We sat at the kitchen table the next morning, plates of French toast with powdered sugar, fresh strawberries, and organic Turkish tea before us. Sunlight streamed in from the tall windows in the living area, giving a wonderful view of the crystal waters below. As I cut through my toast, I massaged the back of my neck; it was a bit sore from the uncomfortable position I had slept in last night. Despite the fact that our bed was a king-size, it was significantly smaller than the mattress at home. Therefore, Zayn's body was rightfully pressed against mine for the majority of the night. I was a mess, unable to sleep properly until I scrunched myself into a space-friendly ball at the farthest corner of the bed. I had been able to sleep in that terrible position, but the impact it had on my body the following morning was unbearable.
Zayn dabbed the cloth napkin against his lips after finishing the last of his toast. "We have a more lenient schedule for today." He noted, casually.
"Hopefully it doesn't include another yacht party." I groaned, an expression of disgust creeping onto my face.
He smirked. "No, not a yacht party," He chucked a cut strawberry into his mouth, chewed, and added, "we actually have time to sightsee today, if you're interested in that. After that, we have a dinner party for another large Turkish corporation."
My mood instantly perked at mention of sightseeing. I had, despite this being my second trip to the country, never visited the major attractions in Turkey. I had never been to the Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque, the Topkapi Palace on the outskirts of the Bosphorus, the Grand Bazaar, or the Underground Cistern, which was one destination I was found of visiting.
We dressed quickly, pulling on pairs of comfortable pants and shirts. Zayn opted for a bright red sweater, dark-wash denim, and a pair of black of white Adidas sneakers. I dressed similarly, in a light red pullover, grey jeans, and black flats. We were comfortable and sensible tourists, ready to take on the ancient city of Istanbul. My excitement was incredibly hard to contain.
I ran the majority of the sightseeing, ordering the driver of our car around the city as if I were from the land of modern Constantinople myself. First, our driver dropped us off at the Hagia Sophia, one of oldest religious structures in all of Turkey. As I learned, walking through the interior of the beautiful building, it was constructed in 306 and originally used as a patriarchal basilica. It eventually translated into a mosque and, finally, a museum, as it is today. My jaw dropped as I gaped at the architectural allure of the Sophia; the tall dome, supported by multiple pendentives and columns and the Imperial Gate at the north entrance of the structure were just two small examples of the unbelievable architecture. Mosaics draped the walls and arches, providing both visual supplications of Biblical stories and simple geometric patterns to awe inspire the eyes.
Zayn, by my side for the entire walk through the Sophia, was enthralled in the art. I had never thought that he would be someone vastly interested in ancient art, but he couldn't take his eyes off of the paintings lining the interior of the dome or the calligraphy that ran along the sides of the mihrab, the elaborately created niche in the wall of the Sophia which pointed to the direction of prayer when the structure was a mosque. I saw him read the Arabic scripture silently to himself, his lips moving as he kept his eyes on the calligraphy. That was something new I learned about him; he had the ability to read Arabic. The closest I had ever come to Arabic was speaking Urdu at home in India, a language which was heavily influenced by Arabic. I kept my eyes on him, a small smile on my face, as he continued praising the building.
Eventually, we left to our next destination. We visited the Blue, or Sultan Ahmed, Mosque; it was an Islamic oasis with a beautiful courtyard of soft marble and granite, thousands of handmade ceramic tiles lining the interior, and, of course, enticing Ottoman geometric patterns that sculpted the domes of the masjid. Within the structure, I lifted the scarf I had tucked into my purse over my head, practicing a lose hijab for the purpose of being inside. Both Zayn and I were non-religious Muslims, but we were still familiar with the history and practices of the Islamic faith. Our wedding had been a textbook example of what wealth can do to one's beliefs; it had been made strictly Christian due to pressures to both of our fathers.
Over the course of the next four hours, we visited a multitude of locations. We entered the Grand Bazaar, a large destination marketplace filled with spice tenders and souvenirs for eager tourists. Topkapi Palace was where we went next, an enormous castle built by a zealous Sultan with an unimaginably gorgeous view of the blue waters of the Bosphorus. We even paid a visit to the Underground Cisterns, upon my adamant request. I had to beg Zayn to come, as he was growing incredibly tired from our day of traveling. Eventually, he subdued to my profuse persuasion and we both ventured to the Basilica Cistern, or the "Sunken Palace," as our driver introduced.
I had never seen such arcane artistry in my life. Every corner of the sight spelled mystery, as if I were in a lost city of some kind. I learned that the cistern had originally been a basilica, hence its double name, providing water to the Topkapi Palace at its height. Now, the area was in near ruins; columns covered in mossy green algae, each of the structures dimly light by artificial light, and the inverted Medusa head pillars gawking at tourists as they took photographs besides the sculpted faces.
After our visit to the cistern, we decided to eat a late lunch. As we sat in the car on the way to our newest destination, I excitedly shuffled through the photographs of the day on my camera. A wide grin was glued to my face as I passed through a series of pictures I had taken at the Grand Bazaar, when Zayn was being haggled by a civilian trying to sell him dried apricots. He had been absolutely terrified, unable to get rid of the man. Each photograph featured Zayn's horrified expression as the haggler was shoving baskets of dried apricots into his face. I giggled to myself, reliving the memory.
Zayn peeked over my shoulder, curious as to why I was laughing. When he caught glimpse of the photographs I was looking through, his expression turned grim. "Erase all of those."
"Nope," I said, between laughter. "I need these for proof."
He looked aghast. "Proof of what?"
"Proof that you're capable of pulling off such an expression," I muttered before I burst into uncontrollable laughter.
Zayn's mouth twitched. "Give me the camera." He ordered, reaching for the device as I held it with all my might.
I flinched out of his reach, encasing my body over the camera so he couldn't possibly steal it. However, Zayn was clever; he began tickling the sides of the stomach, right beneath my ribcage. Almost immediately, I threw my arms out in both directions, just barely missing his head, as I erupted into a riot of laughter. How in god's name did he know that that was where I was most ticklish? He continued attacking my sides until the camera fell from my hands and onto the seat cushion next to him. Zayn quickly grabbed it, safely out of my reach, before he began surfing through the photographs himself. He seemed to forget his objective, because he was moving through the pictures from the day, starting at the very beginning. His eyes moved rapidly from photograph to photograph, the corner of his lips curling into a smile.
"These are ridiculous," He said in a soft grin.
"You should take a look at the ones from Topkapi," I added, leaning back into my seat. "You have the most candid expressions."
Zayn legitimately laughed at that. "Candids make for better stories in the future," He spoke as his right thumb navigated through the camera.
I allowed him to beam over the photographs from our tourist adventures until we arrived at the restaurant, a quaint Turkish café by the name of Hafiz Mustafa Sekerlemeleri. It was rather small and busy, for the pair of us has to squeeze past other visitors on our way in. We went past the main store, selling Turkish delight and baklava, and eventually reached the café with full seating. The food was exquisite, the finest we had had in Turkey since we arrived yesterday. It wasn't very expensive, but it was the perfect conclusion to a perfect day. And what made the day so perfect was, most definitely, without any argument, the fact that Zayn and I got along superbly and without any difficulty.
An hour later, we were back in our hotel suite and getting ready for the evening's festivities. My legs were sore as hell from walking around all of Istanbul, so I spent a good half hour soaking them in scalding water. The hot temperature managed to alleviate the muscles somewhat, but it was only in minor relief. Zayn was in the living area, already dressed in a crisp stripped dress shirt, maroon tie, black pants, and polished shoes, as he reclined his legs onto the coffee table and flipped through television channels. I quickly slipped into the next available dress in my suitcase, an expensive Chanel piece that had been a gift from one of father's best business partner right before the wedding. It was blue, with an off-the-shoulder neckline, a trompe-l'oeil bow, and small white dots running throughout. Short-sleeved with a fitted silhouette, the dress was a timeless and ladylike essential. I paired it with a pair of white pumps and a matching white clutch, decided on no jewelry void a pair of large diamond studs, and threw on a bit of red lipstick.
I joined Zayn in the living area as he surfed through the television; we had about twenty minutes until we were scheduled to leave. When I sat on the couch next to him, he didn't seem to notice my presence.
"What are you watching?" I asked, nonchalantly, a feeble attempt to instigate conversation.
He glanced over at me. "Television..."
I frowned. "Never mind."
"You like nice," His voice was muffled by his own breath.
I turned in his direction, shock evidently making its way onto my face. Did he just... No. That's too bizarre.
"Not going to say thank you?" Zayn retorted, flipping the channel again. "Aren't we full of ourselves?"
I gaped at him. "T-thank you! It just... took me by surprise."
He glanced at me again. "I am capable of offering compliments, you know."
"Well, of course, but surely not towards me..." I breathed, feeling my face grow red.
Zayn paused, his eyes on my face. After a moment, he broke away, bringing himself back to the television. "If I didn't compliment you, who else would?" He asked, in nearly in whisper, as if to himself.
My heart was beating rapidly, hard against my chest. I gulped down dry saliva, attempting to bring myself to a calmer demeanor. He was really taking my blackmail seriously, wasn't he? No matter what the reasoning behind his erratic speech, I felt incredibly grateful. He was acting like a husband; albeit, a shy and reserved one, but a husband nonetheless. I was pleasantly surprised by the way things were going so far, but I wasn't sure what to attribute Zayn's positive attitude towards. It could be because he's grateful that I gave him such a high position at Molavi Industries and has, thus, developed a soft spot for me like he had for Rebecca. Or, on the other hand, because he's trying to avoid my blackmail by being a good husband, as I had painfully noted before. However, I realized that I wished, with all my might, that it was the first option.
We sat on the couch together, passing the next fifteen minutes with both of our eyes glued to the television screen as it played the Turkish news. Of course, I wasn't paying any attention to the news, as fascinating as it was; my focus was elsewhere, specifically, to my left. Zayn was an interesting creature. But he made me feel things I had never felt before. And in his cool posture, with his legs thrown over the coffee table and his chin resting against his palm, lust was just one of those few things. A few months ago, when he had thrown himself on me, I felt disgusted looking at his body as it pressed against mine. However, now, months later, I was growing fonder of him and the prospect of his body grinding against mine was... Dear god.
It wasn't like I hadn't had intimate relations with a member of the opposite gender. In Princeton, a good friend of mine for at least two years and I decided to venture into a turf I had never even considered before entering university. We began "friends with benefits," seeing to each other's' needs without growing emotionally attached. I enjoyed it, particularly because we managed to maintain a healthy friendship, despite our sexual interactions. I suppose another reason I was content with it was because Preston, the boy, was someone I could never find myself falling in love with. Matter of fact, the prospect of "falling in love" had always seemed alien to me. From the day I was born, I doubt I had loved anyone the way... Well, the way Zayn loved Rebecca. Regardless, Preston and I might have done a lot of stuff, but we never had sex. So, by all technicalities, I was still a virgin waiting for my prince to sweep me off of my feet and... steal my virtue? Something of that sort.
After our leisurely twenty minutes we suspended, we departed the luxurious hotel enroute to Bebek, an affluent neighborhood in Istanbul. It was home of Ibrahim Çelik, the wealthy Turkish metal manufacturer who was hosting tonight's dinner party. His mansion was rather large, with two guest houses, a tennis court, and an outdoor pool. The interior was modeled in a likeness to Ottoman palaces, with bright, eccentric colors, cold geometric designs on the ceilings, and tapestries draping every wall. Mr. Çelik had furnished his grand home well, impressing even my high standards. There weren't too many guests at this event, a pleasant change from last night's disastrously crowded yacht extravaganza, but there were enough to keep conversation flowing. I kept close to Zayn as we worked our way through the guests, introducing ourselves and shaking hands when appropriate.
"Zayn Malik," A voice chimed from behind us once we had finished greeting an elder couple from Scotland.
We turned around and faced an older English man, of maybe fifty years, with greying hair and a strong jawline. He was dressed superbly and held a glass of champagne in his hand.
Zayn seemed to recognize the man, shaking his hand fervently with a grin. "Mr. Mara, what a surprise to find you here."
"Likewise, though I believe the pair of you is on your honeymoon." He smirked, deviously. "Having good times at night, are we?"
My eyes widened in horror, quickly averted my gaze to the floor to admire his black shoes.
Zayn awkwardly laughed off his comment. "We took a spin of the city today, visiting the mosques and palaces."
"Istabul is wonderful, isn't it?" Mr. Mara took a sip of his alcohol. "I've been here for all of three days and I've already fallen in love."
"If you don't mind me asking, why are you here? Do you have business in Istanbul?"
"Mr. Çelik invited me to interview him for The Sun. I was flattered, nonetheless." He breathed. "And how are you, son? It's a shame that your elder brother was selected for Malik Industries."
Zayn's eyes lost their glimmer, but he maintained a smile. "Jamal is wonderfully capable."
"But you are as well," Mr. Mara added with a smile. "I wrote an article listing your credentials, you know. You could've done marvelous things for Malik Industries."
"Thank you, but-"
"Zayn will be marvelous at Molavi Industries as well," I added with a grin.
Zayn snapped his head at me, his jaw dropping. I frowned, confused as to why he was wearing such a horrible expression.
"Molavi Industries?" Mr. Mara asked, baffled. He glanced between me and Zayn, his eyebrows fitted into a crease of concern. "This is news to me."
My stomach dropped. Oh no, what had I done?
"Zayn, I had no idea that you were planning on leaving your own company and joining... Molavi Industires, was it?" He looked angry.
Zayn struggled to find words. "Mr. Mara, I-"
"Were you planning on telling your father, or were you going to walk out on him as a sort of revenge for giving Malik Industries to your brother?" He wasn't just angry, he was disappointed. Before allowing Zayn the chance to answer, he shook his head and walked off in the opposite direction.
I then realized the damage I had done. Zayn hadn't told a soul about his transfer to head of Molavi Industries, let alone his own father. Mr. Mara, after finding out in this unholy manner, was probably under the impression that Zayn had no intention of telling his father. I had said something I wasn't meant to say and I had no idea what was going to happen. Another wave of nausea washed over me as I realized that Mr. Mara appeared to be a reporter of some sort. That meant that he would most likely take what I had stupidly said to the papers, spilling word of Zayn's decision to the world. My eyes widened in horror; what had I done?
I was too scared to catch Zayn's expression, but I could already tell how furious he was. His arms were trembling, as if he was using every ounce of restraint to hinder himself from exploding at me in a public place. He was enraged with me, but he kept his demeanor relatively calm until the party ended and we were both in the suite.
He slammed the door behind me when we were both in the suite, nearly one in the morning. His eyes were as black as coffee and every vein in his neck was throbbing.
"What the fuck were you thinking?" He spoke cautiously, accentuating his words carefully. "Are you fucking mad?"
I tried to calm him, apologizing profusely for my stupidity.
"Do you realize that that man, Mr. Mara, is most likely going to release the information to the media? I hadn't told a single person about this, let alone my own family. When word gets out on this matter... People are going to talk." Zayn spat, punching his fist against the granite countertop.
I flinched back. "I-I'm sorry, Zayn! It was very stupid of me and I'm sorry!" My voice grew quiet as he glowered down at me. "I-I'll... find a way to fix everything. I w-will."
He shook his head fervently. "I've had many cases of love that were just infatuation, but this hate I feel for you is the real thing. You can't fix this and I can't fix this; just like we won't be able to fix this marriage, or whatever the hell this shit is. You're fucking..." He inhaled deeply, trying to calm his demeanor but to no avail. "Like always, you've managed to ruin my life even further."
At that, the tears I had been struggling with all my might to hold in began to fall down my face. My own temperament, the one often rivaled with Zayn's, boiled to its peak. Between my violent sobs, I yelled, "You're the fucking idiot! Do you even realize that you wouldn't have this position if it weren't for me? If it weren't for the fact that I care about you and I want the best for you? I made a mistake and I'm sorry but what you've just said..." I couldn't even finish my sentence as my crying grew more hysterical. I couldn't believe it; things had been going so well and, right when I thought that his uncontrollable rage had been averted, this happened.
Zayn was still glaring at me, his own anger still present, when I spun on my heel and headed right out of the door, banging it behind me. Tears blinded my vision for the most part as I hurried into the elevator. When it reached the lobby, I didn't bother to look around and see if Zayn had tried to catch up with me because, I knew very well, he wouldn't bother. I headed straight for the doors of the lobby, my anger and adrenaline driving my feet.
From the concierge desk, a young man in a dark green uniform frantically yelled after me about whether or not he should call for a car.
As I pushed past the large front doors of the Four Seasons hotel and into the cold night, I replied in a yell, "FORGET IT."
*****
Aww just when I thought they getting along ! Well as most of you asked the zayn point of view is right around the corner so keep your eyes peeled!
Remember to check out the original author's page just click the external link!
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