Strings and Schemes

Chapter 29

I glare playfully, but follow him anyway.

Zayn moves around the kitchen with ease, grabbing things from the fridge, half-humming under his breath. I watch from the counter, wine glass in hand, as he pulls out fresh pita, olives, grilled lamb, and tzatziki.

"You planned for this, didn't you?" I smirk.

He shrugs. "I had a feeling we'd need a midnight feast at some point."

I shake my head, watching as he plates everything with surprising care.

A few minutes later, we're sitting cross-legged on the floor, eating straight from the serving board, family style. The tension from earlier fades, bit by bit, replaced with something lighter.

Until Zayn pauses, pita mid-air, and grins.

"What?" I ask, wary.

"You know," he says, chewing thoughtfully, "I've had my fair share of headlines before."

I raise a brow. "And?"

"And I don't think any of them have been as interesting as 'ZAYN MALIK CAUGHT IN GREECE WITH A MYSTERY GIRL WHO EATS LIKE A GREMLIN AT MIDNIGHT.'"

I gasp. "You absolute dick."

He laughs, dodging my attempted slap. "I mean, it's not my fault you've got tzatziki on your nose." He leans over and licks it off, in a surprisingly seductive way.

I groan, pawing at my face. "You're lucky I like you."

His grin softens into something quieter, something real. "I really am," he murmurs.

I stare at my phone, the screen still dark, my finger hovering over the power button like pressing it might detonate my entire life.

Zayn lounges beside me, his arm stretched across the back of the couch, watching me with quiet patience. He's already checked. Already seen the headlines. Already processed whatever damage control needs to be done. But me?

I'm still pretending I have a choice in the matter.

"You're thinking yourself in circles again, Jaan." His voice is gentle, but knowing.

I shake my head in a classic etch-a-sketch delete method, Zayn laughing at my attempt to redesign the evening.

I exhale, still not turning my phone on. "How bad is it?"

He hesitates—just long enough for me to know it's bad. "Not terrible. Some blurry photos, speculation, a lot of 'who is she?'"

I finally flick my phone on, wincing as the screen floods with notifications. Texts, missed calls, email alerts, Twitter mentions, news updates. My name and his, tangled together in ways I never anticipated.

Raina Addams: The Mystery Woman in Zayn Malik's Greek Getaway.

Who is Zayn's Mystery Date? Fans Speculate Romance.

Diplomat's Daughter Spotted with Global Superstar—An Unlikely Pair?

I shut my phone off again and throw it onto the coffee table. "I hate everything about that sentence."

Zayn chuckles. "Which one?"

"All of them."

He shifts closer, brushing my knee with his. "We knew this might happen, Rain."

"I just—I didn't think it would happen this fast."

Zayn doesn't argue with that, because we both know this was too soon. I thought I had time. Time to figure things out. Time to separate myself from my past before the world tried to write my next chapter for me.

But the world never waits for permission.

"So," I sigh, rubbing my temple. "What do we do?"

Zayn leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "We have two options. We either ignore it, let them make their own assumptions, hope it dies down... or we own it."

I arch a brow. "Own it? You mean a full red carpet debut? A Vogue spread? A joint press statement?"

His lips twitch, struggling to keep down a laugh. "More like... a soft launch."

I raise a skeptical brow. "A soft launch?"

Zayn nods. "Something subtle. Something controlled. If we act like we're hiding, the speculation gets worse. But if we give them just enough?" He shrugs. "It kills the mystery before it gets out of hand."

I nibble on my bottom lip, considering it. He's right. If we don't define this, someone else will. My parents, the press, the internet. And I am so sick of people deciding my life for me.

I glance at him. "What would this soft launch look like?"

He smirks, reaching for my phone, unlocking it with casual ease. "Something simple."

I watch as he opens Instagram, switching to my story, tapping the camera icon. "Give me your hand," he murmurs.

I blink at him. "What?"

He gestures to the coffee table. "Reach for your wine glass."

I hesitate for half a second before obliging, stretching my hand with the matching ring toward the delicate stem. Zayn snaps the photo at the perfect moment—just my hand, the wine, the candlelight casting a soft glow. No faces. No identifiers. Just enough to start a wildfire.

He angles the phone toward me. "What do you think?"

I smirk. "I think you're devious."

His eyes darken with amusement. "I think you like it."

I roll my eyes but don't argue. Instead, I hit post.

The second it's live, my stomach twists—but it's not fear. It's power. For once, I'm choosing my own narrative. I glance at Zayn, who's watching me like he already knows what I'm thinking.

He leans in, voice low. "Welcome to the public eye, Jaan."