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Zayn was sitting beside me on a chair, an expression of pure distaste displayed on his face. He was clenching his fists and his lips were pursed in a tight line. I had to make up for his obvious disinterest in the party by speaking with the strangers as if we were longtime friends. I had to force smiles on my face and converse with people who I, to be completely frank, didn’t like very much. They were very different from the friends my father had; they had large egos and small room for disagreement. I felt, once again, like a marionette forced to please strangers. I felt like a clown.
After a major wave of guests had passed, I turned to Zayn and whispered, “Could you please talk to them as well? You can’t expect me to single-handedly converse with every single one.”
In reply, he merely glared at me. That was enough to silence my one plea. I had the urge to slump back in the chair, throw off these ridiculous shoes, and listen to some soothing music. However, I was stuck here, acting as the future Mrs. Malik. There were at least a hundred people at this party; Zayn’s father was entertaining a group of elites from the company in one of the game rooms and Zayn and I were in the living area, stationed on two elegant leather chairs, speaking with whichever guests wanted to give us their blessings. I was counting the hours until this ludicrousness would be over, but moaned when I realized we weren’t even half way through the evening.
The guests seemed to be too preoccupied in their own conversations to talk to me, so I went ahead and let my guard down. I rested my back against the chair, something I had been taught, since primary, never to do. It was a sign of “disrespect,” my teachers had always told me. Right now, I thought, screw “disrespect.”
Just as relief was beginning to sweep from my back, a girl gracefully approached me and Zayn. She was tall and elegant, with her hair tied in a tight, light brown bun. Her eyes were two light blue marbles and she had an adorable button nose. Her skin was fair and she had an enviable body, slim like mine but full with the feminine curves I did not possess. She looked like a beautiful swan in her floor length white dress.
Apparently, I was not the only one who was awestruck by her beauty, because Zayn perked up. He quickly repositioned himself, sitting straight up in his chair. He swiftly adjusted his maroon tie and swept a hand through his hair. I furrowed my brow as I watched him, amused by his sudden childishness.
“Rebecca!” He exclaimed, raising to his feet and enveloping her in a hug.
I was genuinely surprised by his change in demeanor. I didn’t know that he was capable of hugging another human being. Nonetheless, I rose to my feet and smiled at her.
When she separated from Zayn, she looked over at me and grinned warmly. “You must be Farah.” She had a thick British accent, quite similar to Zayn’s. She approached me and, much to my further surprise, hugged me as well. Zayn was glaring at me, a rapid degeneration from the wide grin that had just been on his face.
Turning back to Zayn, Rebecca said, “It’s so nice to finally meet your bride-to-be, Z.”
Z? My eyebrows remained raised.
Zayn remained unusually quiet, watching her with an expression I had never seen before. But she smiled again, holding her hand up. “Forget about it.” She turned to me, again. “She’s absolutely beautiful.” She was referring to me, which made me blush. Obviously she was lying; compared to her, I was a rotting banana.
