Strings and Schemes

Chapter 13

Zayn takes two deliberate steps forward, pulling me in. Our lips barely brush before I press a hand to his chest.

"I—" My stomach twists with guilt.

His brows knit together, confusion flashing to realization.

"Oh." His voice is quiet, careful. Then, after a beat, "It's no problem. We can just talk."

I shake my head. "Sorry—I probably shouldn't have come here."

"Were you planning to?" He tilts his head. "Before whatever happened?"

I hesitate, then shake my head. "No. I just..." I exhale sharply, willing myself to be brave.

"This is me bothering you," I admit. "You said you wanted me to bother you, and I'm trying."

His expression softens, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his lips.

"Please don't take this the wrong way," he murmurs, "but I'm really fucking glad you did."

Zayn moves to the couch, not prying, not pushing. Just waiting. He pats the seat beside him.

"Come sit."

I do—awkwardly—and he laughs. "These trumpet skirts are torture. Here, let's get you comfortable."

He reaches for the zipper, and in one expert motion, unfastens it. I wiggle out, sighing as I rub my aching hips.

"They really are pieces of art," he muses, brushing my hands aside to take over. His thumbs knead into my hips, slow and precise. I let out a breathy moan, flinching slightly at the soreness.

"I always end up half-naked on this couch," I joke.

Zayn grins, his eyes darkening slightly. "You won't hear me complaining." Then, teasing, "Can't suppose I could convince you to take off the rest?"

I laugh, shaking my head. "Not right now."

I stare at my hands, debating how to tell him. How to explain that tonight I was a political pawn. That my parents had tried to trade me like a fucking bargaining chip. That I was supposed to entertain the idea of some future diplomat's wife role while standing in a room draped in marigolds, drowning in expectations.

I finally break the silence. "I had an event tonight."

I open my phone, scrolling through Getty Images until I find the one I need—me, Liam, and Louis, captured among Bollywood royalty at the High Commission. Turning the screen to Zayn, I brace for his reaction.

His brows furrow. "At the High Commission of India?"

I nod. "The irony isn't lost on me."

He exhales a short laugh. "Yeah, not my favorite place in the world."

"No, I'd guess it's your least favorite."

We smile faintly, sharing the moment, before his expression sobers. "What were you doing there?"

"It was a Friends of India event. My parents barely secured the invite, so when they did, they made me go with them as some sort of..." My voice catches, disgust tightening in my throat. I blink rapidly, willing the tears to stay put.

Zayn sees it instantly. His whole face changes.

"Raina." His voice is low, dangerous.

I take a shaky breath, forcing the words out. "As a political tool."

Zayn stills. "Wait—" his jaw clenches, "—did you just say your parents offered you up as... a bargaining piece? To smooth over diplomatic issues?"

I nod, a single tear falling. "Louis was right. Keeping my private life a mystery only makes it easier for them to use me."