Forbiddenly Bound To You
Chapter 64: Fragile Truth

Chapter 64: Fragile Truth

Zamian left, closing the door behind him. A wave of uncertainty washed over Mira as she wondered whether he was angry with her. What did he expect her to do? The silence that enveloped her felt heavy, like a thick blanket stifling her thoughts. At that moment, she looked vulnerable—she was vulnerable. Zamian had seen her in ways no one else had, Now, she felt completely exposed, stripped bare of her defenses.

Mira had always prided herself on her strong mind and resilience. She had faced hardships before, but perhaps she should have run away that fateful day. Instead, she cried. She should have thought twice about what she was getting herself into, but all she wanted was her freedom. A lone tear slipped down her cheek, an embodiment of her isolation. She felt utterly alone in a world that was supposed to be shared.

Sighing, she shut her eyes, desperate to find some peace in sleep. But sleep eluded her, the weight of her thoughts pressing down like a physical burden. Images of Zamian—his laughter, his fierce gaze, the way he cared for her—flashed through her mind, each one a reminder of the complexities of their relationship. Would he still care if he knew the depth of her fears? Would he still want her if he saw her at her most vulnerable?

Mira woke as the sunlight peeked through the curtains, casting a warm golden hue across the room. She slowly opened her eyes, blinking against the brightness, and turned to stand but froze when she saw Zamian sitting on the edge of the bed. He appeared lost in thought, his expression unreadable. No one could ever guess what was going through his mind.

A wave of emotions surged through her—relief, and something deeper that she couldn’t quite name. She hesitated, unsure how to break the silence. Trying to ease the suffocating atmosphere, she finally spoke, her voice quiet. "Good morning." She didn’t really expect an answer. Mornings were meant to be warm, filled with the promise of a new day—not heavy with tension and silence.

Zamian finally turned to her, his gaze piercing yet gentle. "How was your sleep?"

Mira blinked, wondering if she had heard him correctly. He never asked her about such things. "It was good. And yours?" she replied, still confused by his sudden interest.

"Don’t lie to me." His voice was calm, but the words struck her like a bolt of lightning. How did he know? Did she have dark circles under her eyes?

"I’m n-not," she stammered, her voice betraying her. "I s-slept w-well." ’Goodness gracious,she thought, ’why am I stuttering now,of all times?’ It was now painfully obvious she was lying. Her grandfather had always been able to catch her in a lie; when Mira lied, she stuttered. And Zamian had caught her just the same.

"You don’t have to lie to me, Mira. You’re my wife. How do you expect me to know what you’re thinking if you don’t tell me?" His words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning.

The word ’wife’ stung deeply. Mira’s heart clenched at the harsh truth: once she gave him a child, they would divorce. That was the reality of their situation.

As her thoughts spiraled, she began to wonder: Was it better for a husband and wife to love each other first and then have something happen that led to divorce? Or was it better for both of them to know from the start that divorce was inevitable, merely staying together because they each had something to gain?

If someone asked her, she would probably choose the first scenario. At least in that situation, there had been some happiness, some warmth—before everything crumbled. But the second? It was only pain. Pain, pain, and more pain.

Mira looked at Zamian, his strong jaw set with determination, and felt a mix of longing and despair. "I just... I don’t want to burden you," she said finally, her voice a mere whisper.

"Look, Mira, you have never been a burden to me in any way," Zamian said.

"Now, I want you to tell me—how have I wronged you? Tell me what’s bothering you. I’m listening." There was an earnestness in his voice that softened her resolve.

Mira gave a weak smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. "Y-you’ve done n-nothing wrong," she said, biting her lower lip in uncertainty.

"And now you’re lying again," Zamian replied, turning to face her fully, his expression unwavering.

"I-I’m n-not," she stammered, the weight of his gaze making it hard to hold on to her lie.

"You know," he said calmly, "you’re really bad at lying."

"I-I’m not!" Mira’s eyes widened in shock. Had she just said she wasn’t bad at lying? Those very words had exposed her even further, confirming what they both already knew—she was lying.

Suddenly, Zamian’s laughter shattered the calm silence, echoing off the walls. Mira bit her lower lip, glaring at him with the intensity of a kitten discovering its owner had brought home a new rival. "Stop laughing," she snapped, a mix of annoyance and confusion swirling inside her.

"You know, you keep making me miss my practice sessions, and I haven’t even rewarded you yet. Procrastination isn’t good, you know." His tone was light, teasing, as if they were back to a time when life was simpler. Just then, a knock echoed through the room.

Zamian turned to the door, clearly annoyed by the interruption. He walked over and cracked it open just enough to speak, his large frame blocking Mira’s view of who was there. She felt a flutter of anxiety in her stomach as she waited for him to return.

After the brief exchange at the door, Zamian walked back to Mira, gently raising her chin so their eyes met. "We have visitors. We’ll continue our discussion later," he said, his tone shifting back to the serious undercurrent that had been present earlier.

Just as he was about to pull away, Mira’s eyes darted to his hand. His knuckles were bandaged.

"How did this happen?" she asked, her voice laced with worry.

"It’s nothing," Zamian replied, brushing it off as if it were inconsequential.

"Stop saying that! You’re injured. Does it hurt? You need to be more careful. When did this happen?" she demanded, her concern overflowing.

"It doesn’t hurt," he said, his gaze fixed on her. But from the way she fussed over him, it looked as though she was the one wounded, not him. Her fingers gently traced the area near his bandage, caressing it softly, her touch tender and tentative.

"Don’t lie to me. It does hurt," she whispered, her heart racing. It gnawed at her, the realization sinking in—why couldn’t Zamian lie to her when she had just lied to him minutes ago?

"I told you, it doesn’t hurt," Zamian insisted gently. "Now go take your bath. You need to eat," he added, his voice soft but firm, before turning and leaving the room.

Mira nodded, though her mind was still racing. She couldn’t stop worrying about him, but she knew better than to argue further. Once the door closed behind him, she let out a small sigh and headed to the bathroom. The soft, rhythmic sound of the water filling the tub was inviting, coaxing her to relax. As the warm water enveloped her skin, it seemed to wash away not only the tension from their earlier conversation but also the mounting stress that had been building over the past few days.

She leaned back in the tub, closing her eyes for a moment and letting her thoughts drift. In the quiet, she thought about Zamian’s sudden change in demeanor, how he’d gone from distant to tender so quickly. It was like trying to hold water in her hands—no matter how tightly she tried to grip, it always slipped away.

After her bath, Mira stood in front of the mirror and blow-dried her long, dark hair until it fell in soft, cascading waves that reached her waist. The curls caught the light and shimmered as she moved. She reached for a flowing black maxi skirt, the fabric whispering around her legs with each step, and paired it with a body-hugging white top. The contrast between the light and dark clothing made her feel more in control, as if putting herself together on the outside might help steady her tumultuous emotions inside.

With a deep breath to steel herself, she headed downstairs. As she descended the staircase, the atmosphere shifted. She felt it before she saw it—the subtle tension in the air. When she reached the bottom, her eyes immediately found Zamian.

He was sitting on the expensive leather sofa, his posture relaxed yet commanding, one leg crossed casually over the other. There was an air of effortless authority about him, one that both soothed and intimidated her. His presence filled the room in a way that made it feel smaller, more contained, as though everything in the space revolved around him.

Across from him stood two women, their heads bowed slightly in deference. One of them was the same woman from the day before, though the man who had been with her was conspicuously absent. Had he been replaced? Mira’s curiosity flickered briefly, but she pushed it aside, not wanting to read too much into something that might not matter.

Without giving it more thought, Mira walked toward the living room. The moment the women noticed her, they straightened up, their eyes respectfully averted. "Good morning, Mrs. Mira," they said in unison, bowing their heads slightly in acknowledgment.

Mira offered them a polite nod in return. "Good morning," she replied, her voice calm though her mind still whirled with questions about Zamian, about what had changed between them.

One of the women stepped forward, holding an iPad. "It’s time for you to choose the design," she said, her tone professional yet deferential, as if aware that every move made in this house required a careful balance of respect and precision.