The Cracks Begin to Show

Lina’s POV

If someone had told me a month ago that I’d be sitting in the Elahi family kitchen, sharing wine and laughter with Zara, I’d have called them insane. Yet, here we were, finishing off the last of the pasta and arguing over which wine was better—her overpriced, exclusive vintage or the supermarket special I usually bought.

“It’s not about the price,” I said, swirling the wine in my glass like some kind of connoisseur. “It’s about the experience. You can’t beat the charm of a wine bottle with a screw cap.”

Zara gave me a look, her lips twitching as she tried not to laugh. “The charm? Lina, it tastes like grape juice left out in the sun.”

I pointed my fork at her. “And yours tastes like snobbery in a glass.”

She actually laughed—a soft, genuine sound that took me by surprise. It wasn’t the sarcastic chuckle I was used to; it was warmer, more real. For a moment, I forgot all the reasons I wasn’t supposed to like her.

But then reality hit me like a cold gust of wind. This wasn’t real. None of it was.

I pushed my chair back and stood, the sudden movement startling Zara. “I need some air,” I muttered, heading for the patio without waiting for a response.

---

Outside, the night was cool and quiet. The garden stretched out before me, a maze of twinkling lights and perfectly manicured hedges. It was beautiful, but it felt… hollow. Just like this whole arrangement.

“Running away again?” Zara’s voice broke the silence, and I turned to see her leaning in the doorway, arms crossed.

I sighed, leaning against the railing. “I’m not running. I just… needed space.”

She stepped closer, her heels clicking softly on the stone tiles. “From what?”

“From you,” I admitted.

She didn’t respond right away, and when I glanced at her, her expression was unreadable.

“Why?” she asked quietly.

“Because…” I hesitated, struggling to find the right words. “Because you confuse me, okay? One minute, you’re this cold, calculating control freak, and the next, you’re… human. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

She tilted her head, her gaze steady. “Maybe it’s not me that confuses you. Maybe it’s the fact that you don’t want to hate me as much as you think you should.”

Her words hit too close to home, and I looked away, my grip tightening on the railing.

“What do you want from me, Zara?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“I want you to stop pretending that you’re the only one struggling with this,” she said, her tone sharper now. “Do you think I enjoy being forced into this charade? That I don’t resent every second of it? But unlike you, I’ve accepted that we don’t have a choice.”

Her words stung, but they also ignited something in me—a spark of anger, of defiance.

“Maybe you’re okay with being a puppet for your family,” I shot back, turning to face her. “But I’m not.”

She stepped closer, her jaw tightening. “And what’s your brilliant plan, Lina? To sabotage the whole thing? To prove a point no one cares about?”

I opened my mouth to argue, but the look in her eyes stopped me. Beneath the frustration, I saw something raw, something vulnerable.

We stood there in silence, the tension between us crackling like static electricity. For a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of us.

But then the sound of footsteps shattered the moment, and we both turned to see my mother approaching.

“There you are!” she said, her voice bright and oblivious to the charged atmosphere. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you two. Come inside; we need to finalize some wedding details.”

Zara was the first to recover, slipping back into her composed, untouchable persona. “Of course,” she said smoothly, following my mother inside.

I stayed behind for a moment, my heart pounding in my chest.

What the hell was happening to me?

---

Zara’s POV

The moment in the garden left me shaken, though I’d never admit it. Lina had a way of getting under my skin, of pulling emotions out of me that I thought I’d buried long ago.

But I couldn’t let her see that. I couldn’t let anyone see that.

As I sat in the living room, flipping through a stack of fabric samples, I forced myself to focus on the task at hand. Lina eventually joined us, her expression guarded but composed.

Our mothers, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing between us, chattered on about floral arrangements and seating charts.

“Zara, darling, what do you think of these colors?” my mother asked, holding up two swatches of fabric.

“They’re fine,” I said automatically, not even looking.

She frowned. “You’re going to have to be more decisive than that. This is your wedding, after all.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. It wasn’t my wedding. It was theirs—a carefully orchestrated performance designed to serve their interests.

But I nodded anyway, playing the role they expected of me.

---

Later that night, as I lay in bed, I couldn’t stop replaying the garden scene in my head. Lina’s words, her expression, the way she’d looked at me like she was seeing something she didn’t want to acknowledge—it all lingered, refusing to fade.

For the first time in a long time, I felt unsteady, unsure of the ground beneath my feet.

And I hated it.

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