Chapter 4: In Your Dream Zoya

Los Angeles. Her ceiling. The pale morning light was filtering through the blinds, casting slanting bars across the room. Her heart was a frantic bird against her ribs, and her face was damp.

Riyana was draped half across her back, her small hands locked around Zoya's neck, her cheek pressed into Zoya's hair. She had climbed into the big bed in the middle of the night, performed her quiet rescue, and drifted right back into sleep.

Zoya reached up, covering one of those small hands with her own.

Two and a half years. She'd rebuilt an entire life from the ruins of that one night in London but her subconscious still wanted to argue with a ghost.

Outside, Jack barked on the porch. The world was waking up. Zoya didn't move for a long time.

Riyana woke up like a light switch—instant, complete. She sat up, her hazel eyes — Zoya's eyes, Raiyan's lips — wide and searching.

"Mommy."

"Good morning, baby."

Riyana reached out, framing Zoya's face with both hands. "Are you sad, Mommy?"

Zoya looked at her daughter. A two-year-old with the intuition of a seasoned therapist. "No, baby. I'm okay."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Riyana studied her for a beat longer, checking for the cracks adults usually tried to hide. Satisfied, she gave Zoya a short, assuring kiss on the nose. "Okay."

⸻

The bathroom. The pink toothbrush. The water that hit the mirror, the counter, and Riyana's pajama top.

"Oops. Mommy sorry."

"Clean it up, my baby."

Downstairs, the quiet competent sounds of Aunty Glenda moving in the back of the house made the LA property feel less like a temporary landing pad and more like a home.

Zoya was cracking eggs when the weight hit her foot. She looked down.

Brownie.

The four-month-old Persian kitten was a ball of golden-brown fur, currently staring up at her with an expression of absolute ownership. Zoya took a sharp step back, her pulse spiking.

"Stop it," Zoya said. Her voice came out thinner than she intended, a little too strained. She forced herself to stay still, forcing the air into her lungs, refusing to let the panic break her composure.

For Riyana, she reminded herself.

Just for Riyana.

"Mommy is a scaredy cat?"

Zoya turned. Riyana was standing in the doorway, a blanket draped over her shoulders like a cape.

"I was not scared," Zoya lied, her voice an octave too high. "I was startled. They are different."

"You are scared."

"No, I am not."

Riyana crouched, scooping Brownie up with total confidence. "Bwownie. We don't stand on Mommy."

Brownie appeared unbothered by this guidance.

"She keeps doing it," Zoya said. To no one. To herself.

"She likes you," Riyana said.

"She likes my feet specifically."

"Mommy Brownie needs mommy."

Zoya looked at her daughter.

"She has you already," she said. "Now go sit down."

By seven-thirty, Amy arrived. As Riyana began explaining the star-shaped pancake theory to Amy and Brownie, Zoya slipped away.

⸻

She ran every morning before the armour went on.

Not for fitness. Not for discipline. For the one hour of the day when she was not Lead Counsel, not a mother managing everything, not a woman carrying two and a half years of weight. Just her feet and the pre-dawn street and the specific mercy of a city that did not yet require anything from her.

She ran until her lungs hurt.

That was the point. The pain she could control.

She went four blocks before the thoughts arrived. They always arrived at the same place — the turn past the pharmacy, something about the light at that corner — and they were always the same thoughts.

The case. The trial date. The name on the opposing counsel list that she had been saying to herself in private for a year so that when she finally heard it out loud in a courtroom it would not unmoor her.

It had not worked. She had heard his name and her pen had stopped.

She ran harder.

By the time she turned back toward the house her lungs were burning and her face was wet and the thoughts were quieter.

Not gone. Just quieter.

That was all she asked of the run. Not resolution. Just enough space to breathe before the day closed back in.

She stopped at the front steps.

Hands on her knees. Breathing.

She looked at her wrist.

The scar. Almost gone now. Silver and quiet, the way old things went quiet when the world had moved on from them.

She traced it once with her thumb.

Almost fading, she thought.

Unlike everything else.

She went inside.

⸻

She stood in front of the mirror for exactly long enough to confirm everything was in place.

Blazer. Hair. Heels.

And then — without warning, without permission — his hands.

Not a memory she chose. Just the specific warmth of fingers at her collar, adjusting it the way he always adjusted it, the way he did small things with the focused attention of someone who had decided they mattered. Three seconds. Maybe less. The particular feeling of being looked after by someone who did it without announcing it.

She blinked.

Gone.

She picked up her bag.

She went downstairs.

"Mommy."

"Hi, baby."

Riyana stood up and walked over, touching the lapel of the blazer. She looked up at the version of Zoya the world saw. "You look so pretty."

Zoya crouched down, the heels clicking on the hardwood. "Yeah? You'll get your chocolates tonight either way."

"Mommy thank you." Riyana reached out, her arms locking around Zoya's neck in a grip that felt like an anchor. "Come back soon?"

"I'll try."

Zoya put her down before the try turned into a stay. She picked up her bag and headed for the door.

"Mommy."

Zoya turned. Riyana was standing in the middle of the room, clutching her blanket, the kitten at her feet.

"Come back," she said. Simple. A command and a plea.

"Always," Zoya said.

She walked out.

⸻

Forty-first floor.

The woman who walked off the elevator had nothing to do with the one who'd stood at the kitchen counter watching her daughter flex her arm after one bite of spinach.

Junior associate at her elbow before she reached her office.

"Opposing counsel filed a—"

"Delay motion. I saw it last night." She kept walking. "Response is already in your inbox."

He checked. Stopped walking.

She didn't.

⸻

Partners meeting. Ten o'clock.

She was three minutes into the evidentiary summary when Katherine Hale cut in.

Senior partner. Fifty-two. Sharp in the way of women who'd had to be sharper than everyone else in the room to get into the room.

"Opposing counsel filed a conflict of interest motion this morning," she said. "Requesting lead counsel be reviewed."

The table went quiet.

Zoya looked at her.

"The motion is without merit," she said. "Personal history was disclosed at engagement. If opposing counsel believed it had merit they'd have filed it nine months ago. They filed it six days before trial because they've run out of legitimate moves." She looked around the table. "I'd like to continue."

Silence.

Katherine looked at her.

Zoya looked back.

"Continue," Adrian said.

After the meeting she walked to the elevator.

The door closed.

She stood in it alone, watching the numbers drop.

She'd known it was coming.

That hadn't made it land any lighter.

The doors opened.

She walked out.

She went back to work.

She was so tired.

———————

In Switzerland, The Fairmont Geneva was too quiet.

It was the kind of silence that didn't soothe; it just forced you to listen to your own thoughts. Every surface was polished to a mirror finish. Every corridor was muffled by carpets that cost more than most people's homes. It was a place designed for discretion, but to Raiyan, it felt like a cage.

He sat at the desk, his laptop the only source of light in the room. He hadn't touched the keys in minutes. Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass, the lights of Geneva blurred into the lake. He wasn't looking at the view.

He typed the name again. Sophia Roseann Reyes.

Enter.

The screen refreshed. Nothing new. No personal interviews, no university records that made sense, no childhood traces. Just a series of institutional mentions and redacted affiliations.

Michael had called it a clean presence. Raiyan called it a scrub job.

Nobody is this invisible unless they're hiding something massive. You are the invisible architect, Sophia. But architects always leave blueprints. I just haven't found the right thread to pull yet.

He scrolled again. Slower. His mind kept snagging on her voice from the meeting. Your models don't work when they're softened. He exhaled a short, sharp breath. He wasn't softened. He was a stone.

Then his fingers moved. He didn't plan it. He didn't think.

He just typed it.

*Zoya.*

The name sat there in the search bar like a mistake he couldn't delete. Four letters. A name he used to say into the crook of her neck. A name that didn't belong in a Geneva hotel room or a corporate investigation.

He didn't move. The air in the room felt suddenly thin.

Why is the name still so heavy? It's been two and a half years. He has built a wall around that name. He's been raising their child. He has fought a war. So why does seeing it on a screen feel like someone just stepped on his chest?

His thumb hovered over the delete key. He didn't press it. He just looked at the letters.

He slammed the laptop shut.

The sound was too loud in the room. He sat back in the chair and didn't move, staring at nothing, waiting for his pulse to settle.

Six days.

That was the number that hit him next. Six days until the trial. Six days until he had to walk into a courtroom in LA and look at the woman who had walked away without a backward glance.

He stood up. His movements jagged. He grabbed his coat. He couldn't be in this room anymore.

His phone was in his hand before he reached the door.

"Sir," Michael answered on the first ring.

"Update."

"The victim coalition is moving," Michael said. "Someone is funding them through shell accounts. No direct name, but they're using high-level legal strategy. There are real victims as well, sir — water poisoning cases around the neighbourhood near the Mansoor chemical factory. They aren't just looking for a settlement; they're looking for leaks."

Raiyan looked at his reflection in the dark window. "Reyes?"

"Still a wall. Her profile is constructed, not lived. Everything is routed through third-party layers."

"Keep digging," Raiyan said, his voice dropping into that dangerous, low register. "I want her connection to the Fayez empire. Every single link."

He hung up. Called Armaan.

"Flight status."

"Ready. We can be wheels-up in forty minutes."

"Tonight."

A brief silence. "LA?"

"Yes."

"Your daughter is already there."

"I know."

Raiyan ended the call and walked out.

The air on the tarmac was cold. The kind of sharp Geneva wind that stripped everything down to intent.

He boarded the jet.

Mansoor Corp files. Environmental reports. Legal filings. He moved through them with surgical focus, but the six-day deadline was a ticking clock in the back of his mind.

She really thinks she can stand across from him and talk about justice after what she did. She took his peace. She took a piece of his life he will never get back. And now she wants to ruin the Mansoor family legacy too?

"In your dream, Zoya," he murmured.

He leaned back, watching the runway lights move past as the plane began to taxi.

A low, quiet laugh left him. It wasn't amusing. It sounded tired. It sounded like a man who had been holding a grudge so long it had become a limb.

He should hate her. He does hate her. He has practiced it every morning for over eight hundred days. But as the jet lifted into the black sky, he looked at his reflection in the glass and saw the truth he'd never admit.

He didn't know if he was going to LA to destroy her.

Or if he was going there because he still didn't know how to exist in a world where she wasn't his.

He closed the laptop and let the darkness of the cabin swallow him whole.

Meanwhile In LA,

The elevator doors opened on the forty-first floor and Zoya walked out and stopped. She saw him.