Fast-forwarding past the glamorous wedding reception party filled with uncomfortable memories of my sitting at the large mahogany table in the reception hall next to my husband, the two of us not speaking a word to anyone, we now arrive two weeks later. I had moved all of my belongings into a portion of the Malik estate reserved entirely for Zayn and I. It was our loving bungalow, a space for the two of us to do what loving newlyweds did: ignore each other for the entire day and, at night, lay at polar opposite sides of the bed. He spent most of his time at the Industry, working at his post. I had learned that he was the head of International Affairs, whatever that meant. His elder brother, Jamal, had a higher position in the Industry than he did, as the Vice-President of Malik Industries. I’m sure that irked Zayn, but he showed zero emotion regarding the matter. The few days following the wedding, I had tried my hardest to start conversation with him but it usually resulted in one of two things: pure silence or grunted responses from his mouth. I received the message and decided not to cross paths with him. He wanted to spend the rest of his life like this? That was fine with me.
I still hadn’t gotten used to the ring that now sat on my fourth finger. Like the engagement ring had been, it was a reminder of how pathetic my life had become and I hated looking at it. If I had my way, I’d throw it off the balcony of our bedroom and not regret a thing. I’m sure Zayn wouldn’t care. Though he too wore his wedding ring, he hardly looked at it. To him it was as if the wedding had never actually occurred. I wish I could completely banish it from my mind as he had.
Today was thirteen days following the ceremony and I was scrolling down an Internet page on my laptop, trying to find suitable jobs for my university degree. I had no idea why I was bothering with this task; it wasn’t like I’d be able to hold a job anyway. I was the wife of Zayn Malik, son of Azad Malik of Malik Industries. I wouldn’t have to work, and wasn’t expected to, for my entire lifetime. But I desperately needed something to do with my time. While Zayn worked all day, I spent this time flipping through television channels, eating gourmet food prepared by the talented manor chef, and meeting with Industry workers who had complaints about various concerns, such as the pay grade and whatnot. I suppose that was my job, meeting with the Industry workers. But it only took a small portion of my time to meet with all of them, as I was given strict instructions to refuse all of their requests. I felt absolutely terrible, but who was I to argue? I often compared my position to that of Her Royal Highness Kate Middleton. She at least had objectives to accomplish within the day, as she had to keep up public appearances. I wasn’t royalty, though at times I felt like such. I, however, didn’t need to please the media and, thus, didn’t need to go around the city visiting hospitals and cutting ribbons. I would love to, but the Industry didn’t let me leave the estate. It was a jail.
I let out a sigh as I exited out of the webpage I was on and shut the laptop. Pushing away from my desk in the private study of the West Wing, the section of the Malik estate reserved for Zayn and me, I rubbed my fingers against my temples. I felt a headache coming on strong and it throbbed against my skull, causing all sorts of pain. I rose to my feet and trotted into the hallway, in attempt to find a maid and ask for pain killers.
As I made my way down the hallway, I heard the front door slam. The noise aggravated my headache, but I pushed past the pain and peered around the hall, trying to see who had come in. It was five in the afternoon and Zayn usually came home, on weekdays, around eight in the evening, as he worked long days. However, it was indeed Zayn at the front door. He was loosening his tie with one hand and holding a bottle of liquor in the other. My eyes widened in shock, why was he drinking I cautiously made my way around the hallway, watching him without being seen as he walked towards the staircase. I didn’t want him to spot me at all, so I kept a good ten steps behind him. He didn’t seem very drunk, but I had heard from Jamal that Zayn didn’t get drunk easily and, when he did, he only appeared lethargic. He walked up the stairs wearily, gripping the railing tightly in support. So, he was drunk. He then disappeared into our bedroom, slamming the door behind him. I frowned in confusion. I really knew nothing about this man. Putting aside his strange behavior, I returned to the hallway, found a maid in the kitchen, and asked for some Aspirin or Tylenol. She went into the main estate and returned within three minutes, holding mineral water in a tall wine glass in one hand and two Aspirin on a white cloth on the other. Extravagant, but expected. I gulped down the medication with the mineral water and let out a deep breath of air. Hopefully the pain in my head would be relieved relatively soon; it was really starting to bother me.
