Chapter 24

Olivia's POV

I could barely swallow my food, as a lump formed in my throat. Everything had happened so quickly, leaving no opportunity for me to speak to Zoya. I wondered if her parents were aware of her sexuality, and what their relationship was like. Uncertainty swirled around my mind regarding how much her mother had heard or seen. My own carelessness haunted me, as I knew better than to let my guard down, but with Zoya, my common sense always seemed to disappear. My eyes couldn't help but scan her face, my worries focused solely on her. Was she uncomfortable? Scared? Were we even okay? Numerous questions ran through my mind. This day had been an emotional rollercoaster, yet despite everything, simply being in the same room as Zoya gave me strength. She was meant to be mine, and nothing and no one could alter that.

"So, Olivia, how did you meet Zoya?" Omar asked, diverting my attention from my pretense of eating by aimlessly swirling food on my plate.

"On the floor," I absentmindedly replied. Zoya choked on her water, giving me a confused look as the realization of what I had said sank in.

"Pardon me?" Omar inquired, and I nervously chuckled.

"I walked into a room and discovered the crew of my new TV show trying to revive an unconscious girl lying on the floor," I explained, attempting to clarify the situation.

"Sounds like Zoya, she's always been frail," he remarked. While I could have assumed he was merely referring to her health, there was something about his smug smile and the way Zoya shifted uncomfortably in her seat that made me suspect otherwise.

"I have to disagree. She is far from that. Personally, I could never juggle studying and working simultaneously. Both of those endeavors demand full time and dedication, yet she manages to strike a perfect balance. I'm certain she is your pride and joy," I remarked, offering a warm smile to both of her parents. However, my smile faded as both Zoya and her father scoffed simultaneously, locking eyes in an uncomfortable exchange. It compelled me to look to Zoya's mother, hoping for some clarification.

"Nevermind these two and enjoy your dinner," she cheerfully interjected, disregarding them with a casual wave.

"And how do you find the life of an actress?" Omar finally shifted his attention from the unsettling eye contact exchange he had been engaged in with Zoya, redirecting his focus back to me.

"It can be stressful and demanding, but overall, it's incredibly enjoyable and fulfilling," I cautiously replied, sensing that there was something far more significant happening beyond my understanding.

"So, standing in front of a camera and reading from a script is both stressful and fulfilling?" he questioned, punctuating his inquiry by slicing into his steak. The sound of his knife scraping against the plate echoing through the room, filling the silence that followed his statement.

"Acting is much more than just standing in front of a camera," I replied, attempting to maintain a calm demeanor as I started to piece together the situation. It was clear that Omar disapproved of Zoya's life choices.

"What is your purpose in life, Olivia?" he condescendingly asked, his tone dripping with judgment. Throughout this entire interaction, I purposefully avoided looking at Zoya, afraid that she might interpret it as a plea for her to fight my battles for me.

"Do you believe that just because I am an actor, I don't have a purpose?" I retorted. "What's your definition of having a purpose in life? What matters is that I have something I believe in, something I fight for, and it brings me joy. I am living life to the fullest without causing harm to anyone. On the contrary, my work brings people happiness, and I express my own beliefs through my work." Setting my knife and fork down, I was grateful for the excuse to claim a loss of appetite.

"But would you argue that your purpose is greater than that of a policeman, a fireman, or a doctor?" Omar questioned, casually glancing towards me as he resumed eating his dinner, clearly unbothered by the discomfort he was causing.

"Which of those professions do you belong to? Are you a policeman, a fireman, or a doctor?" I countered, leaning on the table with my hand resting upon it. "Let me guess, you're a doctor. That's why you brought up 'Doctor' last, attempting to mask the real focus of this conversation. You seem to think you're superior to me simply because you save lives." I forced a smile, determined to mirror his cold demeanor and make him uncomfortable. It seemed to work as he finally ceased chewing and looked at me as though I had challenged him.

"I don't just think so, I am sure of it. And that's exactly what Zoya threw away-her potential to save lives. She specifically chose to be influenced by you, someone who had a negative impact on my daughter," he declared, pounding his fist on the table. "She could have been saving lives, but now she's saving manuscripts?" Through gritted teeth, he expressed his frustration.

"Now, she's happy, doing what she loves, and probably inspiring brilliant young minds to follow their dreams as well," I responded, my voice growing resolute. "Do you believe our work is meaningless? People need us just as much as they need doctors. Entertainment touches a person's soul, their mental health. You're no better than us, neither professionally nor personally." Rising from my seat, I discarded the tablecloth that had been draped across my lap.

"Period!" Zoya exclaimed from behind me. I swiftly turned around, silently urging her with a look to keep quiet, feeling a twinge of embarrassment at her outburst.

"What? You slayed," she interjected, flashing me a wide grin that dissolved any concerns I had about confronting her father. She didn't seem bothered at all.

"Excuse me, I have a flight to catch," I addressed her mother, who had remained silent throughout the entire exchange.

"I believe Zoya would prefer to leave with you," her father bitterly stated, and my heart ached for her. I never intended to arrive and create problems.

"I was planning to leave anyway, Sherlock Holmes," Zoya remarked, rising from her seat and taking her place beside me. "Oh, and by the way, Dad," she added before placing her hands on either side of my face and pressing her lips against mine. My eyes widened in surprise, and I stood there frozen, unresponsive to the kiss that lasted only a moment. "Consider this the full extent of your disappointment in me," she declared, then took hold of my hand and led me out of the room and up the stairs to her bedroom.

"Zoya, what was that?" I questioned her once we were back in her room.

"Don't worry, he'd never dare to tell anyone and tarnish his perfect reputation," she replied, rolling her eyes.

"I'm not just referring to the kiss. Why didn't you ever tell me about your difficult relationship with your father? Why didn't you talk to me? I would've listened," I stated, reaching out to hold her hand.

"I know," she murmured, biting her lower lip and avoiding eye contact. "Please, get me out of here."

"With pleasure," I responded, picking up her bag and following her downstairs. I placed her bag in the car I had rented, and just as I was about to climb into the driver's seat, I noticed her mother approaching.

"Zoya," her mother cautiously called out as she approached.

"Don't!" Zoya interrupted, raising her hand to halt her mother's words. "I'm done with your silence. By refusing to take sides, you only make things worse. By silently observing, you're just as guilty as he is in my eyes." Zoya turned away and got into the car without waiting for her mother to respond.

She settled into the passenger seat, fastening her seatbelt, and I studied her, hoping she might change her mind and give her mother a chance to speak. However, she never glanced back at her mother, not once.

"Go," she stated simply, making it clear that she wanted to leave everything behind. I didn't need to be told twice. I drove away as swiftly as I could, attempting to distance her from the pain, even though deep down, I knew it wasn't that simple.

"Zoya..." I began cautiously, unsure if she wanted to discuss what had just happened. She rested her hand on my thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze. She continued to gaze out of the window, refusing to meet my eyes. Her silence was a clear indication that she wanted to remain quiet.

If silent company was what she needed, then I would gladly oblige. I gently moved her hand away from my thigh and pressed a kiss to her palm. Our fingers intertwined as I rested our entwined hands on my lap once more.

I gave her hand a slight squeeze, assuring her that I was there for her throughout this journey. In response, she rubbed the back of my hand with her thumbs, silently acknowledging that she understood and appreciated my support.

I couldn't help but reflect on how surreal this moment was. Just a few months ago, if someone had told me that I would be in this position, I would have considered them insane. Recalling how empty my life was before I met her made me question how I had survived in such a cruel world, all alone.

Yet, here I was, driving home with the woman I had followed across the country. We communicated through subtle gestures, a silent conversation that only the two of us could understand. Our souls seemed to have an innate familiarity with what needed to be said, even if our lips remained sealed, fearful of the consequences that may arise from speaking our truths.

Indeed, life was undeniably unfair.