Semua Bab When Love Crosses the Line: Bab 41 - Bab 50

The studio smelled of oil paints, turpentine, and something uniquely Liam, the warm musk of his cologne mixed with cedarwood from the old beams overhead. Amara had always loved this room. It was a sanctuary carved out of the chaos of the city, a place where time slowed down and silence spoke louder than words. Tonight, though, there was a tension in the air that made every brushstroke echo with unspoken meaning.Liam stood at the easel, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, paint smeared faintly along his knuckles. His hair was messy, as though he had run his hands through it one too many times, and his jaw was tight with a quiet battle he had been waging within himself for days, weeks, maybe longer.Amara sat perched on the window ledge, legs curled beneath her, watching him work. At first, he avoided her eyes, focusing on the canvas with a concentration that felt almost forced. But she knew him too well. She could see the way his brush hesitated just above the canvas, the way his shou

Her father remained the hardest wall to climb. Unlike her mother’s sharp disapproval, which lashed out with biting words, he offered something heavier, silence. A silence that was not empty but laden with unspoken judgment, disappointment, and sorrow. It was a silence heavy enough to crush, and Amara often wondered if it would ever break.When she visited home that Saturday, the familiar rhythm of the house felt altered, like music played a note off-key. Her mother had already made her disapproval of Liam clear, with blunt words, cold stares, and relentless prayers muttered under her breath. But her father, Chief Collins, was a different kind of presence. He was the man who had taught her how to ride a bicycle, the man who had sat with her through her first heartbreak in secondary school, the man who had spent years drilling into her the importance of discipline, respect, and pride in her heritage. He had always been her calm. Now, that calmness was gone, replaced by silence sharper t

The idea of leaving London altogether began to tempt Amara more than she wanted to admit. London, with its endless streets and heavy air of expectation, had once felt like home, but now it carried the weight of too many stares, whispers, and judgments. Every corner seemed to echo with voices reminding her of who she was supposed to be, what she was supposed to want, and who she was supposed to love. It was suffocating.Late at night, she would lie awake beside the faint hum of the city drifting through her window, and her mind would wander. She remembered Brussels, the brief months she had spent there during university, away from family scrutiny and cultural expectations. Back then, she had felt light, almost weightless. She could walk into cafés, talk with strangers, take long walks by the canal, and no one cared who she loved or where her roots lay. Freedom had worn a fragrance in Brussels: fresh croissants in the morning, roasted chestnuts in winter, and the quiet, respectful dista

Amara had barely settled into the rhythm of her Saturday morning when the knock on her flat’s door jolted her heart. She wasn’t expecting anyone. For a fleeting second, she thought it might be Liam, and a smile began to curve on her lips, but when she opened the door, her breath caught in her throat. Her mother stood there, her expression stormy, her presence heavy with disapproval that filled the entire doorway.“You will not shame this family, Amara!” Her mother’s words lashed out before Amara could even welcome her in. Her voice trembled, not just with anger but with the weight of years of expectation, culture, and fear. “Do you know what people are saying? That you’ve chosen passion over sense, rebellion over respect!”Amara’s pulse thundered in her ears. She felt her hands go cold. She had braced herself for this confrontation, but hearing her mother’s voice shake, hearing the sheer pain behind the anger, was something she hadn’t been prepared for.“Mama, please, come in,” she wh

The auditorium pulsed with life. The air hummed with anticipation, the low murmur of voices blending with the whir of cameras being adjusted and the shuffle of restless feet. Banners hung proudly on the walls, painted in bold colours with words like Change, Hope, and Belonging. Amara stood backstage, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched her notecards, though she knew she wouldn’t be reading from them. She had written them days ago, rewritten them a dozen times, and yet tonight, she felt something different tugging at her, an inner courage that told her she no longer needed a script.She peeked out from behind the curtain. The crowd stretched further than she had imagined. Students, young professionals, activists, community elders, faces from every corner of the city, their eyes alight with expectation. The youth campaign launch had been months in the making, and now here she was, at the heart of it. For a fleeting second, doubt tried to creep in. What if I stumble? What if the