CHAPTER 11

ZENDAYA'S POV

My heart slammed against my chest as I stared at Malachi's shocked face. I had stood up without thinking or planning. I had just... stood up.

For a split second, the room was completely silent except for the pounding of my pulse in my ears.

Then reality crashed into me like a freight train.

Oh God. Oh God, what have I done?

I didn't even think. I just let out a sharp cry and crumpled to the floor, my hands clutching my leg as if it were on fire. Tears sprang to my eyes—not from pain, but from sheer panic and the crushing guilt of what I was about to do.

"My leg!" I gasped, my voice breaking. "Oh God, my leg!"

Malachi rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside me. His hands hovered over me uncertainly, his face twisted with concern. "Zendaya, what—what happened? You were standing—"

"It hurts!" I sobbed, writhing on the floor. I dug my fingers into my thigh, my whole body trembling. "Sometimes it does this. Sometimes I can—I can feel it work for just a second, and then—" I broke off with another cry, squeezing my eyes shut.

I hated myself. I hated every word coming out of my mouth.

"Jesus," Malachi breathed. He slid one arm under my shoulders, the other beneath my knees, and lifted me with surprising gentleness. "I've got you. Just breathe."

The feeling of being in his arms sent electricity shooting through every nerve in my body. His chest was solid and warm against my side, his cologne filling my senses—something dark and woodsy that made me want to bury my face in his neck. I could feel his heart beating, strong and steady, while mine raced out of control.

Focus, Zendaya. You're supposed to be in pain.

I let out a whimper as he carried me to the wheelchair, settling me carefully into it. His hands were gentle but impersonal, adjusting my legs, making sure I was comfortable. When his fingers brushed against my thigh, I couldn't stop the sharp intake of breath.

Malachi's eyes snapped to mine. "Did I hurt you?"

"Yes," I lied quickly, my voice barely a whisper. "The pain—it's still there."

He straightened, running a hand through his hair. He looked shaken, I realized. Actually shaken. Something twisted in my chest at the concern in his eyes, even as I was actively deceiving him.

"How long has this been happening? These moments where you can almost walk?"

I swallowed hard, weaving my lie carefully. Every word felt like poison on my tongue. "A few weeks. Maybe a month. I didn't want to say anything because—" My voice cracked, and this time the emotion was real. "Because I didn't want to get anyone's hopes up. Especially Adrian's. If he knew that sometimes my leg works and then fails again, it would kill him. He'd never stop hoping, never stop pushing me to try harder, and I can't—" I covered my face with my hands. "I can't disappoint him like that."

The truth was so much more complicated than that. The truth was that I'd been able to walk for weeks now, and I'd kept it secret because I needed control over something—anything—in my rapidly spiraling life. The truth was that I was terrified of how people would treat me differently, of the questions and the scrutiny and the loss of the one thing that was still mine to reveal on my own terms.

But I couldn't tell Malachi any of that.

He was quiet for a long moment. When I lowered my hands, I found him watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Suspicion? Sympathy? Both?

"You should tell him," Malachi said finally, his voice softer than before. "He's your brother. He'd want to know."

"No." I shook my head firmly, feeling panic rise in my throat. "Please, Malachi. Don't tell him. Not yet. Not until I know for sure that I can actually recover. I can't give him false hope."

Please believe me. Please don't push this. Please.

Malachi studied my face for what felt like an eternity. I held my breath, praying he'd believe me, hating myself for lying but unable to see another way out.

"Alright," he said at last. "I won't say anything. But you should see a doctor, have them run tests—"

"I will," I interrupted quickly. "Soon. I just need a little more time."

Another pause. Then Malachi nodded once, short and sharp. He stepped back, putting distance between us, and I felt the loss of his warmth like a physical ache.

"You should rest," he said, his voice returning to that cool, professional tone that made me want to scream. "Tomorrow is going to be a long day."

No. Don't leave. Not like this.

"Malachi—" I reached out, not sure what I wanted to say, just knowing I didn't want him to leave. Not with this wall between us. Not with these lies sitting heavy in the space where honesty should be.

He stopped at the door but didn't turn around.

"Despite everything between us," he said quietly, "I'll be there for the wedding in five days. I'll play my part perfectly. You don't have to worry about that."

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that made my chest tighten.

I sat in my wheelchair, alone in the silence, my hands trembling in my lap. Slowly, I reached down and touched my leg—the leg that worked perfectly fine, that had no pain, that could carry me anywhere I wanted to go.

I had just lied to Malachi's face. Again.

The guilt settled over me like a heavy blanket, suffocating and cold. But underneath it was something else. Fear. I was terrified of revealing the truth—terrified of being vulnerable, of giving people another way to judge me or pity me. For three years, I'd been "poor Zendaya in the wheelchair," and the thought of suddenly being "miraculously recovered Zendaya" felt almost as suffocating.

And there was something else, something I barely wanted to admit even to myself.