Amira stood by the balcony, the city lights painting her skin in hues of amber and blue. The night breeze tugged gently at her silk robe, but her mind was far from the present. Everything that had happened between her and Idris in the last few days had peeled away layers she hadn't even known she was hiding. His kiss, the way he held her after her panic attack, the quiet respect in his eyes—none of it fit the picture of the cold-hearted CEO she had married.
Idris stepped into the room, freshly showered, towel draped around his neck. He stopped when he saw her silhouetted against the skyline.
"You're thinking too loudly again," he said quietly.
She turned to him with a small smile. "Is that your way of asking what's on my mind?"
He walked toward her, the soft carpet muting his steps. "It's my way of asking if you're okay."
Her eyes studied him for a moment before she responded. "I don't know what we are anymore, Idris. One moment we're fighting, the next… you're holding me like I'm something precious. I don't know how to make sense of you."
He reached her, placing a hand on the railing beside her. "Then don't. Don't try to make sense of it. Just let it be what it is."
"But what is it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Idris didn't answer immediately. His gaze drifted toward the distant skyline. "You make me feel things I thought I had buried for good. You make me remember who I was before power became more important than peace."
She looked up at him. "You're not the man everyone thinks you are, are you?"
He met her eyes then, his voice low. "Not when I'm with you."
A silence passed between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was weighted—with meaning, with unspoken truths, with possibilities neither of them was ready to admit aloud.
Amira leaned against the railing again. "Tomorrow is the charity board meeting. They requested I present a community outreach plan."
He looked impressed. "Already giving you a platform."
"It's not because of me. It's because of the interview. I was just honest."
"Honesty is more powerful than you think," he said. "Especially in a world full of polished lies."
She tilted her head. "Including the ones we tell ourselves?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he stepped behind her, his arms wrapping around her waist, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder. It felt like safety and danger all at once.
"You terrify me, Idris," she admitted softly.
"Why?"
"Because you're starting to matter."
That confession lingered in the air like a scent—delicate, potent, and impossible to ignore. Idris's arms didn't loosen, but she felt the way his breath shifted. Controlled. Measured. As if he were holding back words of his own.
The next morning, Amira woke alone. The sheets beside her were cold, but Idris had left a note on the pillow: Had an early call. I'll meet you at the boardroom at noon. You've got this. — I.
She smiled despite herself.
By ten a.m., she stood before the full-length mirror in her closet, adjusting the lapel of her navy blazer. Her curls framed her face in soft waves, and her minimal makeup highlighted her natural glow. Confidence didn't always come easy, but today, it slipped over her like a second skin.
Downstairs, the car was already waiting. As she slid into the back seat, her phone buzzed with a message from Idris: They won't know what hit them.
She typed back: You're either hyping me up or setting me up.
He replied almost immediately: Maybe both.
When Amira arrived at the Zenco Foundation boardroom, the shift in atmosphere was immediate. Every eye turned toward her, not with skepticism as she'd feared, but with intrigue.
"Mrs. Hassan," one of the board members greeted with a firm handshake. "We've been looking forward to hearing your ideas."
She smiled. "I'm grateful for the opportunity. I hope to offer a fresh perspective."
As she began her presentation on youth literacy programs and urban mentoring initiatives, her voice was steady, her delivery seamless. The room was silent, not from disinterest, but from attention. She spoke not like a woman riding her husband's influence but like one who had carved out her own path.
Halfway through, Idris entered quietly and took a seat at the back. Their eyes met briefly, and a spark passed between them. His gaze told her everything she needed—You're doing just fine.
After the session, she mingled with the board members, engaging in thoughtful conversation. Idris watched her from a distance, pride flickering in his expression. This was not the woman he had married months ago under legal compulsion. This was a woman who had grown her own wings, and he found himself falling for her all over again.
Later, in the privacy of the executive lounge, Amira took a sip of water and exhaled deeply.
"I was almost shaking the entire time," she admitted.
Idris stepped closer, sliding his hand into hers. "No one saw that. You were poised. Commanding."
"You're just saying that."
"I don't say what I don't mean."
She looked up at him. "Then say something else. Something real."
He studied her face, the way her eyes searched his, vulnerable yet unafraid. His voice lowered. "I don't know when it happened, but I stopped seeing you as part of a deal. You're… you. And I like who I am when I'm around you."
The words hit her harder than she expected. She squeezed his hand. "Then maybe we should stop pretending we're just playing roles."
He stepped closer, their bodies nearly touching. "Are you saying you want more?"
She didn't flinch. "I'm saying… maybe I want what's real. Whatever that turns out to be."
His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing against her skin. "Then let's stop pretending."
And then he kissed her.
But this kiss was different from the ones before. It wasn't born of anger or confusion or proximity. It was soft, reverent. As if he were thanking her for every moment she had stayed, every truth she had spoken, every barrier she had dared to break.
When they pulled apart, Amira rested her forehead against his.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
"So am I," he replied. "But I'm not walking away."
"Not this time?"
"Not ever."
And for the first time since they had signed that binding agreement, neither of them was lying.
Amira's phone buzzed the moment she and Idris stepped out of the executive lounge. She glanced at the screen—her sister, Laila.
"Give me a minute," she said softly to Idris, who nodded and leaned against the wall, arms crossed as he watched her with a quiet smile.
"Laila?" Amira answered.
"Amira! That interview? You went viral! Everyone's talking about how elegant you were and how real your answers felt. Mama even said she's proud of you."
Amira blinked. "She said that?"
"She did. She watched the whole thing twice."
A lump rose in Amira's throat. "Thanks for telling me."
"And one more thing—you're trending. Like, actually trending. Not just because you're Idris Hassan's wife, but because of you."
As the call ended, Amira stood for a moment in quiet shock, her hand still holding the phone midair.
"Good news?" Idris asked.
She turned toward him slowly. "I think… I think my voice is finally being heard."
He stepped forward, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Because you have something worth hearing."
They walked side by side down the hallway, not rushed, not uncertain. For once, there was no awkward space between them, no cold shoulder or unspoken accusations. Just a shared rhythm, quiet and steady.
By the time they got to the car, Idris opened the door for her, a small but significant gesture. As they rode home, Amira leaned her head against the window, watching the city blur past.
"Do you think this… whatever's growing between us… could survive outside this house? Away from the headlines and charities and staged events?"
Idris didn't answer right away. He reached for her hand and laced his fingers through hers.
"I don't just want us to survive, Amira," he said, his voice steady. "I want us to live."
And in that moment, it felt like maybe, just maybe, the cold-hearted CEO had finally begun to melt—for her.