Sparks and Storms

Lina’s POV

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of my phone buzzing incessantly on the nightstand. Groaning, I grabbed it, squinting at the screen. A flurry of messages from my mother filled the notifications.

Mom: Don’t forget about the brunch with the Ahmeds today.

Mom: Lina, this is important. Don’t be late.

Mom: Please try to look presentable. No denim jackets!

Brunch with the Ahmeds. Right. Another obligation to play the perfect fiancée and charm yet another influential family. I flopped back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Just once, I wanted to be free of all these expectations.

My door creaked open, and Zara poked her head in, already dressed in a crisp white blouse and tailored trousers. Of course, she looked flawless, like she’d stepped out of a fashion magazine.

“You’re not ready,” she stated, her tone bordering on exasperation.

“I didn’t forget,” I muttered, sitting up. “I just… hate brunch.”

Zara stepped inside, crossing her arms. “Well, hate it all you want, but you can’t skip this. The Ahmeds are critical to our families’ merger.”

I groaned. “Do you ever get tired of playing the perfect business daughter?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Do you ever get tired of being difficult?”

We stared at each other for a moment before she sighed and walked to my closet.

“Get up,” she said, flipping through my clothes. “You can’t wear anything from here. I’ll find you something.”

“Excuse me?” I sputtered, but she was already pulling out a sleek emerald green dress I didn’t even remember owning.

“This,” she said, holding it up. “It’ll look good on you.”

Before I could argue, she tossed it onto the bed and left, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor.

---

The brunch was held at an exclusive rooftop restaurant with panoramic views of the city. The Ahmeds were already seated when Zara and I arrived, our parents greeting each other with the kind of warmth that was entirely performative.

Zara leaned close to me as we approached the table. “Smile,” she murmured.

I plastered on a grin, ignoring the urge to roll my eyes.

The Ahmeds—two sharply dressed middle-aged parents and their son, Adil—greeted us warmly. Adil’s eyes lingered on me a little too long, and I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.

“So, Lina,” Adil said, leaning forward with an overly charming smile. “Zara tells me you run an art gallery. That must be fascinating.”

“It is,” I said, keeping my tone polite. “Art has always been a passion of mine.”

“She’s being modest,” Zara interjected smoothly. “Her gallery is one of the most popular in the city.”

I blinked, surprised at the unexpected compliment. Adil looked equally impressed, his smile widening.

“Impressive,” he said. “Maybe you could show me around sometime.”

Zara’s hand landed on mine under the table, her grip tightening. “I’m sure Lina’s schedule is quite full,” she said, her tone a little too sharp.

Adil raised his hands in mock surrender. “Of course. Just a thought.”

---

Zara’s POV

I had no idea why Adil’s blatant flirting bothered me so much. It wasn’t like Lina and I were a real couple. But the way he looked at her, like she was a prize to be won, made my blood boil.

Lina, of course, seemed oblivious to the tension. She chatted easily with the Ahmeds, her laughter light and genuine. It was a side of her I didn’t see often, and it caught me off guard.

After brunch, as we waited for the valet to bring the car around, I turned to her.

“Adil seemed… interested,” I said carefully.

Lina raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Just an observation.”

She smirked. “Are you jealous?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snapped, a little too quickly.

Her smirk widened. “You’re totally jealous.”

I glared at her, but before I could retort, our car arrived.

---

Later That Evening

Back at the mansion, I found myself pacing in my room, replaying the events of the day in my head. Lina’s smile, her laugh, the way she’d brushed off Adil’s advances—it all lingered, refusing to be ignored.

There was a knock at the door, and before I could answer, Lina walked in, holding two glasses of wine.

“You seemed tense earlier,” she said, handing me a glass. “Thought you could use this.”

I took the glass, surprised. “Thanks.”

She sat on the edge of my bed, looking surprisingly comfortable in my space.

“You know,” she said, swirling her wine, “for someone who’s supposed to have it all together, you’re surprisingly bad at hiding your feelings.”

I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” she said, meeting my gaze, “that you’re not as cold and calculated as you want people to think.”

Her words caught me off guard, and for a moment, I didn’t know how to respond.

“Why do you do that?” I asked finally.

“Do what?”

“Act like you’ve got me all figured out.”

She shrugged. “Maybe because I do.”

I set my glass down and crossed my arms. “You don’t know anything about me.”

She smiled, but it wasn’t her usual smirk. It was softer, almost understanding.

“Maybe not,” she admitted. “But I know enough to see that you’re not as tough as you pretend to be.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and uncomfortably close to the truth.

For the first time, I found myself wondering if Lina might actually see the parts of me I’d been trying so hard to hide.

And that terrified me.

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