears began to fall from her eyes, slow and quiet, like rain on a windowpane. She collapsed to the floor, her scarf slipping off, revealing the fragile woman beneath. Her face was ashen, her skin dull and cracked, dark circles beneath her eyes like bruises from sleepless nights. She was a ghost, a shadow of what she once was. Her lips were cracked, and there were freckles scattered across her face like tiny stars in a night sky.

Zayn’s heart thudded in his chest as he realized what she was offering. What she was willing to sacrifice for the ones she loved. She had nothing left to give except herself. Desperate. Broken.

And in her eyes, he saw the reflection of the boy he used to be- too desperate to hold on to anything, too willing to give up whatever was left of him just to survive.

Her tears soaked the floor beneath her, and Zayn felt a pang of something raw and ancient in his chest- a kind of grief he couldn’t name, a longing for something that could never be fixed.

In that moment, he knew. She was asking for his help, but in her eyes, he saw his own desperation, the desperation that had once consumed him.

She was broken, and it was both heartbreaking and beautiful. But he couldn’t ignore the truth- the world he inhabited had always been one of cold luxury, calculated decisions, and manipulation. Marriage had never been anything more than a contract to him- a transaction to secure power. Yet here she was, offering him everything she had left, not for love, but for survival.

"You're asking me to save your family by binding myself to you in a lie," he said, his voice low and tight with restraint. His stomach twisted, but he couldn't tell if it was disgust or sympathy stirring inside him. The words felt foreign on his tongue, yet the weight of them hung in the air like smoke.

Laila’s tears fell faster now, a steady stream of grief and regret as she sank to her knees before him, her hands trembling uncontrollably. "Please," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I’m not asking for anything but a chance... Please, Zayn. I’ll do whatever it takes."

For a moment, he didn’t speak- he just watched her, the offer hanging over him like a heavy, oppressive shadow. The alcohol buzzed through his veins, but it couldn’t dull the truth, couldn’t drown the weight of what he was seeing. The desperation in her eyes, the vulnerability- he felt it all, and it suffocated him.

His gaze softened, but only for an instant. The walls he had built around himself started to crack, but he couldn’t let them fall. He couldn’t be the savior. He couldn’t be the man who lifted someone out of the darkness when he himself had never learned how to step into the light.

"You think you can buy my compassion with your sacrifice?" Zayn’s voice was cold, but his insides burned with something far more dangerous than anger- regret, perhaps. "I don't need your body, Laila. I don’t need your desperation."

Even as the words left his mouth, he felt the pull of her presence, the vulnerability that called to something buried deep within him. Something twisted and fragile, longing to protect her, to be the man she needed. But he couldn’t let himself give in.

Laila’s head dropped, her hands pressing against her chest, as if trying to hold the pieces of herself together. She didn’t look up. She didn’t ask for more. She had nothing left to offer except her brokenness.

Zayn rubbed his temple, cursing the guilt gnawing at his insides. He wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t the man to save anyone.

But the silence stretched on, and something inside him shifted. She was too pure, too broken- and for the first time in a long time, he wondered if it was his own loneliness that had drawn him to her. She was the reflection of the man he used to be- the one who never knew how to ask for help, the one who had given up everything for survival.

"Get up," he muttered, his voice gruff and weary. "Let’s talk. But know this... you won’t be doing anything for me. This isn’t charity."

Laila lifted her tear-streaked face, hope flickering in her eyes, but Zayn couldn't bring himself to meet her gaze. He wouldn’t be her savior. Not yet.

Not until the cracks in his own heart spread too far to ignore. He wasn’t a saviour, Zayn was selfish. He wasn’t a good man, he was greedy for love...