Chapter 5: The Untouched Chamomile

The villa was silent.

Raiyan hadn’t slept.

Not since that night.

The mug on the bedside table was cold now, untouched. Chamomile. She’d insisted it helped—said it like a fact, like he’d argue and then comply because that’s what always happened. The pill bottle sat beside it, unopened. He hadn’t taken one. Not out of discipline. Out of spite. A small, useless refusal, like that could undo anything.

He stood by the bedroom window, one hand resting against the glass, looking down at the pool.

The water was dark. Still. Reflecting the villa back at itself.

Nothing inside him matched it.

The house felt wrong without her. Not quiet—empty in a way that stretched sound thin. Rooms that used to feel occupied now felt like they were waiting. He kept catching himself listening for things that weren’t there. Footsteps that never came. A drawer closing. A door pulled shut gently, because she always did that—like noise was something you apologized for.

He turned.

His phone lay on the table behind him. Screen dark.

It shouldn’t have mattered. She’d left. That was the fact. He was good with facts.

But she hadn’t left the way people usually did.

No argument he could replay later and reframe until it hurt less.

No message he could take apart for meaning.

No anger he could push against.

Just absence.

He checked his phone anyway.

Nothing.

He set it down like it had burned him and walked out of the bedroom, barefoot on cold marble. He didn’t turn the lights on. The dark didn’t bother him. It never had.

In the kitchen, he stopped at the counter.

The coffee machine sat exactly where it always had. Two mugs beside it. Hers still had a faint ring at the bottom—something she never noticed and he never mentioned. He stared at them longer than necessary, trying to remember the last time she’d stood here, hair loose, eyes half-focused, talking like she wasn’t already halfway inside her own head.

By morning, he started making calls.

Not frantic ones. Controlled. Efficient. The kind that didn’t ask questions or offer comfort. Names exchanged. Systems accessed. Locations cross-checked. Quiet confirmations passed back to him without tone or commentary.

By afternoon, everything came back blank.

No trace that stayed put.

No digital trail that held.

No address that resolved into anything solid.

Too clean.

Either she’d gone quiet on purpose—

Or someone had helped her disappear just enough to stay unreachable.

He didn’t know which unsettled him more.

She’d left as if he hadn’t earned a second chance. As if one moment—one failure—had outweighed everything else. As if what they’d built had been temporary to her.

The thought pressed harder than he expected.

His phone rang in the early evening.

Grandfather.

Raiyan answered immediately. Some reflexes didn’t fade.

“You sound tired,” his grandfather said.

“I didn’t sleep.”

A soft sound on the other end. Approval or concern—Raiyan couldn’t tell anymore. “You never did well with unrest.”

Raiyan said nothing. He leaned against the counter, eyes fixed on the stone surface.

“I hear Elena has been around more than usual,” his grandfather continued, casual. “Don’t let her confuse you.”

“She doesn’t,” Raiyan said.

A pause. Brief. Intentional.

“You’ve always been perceptive,” his grandfather said. “More than you realize.”

Something shifted in Raiyan’s chest. He didn’t like that he couldn’t name it.

Then, lightly—placed with care—

“How is Zoya?”

The question landed too easily.

Raiyan didn’t answer right away.

“She left,” he said finally.

“Yes,” his grandfather replied. “I heard.”

Another pause.

“You should make sure she’s not alone right now.”

It sounded like concern.

It also sounded like instruction.

“And her grandparents,” the older man added, almost absent-mindedly. “They don’t like uncertainty when family is involved.”

“They trust me,” Raiyan said.

“I’m sure they do,” his grandfather replied smoothly. “Trust works best when it isn’t tested.”

Silence followed. Familiar. Dense.

“She chose to leave,” Raiyan said, steady.

“Did she?” his grandfather asked. “Or did something push her there?”

Raiyan exhaled slowly.

“Marriage was meant to stabilize things,” his grandfather continued. “Not fracture them. Feelings complicate structure.”

“And feelings don’t matter?” Raiyan asked, sharper than he meant to.

A faint smile entered the voice on the other end. “They matter when they’re useful.”

Another pause.

“I want you in Los Angeles,” his grandfather said. “Three days.”

“That’s not urgent.”

“No,” his grandfather agreed. “It’s important.”

Raiyan nodded even though no one could see him. “I’ll be there.”

“I know you will,” his grandfather said. “You always are.”

The call ended.

Raiyan didn’t move.

The phone stayed in his hand, screen dark now, like it had swallowed the voice on the other end. The kitchen felt colder than it had a minute ago, or maybe he was just noticing the empty properly now.

You should make sure she’s not alone right now.

It replayed in his head—not as concern. Not as advice.

As instruction.

He set the phone down slowly, like a sudden movement might trigger something. Then he stood there a second longer, staring at nothing, because his body didn’t know what to do with the way his chest had tightened.

Not alone.

He hadn’t asked where she was.

He hadn’t asked who she was with.

He told himself that meant respect.

Right now, it felt like being left behind in real time.

He moved through the house without thinking. Past rooms that used to feel lived-in, now staged. Like someone had removed the oxygen and left the furniture behind.

He stopped outside his study.

The door was slightly open.

He pushed it the rest of the way and stepped in.

The dent in the wall was still there.

His stomach clenched.

That was the last thing she saw before she left—his loss of control stamped into plaster like proof.

He opened the locked drawer and pulled out the album.

Leather. Heavy. Quiet.

A private marriage registry office. Clean walls. Minimal witnesses. The kind of place where a signature could change a life without applause.

Zoya in a lilac lace dress—unreal in that soft, deliberate way she carried herself.

But it wasn’t her beauty that hit him now.

It was her eyes.

She wasn’t looking at the camera. She wasn’t looking at the crowd. She was looking at him — like she’d chosen him already, like whatever came next was safe because he was standing there.

That look lodged somewhere under his ribs.

He flipped to the next.

He remembered her grandfather that day. The quiet weight of his authority. The way his hand had rested on Raiyan’s shoulder—light, but not optional.

Protect her.

Not as a suggestion.

As a promise Raiyan had given without hesitation, because in that moment it felt simple. Honourable. Clear.

He’d meant it.

And now—

Now she was gone, and his promise was sitting in a photo album like a joke.

He flipped to the signing photo.

He remembered the pen. The scratch of ink. The moment his name hit the paper.

It wasn’t triumph.

It wasn’t business.

It was something in his chest tightening like a lock clicking shut, like his life had just chosen a direction and there was no reversing it.

He’d told himself he didn’t believe in fate.

He believed in systems. In control. In cause and effect.

Then she’d walked into him at Heathrow—coffee, collision, her voice sharp and unimpressed as if he was the inconvenience.

And something in him had shifted so quietly he hadn’t noticed until much later.

He hadn’t believed in fate.

Then he met her like an accident that felt planned.

He pushed the photos away suddenly, breath rough.

“How did you just… delete me?” he said to the empty room.

That was the part that made him sick.

Not that she left.

That she left clean.

No note. No mess. No drama.

Like their marriage didn’t deserve a goodbye.

Like he didn’t deserve one.

He stood, chair scraping back too hard.

Anger tried to rise, sharp and hot—because what kind of person walks out without a word?

Then guilt crashed right over it, heavier.

Because what kind of man makes a woman feel safer leaving than staying?

He stared at the wall again.

At the dent.

At the version of himself that had existed for one night and still managed to ruin everything.

Not alone.

The words came back again, and this time his mind betrayed him with the thought he didn’t want to admit:

If she wasn’t alone… then who was close enough to notice?

His jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

He hated that he even went there.

He hated that jealousy was sitting in his chest like it belonged there.

And he hated most of all that she hadn’t given him anything to hold onto—no message to read wrong, no goodbye to argue with, nothing he could chase except air.

He closed the album slowly, like slamming it would make him look as wrecked as he felt, then locked it away again.

Not because it didn’t matter.

Because it mattered too much.

He stood at the window, looking down at the pool, at the reflection of the villa staring back at itself.

Perfect on the outside.

Hollow inside.

And the thought that finally broke through, clear and ugly, was this—

He had promised her grandfather he would always protect her.

And right now he didn’t even know where she was.

He unlocked his phone again.

Her name was still there.

Unreadable. Untouchable.

He opened Mei’s contact instead.

The cursor blinked.

He typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Finally—

Raiyan:

Hey. This is Raiyan.

Is she with you?

The reply came almost immediately.

Mei:

Wow.

Took you long enough.

His jaw tightened.

Raiyan:

Is she okay.

Not how is she.

Not where is she.

Okay was the only word he trusted himself with.

A pause.

Longer this time.

Then—

Mei:

She’s breathing.

She’s functioning.

She hasn’t burned anything down, if that’s what you’re asking.

His chest loosened before he could stop it.

Raiyan:

Thank you.

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Then—

Mei:

Don’t thank me.

You didn’t lose her — you scared her.

Raiyan stared at the screen.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t defend himself.

He typed.

Stopped.

Typed again.

Raiyan:

I didn’t mean to.

The reply came instantly.

Mei:

Intent doesn’t matter when someone feels trapped.

Especially her.

Another pause.

Then—

Mei:

She’s safe.

She’s not alone.

And she doesn’t want messages right now.

His thumb hovered.

Raiyan:

Where is she staying.

Should I come.

The reply took longer.

Long enough for him to brace.

Mei:

Not yet.

Give her time.

A beat.

Mei:

If you want to talk to her, do it properly.

Face to face.

No fixing. No defending. No disappearing halfway through.

His throat tightened.

Raiyan:

I won’t.

The dots stayed longer.

Mei:

Good.

Because if you hurt her again, I won’t be polite.

A corner of his mouth twitched. Not amusement. Recognition.

Raiyan:

I understand.

Mei:

Then give her time.

And when you show up—show up like you mean it.

He locked the phone.

Not because it was over.

Because it had said exactly what he needed—

and nothing he wanted.

And still… the order was there. Sitting in his chest like a weight.

Los Angeles. Three days.

If he ignored it, it wasn’t just a disagreement.

It was a declaration.

And his grandfather didn’t forgive declarations.

So Raiyan did what he always did when he couldn’t afford to be emotional.

He made it strategy.

He booked the flight.

Then he went back to the study.

He did go to Los Angeles.

Three days, like his grandfather said.

The meetings were clean. Cold. Fast. Numbers and consequences and men who smiled with their mouths only. His grandfather watched him the whole time—not directly. Just enough to make Raiyan aware of every breath he took.

“You look tired,” his grandfather said once, like it was casual.

“I’ve been busy.”

A faint, satisfied hum. “Yes. I know.”

Zoya wasn’t mentioned again.

That absence was louder than anything said.

Raiyan flew back the same night.

Heathrow’s private terminal smelled like coffee and polished floors.

He slowed without meaning to.

It wasn’t the airport.

It was the memory sitting inside it.

Coffee spilling. Her collision. Her voice—sharp, unimpressed, like he was the inconvenience. The way she’d met his space like she’d always belonged there.

He hadn’t believed in fate.

He believed in patterns. Systems. Cause and effect.

Then she had crashed into him like an accident that felt planned, and his brain had filed her away as important before he understood why.

He kept walking.

But the thought stayed.

Not gentle.

Not romantic.

Just uncomfortable truth settling into place, brick by brick:

He hadn’t built his last year around her on purpose.

He’d done it without noticing.

And now he was noticing.

And she was gone.

Behind him, beyond the glass, a man in a dark coat stood near a pillar with his phone at his ear—still, patient, like he belonged to the building the way shadows belonged to walls.

“He’s back,” the man said quietly.

A pause.

“Good,” a voice replied. “Let him look.”

The call ended.

And the man didn’t move.