Chapter 12 - family war

Chris Zayden sat in the silence of his luxurious hotel suite, the dim lighting casting shadows across the room. Sundays were always a struggle for him. With no employees to manage, no meetings to attend, and no excuse to hover around the development block where Hema worked, he was left with a hollow void. It frustrated him to no end. The silence felt like a curse, amplifying the storm inside him.

He sprawled on the leather couch, dressed in a casual black T-shirt and grey sweatpants, a stark contrast to his usual sharp suits. Cold Coffee sat untouched on the table, condensation forming around its rim. He leaned his head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling as if it held answers to the chaos in his mind.

To distract himself, Chris picked up his tablet and began reviewing some pending work. His sharp, focused eyes scanned through the reports and figures, but nothing seemed to hold his attention for long. He glanced at the clock—it was only 10 a.m. “This day is going to drag on forever,” he thought.

As he worked, his concentration was abruptly interrupted by the loud buzz of his phone. He looked at the caller ID, and his expression darkened instantly. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. It was his father.

For a moment, he considered letting it ring out, but then, with a sharp sigh, he picked up the call. He didn’t say a word, holding the phone to his ear in silence.

“Chris!” His father’s voice was sharp, authoritative, and filled with anger. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Chris remained quiet, his lips pressed into a thin line, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the phone tighter.

“You humiliated Emily! Do you even realize the damage you’ve caused?” his father shouted. “She’s not just anyone—she’s the daughter of my best friend and business partner. And you dumped her like she meant nothing!”

Chris finally spoke, his voice low but firm. “I’m not interested in her.”

His father scoffed on the other end. “Not interested? Is that all you have to say? You’re an adult, Chris. Stop behaving like a rebellious teenager!”

“I didn’t lead her on,” Chris replied, his tone growing colder. “You and her father arranged it without asking me. I don’t need to justify my choices to you.”

His father’s frustration erupted like a volcano. “And what is this I hear about you staying in India for weeks, stalking some low-class Indian—” He paused for effect before spitting out the word, “bitch?”

Chris froze, his grip tightening on the phone until his knuckles turned white. His other hand balled into a fist, the veins on his forearm bulging.

“Don’t. Call. Her. That,” Chris said, his voice dangerously low, each word spoken with precise, quiet fury.

“Watch your tone with me,” his father snapped back.

“I’m doing this for your own good, Chris. Don’t make me take steps I’ll regret later. You think you’re untouchable, I can destroy everything you have, remember that.”

Chris felt his entire body tense. The years of control, manipulation, and forced obedience boiled to the surface, threatening to erupt. But instead of shouting, he took a deep breath and said, “try doing it?”

His father exhaled heavily, his tone slightly calmer now. “Just listen to me for once, Chris. Stop making decisions you’ll regret later. That’s all I’ll say. You are my son, whatever I do is only for your good.”

Chris didn’t respond. He hung up without another word and tossed the phone onto the couch with a loud thud.

For a moment, he sat still, staring at the floor, his jaw tight and his shoulders stiff. His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of anger and frustration coursing through him. The conversation replayed in his mind, each word his father had spoken fueling his rage.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed again. His first instinct was to ignore it, but he noticed it wasn’t a call—it was a message from Mark.

He picked up the phone and opened the message. It was a photo of Hema, standing on the balcony of her modest apartment. She was holding a coffee mug, her hair tied in a loose bun. She wore a simple salwar suit, the morning sunlight casting a golden glow on her face. She was smiling as she watched two children dancing playfully in the street below.

Chris felt his anger dissolve almost instantly. His shoulders relaxed, and a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “What are you doing to me, Hema?” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

Without a second thought, he grabbed his car keys and left the suite, still dressed in his casual attire—dark jeans and a white T-shirt that hugged his muscular frame. He ran a hand through his messy hair as he walked briskly to the parking lot.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, he started the engine and gripped the steering wheel tightly. He didn’t know exactly what he was planning to do, but he knew one thing—he needed to see her.

As he drove through the streets of the city, the tension from his conversation with his father seemed to melt away. His focus was entirely on reaching her. It was already noon, and the streets were bustling with life, but Chris barely noticed. All he could think about was the smile on Hema’s face in that photo.