Strings and Schemes

Chapter 11

That's all I need to hear.

I sprint to the rack, Louis right behind me, Liam trailing at a normal human pace.

"Wow," I murmur, running my fingers over the fabrics. The craftsmanship, the textures, the weight of the pieces—it's overwhelming. Then, my hands freeze over one in particular. Crimson red.

It's breathtaking.

"That's the one." I turn to Liam, my smile so wide my cheeks ache.

Meanwhile, Louis is absolutely thrilled by a different piece.

"Look at this one! It looks like a peacock!" He yells, pulling it off the rack dramatically.

It is beautiful. Unique. Regal. But the red one—the red one feels like me. Like something I was meant to wear.

I take it into the dressing room, kicking all three of them out. When I step in front of the mirror, I barely recognize myself.

The intricate embroidery, the way the fabric molds to my body, the way it feels... I can't even look at myself for too long without getting emotional. How can an article of clothing make me feel this way?

Ten minutes later, an assistant catches me still staring at myself, lost in thought. She smiles knowingly.

"That is a phenomenal choice, Ms. Addams. Would you like me to pack it up for you?"

I nod. "I—I can't even bring myself to take it off."

She laughs. "You wouldn't be the first. His designs have a way of making people feel like royalty." She pauses. "Your friend was right to call him out. Mr. Malhotra actually appreciates people who demand better."

I flush, realizing how much attention Liam's scene must have drawn.

But honestly? They probably already knew who I was.

I step out of the dressing room, box in hand, and head outside where the boys are waiting by the car.

Harry grins. "Did you find it? The one you wanted?"

I smile. "I did. It's perfect."

Liam catches my eye, and I mouth thank you. He waves me off like it was nothing—but we both know it wasn't.

I hand the giant box off to one of the assistants, feeling slightly guilty for making her do her actual job. She waves me off like it's nothing, and I head upstairs, only to spot a note waiting on my coffee table.

Dinner's at 6. Meet us in the dining room. No dress code.
Love, Mom.

I sigh.

It's not the dinner itself that bothers me. It's her. The coldness in her, the way she interacts with the world like she's running a never-ending campaign. I don't think I've ever seen her belly laugh with friends, or kiss my dad like she actually loves him. It's all optics. It's all control.

And I hate that, in some ways, I've done the same to myself.

The division of church and state—diplomacy and art, duty and desire—I built that wall myself. And it's keeping me from actually living.

I think about Zayn. About how close I feel to him, even while being terrified of what happens if anyone finds out. How I've spent my entire life designing an escape plan, but never actually taking the exit.

I shake my head—not to erase the thought, but to let it sink in.

And I hate that, in some ways, I've done the same to myself.

Still, I head downstairs, resigned to another evening of performance.

"Hi, Mom. Dad." I smile as I take my seat.

"Hi, sweetheart." My mother leans in, pressing an obligatory kiss to my cheek. My dad nods at me over his phone, barely looking up.

We're served by the house staff—because of course we are—and it takes less than five minutes for my dad to slip back into work mode.

"How was Malhotra?" he asks, not bothering with pleasantries.

I take a bite before answering. "Fine." I make a face. "Actually, not fine. He tried putting me in old designs. Liam had to handle it."

That gets my dad's attention. His fork clatters against his plate.

"He did what?" His voice is sharp, his politician's mask slipping just a little. "That is entirely unacceptable."

My mom barely reacts, cutting into her fish with practiced grace. "At least Liam was there to help."

"He shouldn't have needed to help." My dad shakes his head, already moving on to problem-solving. "I'll speak to the consulate about this. Malhotra's team should understand that you aren't—"

"—a regular customer?" I finish, raising an eyebrow. "You don't think I could have handled it myself?"

"That's not the point," he says, clearly exasperated. "Your name holds weight, Raina. If people are already trying to take advantage of you, what happens when you actually start making decisions that matter?"

I grip my fork tighter. "Do I get to make decisions that matter?"

Silence.

My mother finally looks up, giving me that polished, I'm listening but I'm also managing this conversation smile.

"You know we only want what's best for you," she says smoothly.

I force a smile back. "Right."

But we all know what best means. It means controlled. It means calculated. It means not what I actually want.

Dinner continues in silence—punctuated by the occasional urgent text on my dad's phone and my mother's quiet, steady disappointment. It's always like this.

Half-present conversations. Half-felt emotions.

A family that exists more in theory than in practice.