Chapter 5: Gold-Embossed Lies

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

Faiyaz was sitting in the reception area, his jacket folded over one knee and his phone in his hand. He looked up almost immediately, his attention staying on her a little longer than usual before he put the phone away.

Zoya was still dressed for work, her hair neat and blazer in place, but the lack of sleep was beginning to show around her eyes no matter how much she tried to hide it.

"Hey, beautiful," he said, making no effort to get up.

"When did you get here?" Zoya asked flatly, already checking the time.

Faiyaz raised a brow. "Mm. Good to see you too. I'm doing great, by the way. Thanks for asking," he added with mock offense, spreading his hands.

Zoya rolled her eyes. "I have a doctor's appointment," she said, reaching for her bag.

"Dr. Ziegler?" Faiyaz asked as he finally stood. "I'll take you."

She glanced toward the window, already thinking about the drive and twenty minutes alone with her own head.

Faiyaz noticed. When she reached for her bag, he reached for it too, his hand closing over hers on the handle. For a second, neither of them moved.

"Zoya," he said, his voice quieter now. "Let me take you."

She looked at him, then pulled her hand free. Arguing would take more energy than she had. "Fine."

Dr. Sheryl Ziegler's office smelled faintly of white tea and was always a little too quiet.

Zoya sat in the chair that didn't require her to be "Lead Counsel." She didn't have to hold her shoulders a certain way here. She just had to exist.

"Having those nightmares again?" Dr. Ziegler asked, her pen hovering over a notepad.

"Worse." Zoya watched a bird on the windowsill, her fingers curling into the fabric of her trousers. "Since the trial date was confirmed. Every night."

"Tell me." Dr. Ziegler set the pen down.

"It's the same. Running. Darkness, shadows. Losing them." She stopped there, her fingers tightening around the fabric.

Dr. Ziegler glanced at her hands.

"And him?" Dr. Ziegler asked, her voice still even.

Zoya pressed her thumbnail hard into her palm. "He's in the dream. He's always in the dream."

"What does he do?" Dr. Ziegler asked gently.

"He looks at me like he hates me." She pressed her lips together. "Like he can't stand what he sees. He's never loud in the dream. That's somehow worse."

She swallowed hard, staring down at her lap.

"He's here, in LA," Zoya said, her voice brittle. "I've been preparing for months, but I don't think I have anything left in me to face him."

"You have to be easy on yourself." Dr. Ziegler's voice gentled. "You can tell me everything, Zoya. You know that."

"I am trying." Zoya looked away.

"I know." Dr. Ziegler wrote on the pad, the scratch of the pen loud in the quiet room. "I see it."

"The dosage," Zoya said, rubbing her thumb against her palm. "I need you to increase it."

Dr. Ziegler looked at her for a moment before asking about her sleep, the nightmares, and the tremor in her hands. Only then did she reach for the prescription pad.

She came out of Dr. Ziegler's office and found Faiyaz where she had left him. He was leaning against the car, phone in hand, not pretending he hadn't been watching the door.

He took one look at her face and, for once, didn't say anything.

Neither of them said much on the drive to Joseph's manor. Faiyaz looked at her a couple of times, but he didn't ask about the appointment, and Zoya was grateful for that.

Halfway there, her phone buzzed. UAE. Zayed Al Mansoor's people. She listened for ninety seconds without interrupting.

They had found nothing that tied Edinburgh back to her.

Good.

When they pulled into the drive, the front door flew open.

Riyana launched herself from the porch. Faiyaz caught her mid-air and spun her once before settling her against him. "Hi, princess! Did you miss me?" he asked as she started laughing.

"Yesh!" Riyana grabbed his face with both hands. "I missed you. I have a cat."

"I know." He tapped her nose once. "I've met Brownie."

"Mommy said you're busyyyy." She pouted.

"I'm back now," he said, kissing the top of her head.

"She's MY cat." Riyana wriggled to be let down. "And a dog. Can you play with him? Jack is Mommy's dog, but Mommy is scared of him."

Zoya stood in the doorway, her bag over her shoulder. "I am not scared of Jack."

Riyana looked at her with great patience. "Mommy. He licked your hand and you jumped and screamed."

"That was..." Zoya crossed her arms. "He came out of nowhere."

"He was walking," Riyana said.

"Exactly." Zoya pointed at her, entirely serious. "Unexpectedly."

"It was a scared noise," Riyana insisted.

Faiyaz bit his lip, his shoulders shaking.

"Don't," Zoya warned.

"I'm not doing anything," he said, his voice suspiciously steady. "Mommy is brave. Just... not with animals."

"Yeah!" Riyana laughed.

Zoya glared at Faiyaz, then looked at her daughter. "Thank you, baby. That's very helpful."

Zoya moved easily around the kitchen with Melissa, sleeves rolled up as she stirred the pot and reached for the spices without asking.

Melissa watched her for a moment before setting the chopping knife down. "Zoya, you need to start coming into the office again. I really need the help."

"After the trial," Zoya replied, tasting the sauce and reaching for the salt.

"You said that last month too." Melissa leaned against the counter. "Ethan can handle the day-to-day, but the real estate side is getting bigger. Between the two of you, you could take most of it off me."

Zoya gave her a tired look. "Are you offering me a job or trying to retire?"

"Both," Melissa said without hesitation. "Preferably before I turn eighty."

That pulled the smallest smile out of Zoya. "You're nowhere near eighty."

"That is not the point." Melissa picked up the knife again, then seemed to think better of whatever she was about to say. "There's something else."

Zoya kept stirring. "What?"

"Omar's been calling Dad," Melissa said.

The spoon shook once in Zoya's hand before she tightened her fingers around it.

Melissa noticed. "He's called me too. And the house."

Zoya lowered the heat under the pot, taking more care with the knob than it required. "He calls."

"Not like this," Melissa said.

Zoya reached for another spice even though the dish didn't need one. "What does he want?"

"He hasn't said," Melissa replied.

"Then there's nothing to talk about." Zoya put the jar back and returned to the pot.

Melissa watched her for another moment. "Zoya."

"Not today, Melissa." Her voice stayed calm, but she kept both hands around the spoon now. "Please."

Melissa's expression softened. She didn't push again.

The air in Zayed's study smelled of old leather and the sharp cologne he had worn for forty years.

Raiyan sat there. He hadn't been in this room in years. Everything was the same: the amber light, the heavy oak desk, even the silence.

"So, you finally came," Zayed said. "After two and a half years. For us? For the case? Or for her?"

Raiyan's attention went to the photograph in the corner of the desk instead. Liyana at eighteen months, her dark curls messy, her eyes so like her mother's it was hard to look at for long.

"My home is in London," Raiyan said. "With Liyana. I'm only here for the case."

Zayed studied his face for a moment, but Raiyan ignored the look.

"She has caused enough damage," he continued. "I won't let her ruin what you've built. Not this time."

"Good," Zayed said simply, closing the file in front of him.

Raiyan got up. He'd already spent longer in this room than he wanted to. He needed to see Liyana.

That night, after dinner, Zoya was looking for the Henderson brief in Joseph's study.

She found something else.

It was half under a file on the corner of the desk—cream paper that had clearly been handled more than once but carefully preserved. She almost missed it until the names caught her eye.

Mr. Raiyan Al Mansoor and Ms. Zoya Al Fayez.

Their wedding invitation.

The card was still perfect. The marriage hadn't even made it to two years.

The card had done better than they did.

She set the card down and didn't look at it again.

Joseph found her standing by the bookshelf without reading anything, her attention somewhere else entirely.

"You still kept it," she said.

"Yes. I couldn't throw it away," Joseph replied, looking at the card.

She didn't ask why. She already knew.

"I'm going to win this case," she said. She needed at least one thing in her life to feel under control.

"I know. The case is against his grandfather, not him, Zoya," he said.

"To me, it's the same thing, Grandpa," she said, then looked away.

Joseph's expression changed for a second, but he didn't argue with her.

"Goodnight, Grandpa," she said.

He watched her leave. He left the card exactly where she had put it down.

She stepped out into the hallway.

Her Call to the Bar photo hung first. Middle Temple, wig and gown, a pride in her own eyes she barely recognized in herself anymore.

Beside it was another photo from Oxford—Zoya laughing with her friends, someone's arm slung over her shoulder. She looked younger there, like smiling had once been easier.

A whole wall of them. Years of her, from high school to Edinburgh, Oxford, and finally her Call to the Bar. Joseph never forgot a single milestone.

Then came Riyana's photographs, and Zoya looked away before she could stay there too long.

She walked faster, past the foyer, through the French doors, into the garden.

The cold air hit her as soon as she stepped outside, and with it came a memory she hadn't meant to revisit.

Four years earlier, at Middle Temple in London, she had stood inside the Great Hall in her wig and gown with the other newly called barristers. There were people everywhere that day, all the speeches and ceremony she had spent years working toward, but what she remembered most was how proud she had felt.

She had done this.

Nobody had handed it to her. Edinburgh, Oxford, all the exams and long nights before this. She had worked for every bit of it, and it was hers.

Joseph was in the gallery. She found him before she found anyone else. He was sitting very straight, the way he always did, looking so proud that she smiled the second she saw him.

She mouthed, Thank you.

Joseph smiled and mouthed back, Your mother would be proud.

Zoya looked away before she cried.

Her phone buzzed in her hand a few minutes later. Unknown number.

Congratulations, Barrister.

Zoya frowned at the screen. Another message came almost immediately.

Raiyan. Before you start asking who this is.

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. She read the first message again, and for some stupid reason she was still smiling when another notification appeared.

Mei.

MY BARRISTER!!! We’re waiting for you. All of us. Dinner. No excuses. And yes, I’m already emotional, so don’t make it weird. I love you.

Zoya smiled properly then.

For a few minutes that night, everything had felt simple. Joseph was proud of her. Mei and the others were waiting for her. Raiyan had remembered.

She had thought she was finally building a life that belonged to her.

The memory disappeared when her phone started ringing in her hand.

Zoya blinked and looked down at the screen.

Mei.

The same name.

Four years ago, seeing it had meant someone was waiting for her.

Now Zoya watched the phone ring until the screen went dark. She didn’t call back.

She leaned back slowly, her shoulders sinking against the chair as her fingers curled loosely against the armrest.

Funny, she thought. She had survived Raiyan Al Mansoor, but it was the version of herself she had lost with him that never came back.