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Chapter 8

Author: Crystal hart
last update Last Updated: 2025-04-26 04:46:40

The morning after the engagement ceremony came too soon. Sunlight spilled across Zara’s room like an unwelcome guest—golden and soft, but to her, it felt harsh, exposing. She lay on her bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as the events of the previous day replayed in her mind like a cruel movie on repeat. The music, the forced smiles, the weight of tradition, and—most hauntingly—the muffled conversation she’d overheard between her father and Chief Kareem.

She didn’t want to think about it.

She didn’t want to remember her father’s voice trembling—not with fear, but with unease—as he whispered, “You promised this would never come back to us.”

Zara squeezed her eyes shut, as if that could force the memory out. She didn’t know what they were hiding, and deep down, she feared the answer. But fear wasn’t something she could afford right now. Not when her dreams were dangling by a thread and her freedom was on a timer.

Pushing herself off the bed, she reached for her phone. The one person who could ground her, who wouldn’t sugarcoat anything, was Kemi.

The phone rang twice before Kemi answered, her voice laced with sleep. “Zara? You good?”

“I just… needed to hear your voice,” Zara whispered, curling her knees to her chest.

There was a pause. Then, “Did something happen?”

Zara hesitated. “I overheard my dad and Chief Kareem talking last night… after everyone left. It was weird. They were whispering, and my dad sounded… scared. Chief Kareem said something about keeping things quiet. Like they were hiding something big.”

Kemi was silent for a beat. “What do you mean? What kind of thing?”

“I don’t know,” Zara admitted, her voice tight. “It didn’t make sense. But it felt… off. Like this marriage isn’t just about tradition or alliance or whatever they’re calling it.”

“You think there’s something else going on?”

“I don’t know, Kemi. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. I shouldn’t have listened.” She sighed, rubbing her temple. “Let’s just forget I mentioned it.”

“Zara—”

“No.” Her tone sharpened. “Please. Let’s just focus on the plan. On the modeling stuff. That’s all I care about right now.”

Kemi hesitated again but then softened. “Alright. We’ll shelve it for now. But if anything else weird happens, you better not keep it to yourself.”

“I won’t,” Zara lied.

There was a pause, and then Kemi perked up. “Actually, I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up. Remember that casting agent I told you about? The one that works with upcoming campaigns in South Africa?”

Zara sat up straighter. “Yeah?”

“She responded to my message. Said she’s interested in seeing more of your portfolio. If we can build up a little online presence, she might be able to get you in for a shoot. It could open real doors, Zara.”

Hope sparked in her chest like a flicker of light in a tunnel. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. I already started curating some of your best shots. We just need to find a way for you to sneak out every now and then. Errands, pharmacy runs, something believable.”

A slow smile curved Zara’s lips. “I can make that work. They won’t monitor me every second.”

“That’s the spirit,” Kemi said, her voice brightening. “We’re gonna get you out of this mess, Zara. One step at a time.”

After the call ended, Zara placed her phone on the dresser and let out a long breath. It felt good—just for a moment—to talk about something that wasn’t marriage or duty or her father’s expectations. Just her dream. Just modeling. Just… her.

The rest of the day crawled. She avoided everyone. Her mother tried to engage her in small talk over lunch, but Zara kept her answers short, her smile mechanical. Her father didn’t speak to her at all—and honestly, that was fine with her.

That evening, after everyone had gone to bed, Zara slipped into her nightwear and crawled under the covers. But sleep didn’t come. Her eyes remained wide open, fixed on the ceiling. The room was quiet—too quiet. Her thoughts, however, were anything but.

To distract herself, she grabbed her phone again and opened I*******m. Maybe she could drown in fashion reels, let the endless stream of color and style blur everything else away. As she scrolled through her explore page—filled with runway clips, behind-the-scenes shoots, and fashion inspo—a familiar profile popped up.

@ReganKareemOfficial.

She paused.

Her thumb hovered, then betrayed her.

She clicked on the profile.

The page loaded with a grid full of crisp suits, striking stares, and annoyingly perfect lighting. Regan at a charity gala. Regan in a sleek convertible. Regan lounging with a glass of wine like he didn’t have a single worry in the world.

Zara blinked.

Without even realizing, she’d been staring—scrolling—lingering on one picture in particular. A candid one. He wasn’t even looking at the camera. He was laughing at something, head tilted slightly back, a dimple faintly visible.

She made a face, jerking the phone back like it burned. “Ugh! What the hell?” she muttered, scowling at the screen. “Why was I staring at his pictures like that?”

She tossed the phone beside her and climbed out of bed with a huff. “Ew,” she muttered again, more to herself.

Needing a serious palette cleanse, she headed to her closet. The tall white doors opened to reveal rows of carefully organized clothing. A soft smile crept onto her lips as she ran her fingers along the fabric.

Her modeling wardrobe.

She pulled out a few of her favorite outfits—pieces she’d secretly kept aside. A flowy satin two-piece in champagne gold. A bold denim jumpsuit. A sheer black top with rhinestone embellishments. She laid them across the bed one by one, studying them with a critical eye.

She stood in front of her full-length mirror and tried on the champagne two-piece first, tying the wrap top tighter across her waist. Then came the jumpsuit, which hugged her in all the right places. She posed. Twirled. Smiled.

This—this was who she was.

Not someone’s arranged wife. Not a pawn in her parents’ secrets.

Her.

Zara.

Model. Dreamer. Fighter.

When she was done trying the last outfit, she sat on the edge of her bed, a pair of heels dangling from one hand. Her breathing slowed, but her mind remained tangled with thoughts.

She thought about Regan’s smirk when he agreed to the one-year condition.

She thought about her mother’s watchful eyes—cold, sharp, unreadable.

She thought about that conversation. The one she had sworn to forget.

Her father’s voice.

Chief Kareem’s warning.

Her own growing dread.

Zara turned off the lights and slid under the covers again, this time clutching her pillow tightly. She couldn’t afford to lose focus. Not now. The moment she gave in to that suspicion, she’d drown in it.

One step at a time, she reminded herself. First, the marriage. Then, freedom. Then, Paris.

Everything else could wait.

Still, as sleep finally crept in, one thought clung stubbornly to the back of her mind:

Some things don’t stay buried forever.

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