♥ HOW MUCH FOR AN HEIR'S HEART? - ZARRY ♥

Seven

On Wednesday, Zayn took a left turn and drove into the exclusive suburb, then clicked off the ten-o'clock news. As predicted, there had been a flurry of activity following yesterday's press release of the charity ball, with both Tomlinson Wardrobe and Javadd Industries fielding interview requests for the past hour.

Behind the steering wheel, he glanced out the window, noting the barely visible mansions on the road. He counted off the numbers, searching for the right one that would signal his impending meeting with Waliyha Malik and Daniaal Malik.

It was not in his plans, this 'getting to know the family' stuff.

There was no good reason he needed to meet them. Despite all his logical reasons why not, there was a big why

He wanted answers. He needed them. And the not knowing felt like a hole burning away in his gut.

He needed to know about Yaser- and not just what the papers reported. He needed to know about his birth mother, and whether she knew about his disappearing act, whether she'd been truly as miserable as he'd assumed.

So he'd finally agreed to this meeting, much to Charlotte's surprise. ' If you hurt Waliyha, your life will not be worth living," she'd stated mildly.

He finally reached the end of the road. Dead ahead lay a set of iron gates, accompanied by a discreet security camera on the right. The gates swung inwards without a sound, giving off a final click after he drove through.

It wasn't until he'd exited his car and stood in front of the four-story mansion that a wave of dread nearly knocked him flat.

Oh, God. The house.

With his eyes, he traced the lines of the building, lingering on every window, every angle of the smooth white cement.

The dreams had mercifully stopped years ago, but now he forced himself to remember the fragments- a large white house with a million rooms, enough for a small boy to hide from a laughing woman with loving eyes. But they weren't dreams, he realised now. They were memories, memories of this house, of his mother.

For one incredible second, he was captured back in time, back to where his mind jumbled with familiar smells, familiar sights, the sharp, salty tang of the ocean, the warm, grainy sand between his toes.

A hug, the sound of gentle laughter

He forced himself to focus, concentrate to walk forward to the house. He'd spent nearly all his life, fighting something, from playground bullies to his stepfather, from workmates to competitors, this wouldn't beat him.

He was determined to focus on business, but this family stuff was freaking him out. His jaw ached from gritting his teeth, so he dropped his head, staring at the stonework as a flood of eerie emotions swamped him.

He was the eldest son of Yaser Malik. Maybe this was where he belonged.

With a determined slant on his shoulders, he walked the small distance between familiarity and the great unknown. But before he could press the doorbell, the door opened, and an elegant young woman stood before him.

She was astonishingly groomed, from the top of her head with its pulled back hair, black at the roots with blonde tips to the blue sweater and tailored pants.

A queen, fit to head the Tomlinson dynasty, was his first thought. And when he took in her face, he was struck by the warm, welcoming expression. Then she enveloped him in a generous embrace, and his polite greeting fizzled on his tongue.

"Brother," she whispered as she squeezed him tightly. "You're finally home."

In stunned silence, he felt her tremble as she hugged him. For one second, he hesitated. Should he step back? Refuse to come inside? Maintain that crumbling wall of politeness he'd reserved for the whole Tomlinson clan?