Chapter 3 The past never sleeps

Since Amina Yusuf became Zayn Karim's wife, two weeks had passed. The media frenzy hadn't calmed down. It had, in fact, only intensified. Bloggers were digging through her past, trying to link every tragedy of the last decade to her name. However, Zayn had a stronger name. His silence is louder. And his presence, undeniable.

They still didn't live like a typical husband and wife. Their nights were quiet. Conversations that are restricted to strategic plans, meetings with lawyers, or private meals together. But something was shifting.

That morning, Amina stood on the balcony, sipping black coffee in one of Zayn's oversized shirts. The city below buzzed with life, unaware of the storm brewing above.

Zayn came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist before she could react.

"You're tense," he said.

"Do you think?" "Is it the press, or your ghosts?"

She sighed. "Both."

He turned her around slowly. "Then let's start facing them."

"How?"

"We dig. We pull out every root until your past bleeds the truth."

Her breath hitched. "And what if we find something worse?"

Zayn's voice lowered. "Then we burn it all."

Later that day, Zayn took her to a private investigator's office. A thin, sharp-eyed woman named Nalia greeted them, sliding a thick folder across the desk.

"I've been digging into the old files," she said. "And I found something."

She flipped open a page. It was a photo-grainy, black-and-white-of the warehouse where the gold had gone missing. And standing at the far corner of the frame was a familiar face.

Amina froze. "That's... Idris's cousin. Jamal."

Nalia nodded. "Jamal Mfaume was listed as a warehouse cleaner. But his bank account showed a deposit of 300 million shillings three days after the gold vanished."

Amina's knees weakened.

Zayn caught her. "Is he alive?" "More than alive," Nalia said. "He owns land now. Cars. He's been living under a different name, but we traced it."

Amina's heart pounded. "So it wasn't me."

Zayn's voice was calm but lethal. "It was never you."

They left the office in silence. Amina stared out the window, tears she refused to cry burning her eyes.

She had been jailed. Shamed. Her youth was stolen. All while the real thief lived like royalty.

She sat on the floor of their bedroom that night, surrounded by old letters she had written while she was in prison. Words that never reached anyone.

Zayn walked in quietly, watching her.

"You kept them all?"

They were my only possessions. My words. My agony. He knelt in front of her. "Make them ablaze." She looked up, confused.

"Use them," he said. "As the groundwork. Let the world hear your side. But on your terms."

"And how do I do that?"

Zayn stood and handed her a tablet. You relate your story to them. Through your voice. Through your name. Not as the girl who went to prison-but as the woman who came back stronger."

"You want me to go public?"

"I want you to take control."

She hesitated.

Then nodded.

The next day, Amina posted her first video on social media. Her face, clean, unfiltered. Her voice, calm but fierce.

"My name is Amina Yusuf," she said. "Ten years ago, I was accused of stealing gold from the Mfaume Company. I didn't do it. I was framed. But now... I'm back. And I'm not hiding."

The video went viral in two hours.

Support poured in. Survivors. Women who were kept silent. Ex-prisoners. Even strangers from abroad commented with fire emojis and messages of love.

But not everyone was happy.

That same night, Amina received a text from an unknown number.

"You should've stayed buried."

She showed it to Zayn.

He looked unbothered. "Good. That means they're scared."

"Scared of what?"

He smiled darkly. "Of what you'll do next."

---

The next move came quickly.

Zayn invited her to a gala-an exclusive high-society event hosted by the Ministry of Trade. Amina hadn't worn a gown in years. Her stylist wrapped her in a deep orange silk dress that hugged her curves and dripped elegance.

Zayn, in a custom black suit, extended his arm.

"Ready to turn heads?" he asked.

"Only if I can also crush a few." They arrived, and as expected, the room fell silent.

The whispers were immediate.

"Is she there?" "Has she wed Zayn?" "I thought she was in jail-"

Amina kept her chin high. Her heels clicked confidently on the marble floor.

But when she saw him, her heart stopped. Idris.

Her ex-husband.

He looked nothing like the boy she had once trusted as he stood with a champagne glass in his hand by the champagne table. His eyes widened when he saw her. His jaw tightened. Amina didn't flinch. She leaned into Zayn and whispered, "Let's go say hi."

The smirk of Zayn could have shattered glass. They approached like royalty. Idris's fake smile flickered the moment Zayn extended his hand.

"Mr. Mfaume," Zayn said coolly. "Small world."

Idris looked at Amina, ignoring Zayn. "You're alive."

"I am," Amina said. "Surprised?"

He forced a laugh. "You appear... different." "I am different," she replied. "I'm free."

The air between them was sharp enough to slice skin.

Then Zayn added casually, "She's also protected. Deeply. Legally. Financially. Spiritually."

The message was clear.

Touch her, and you'll bleed.

As they walked away, Amina's hands trembled.

Zayn noticed. "You okay?"

She nodded. "I thought seeing him would break me."

"And?"

"I just feel angry."

"Good," he said. "Let that anger sharpen you."

---

That night, as she removed her makeup in the dim bathroom light, Zayn leaned against the doorframe.

"You did well."

"I wanted to slap him."

He chuckled. "Next time."

She looked at him through the mirror. "Why are you doing this for me, really?"

Zayn walked in slowly, stopping behind her.

He stated, "Because I see myself in you." "At one time, I was also betrayed. Left for dead. Framed. I crawled my way out, and now..." he paused. "I ruin people quietly."

Amina turned. "And I'm your revenge tool?"

"No. You're my partner."

He leaned closer, voice low.

"And partners... protect each other."

She should've stepped away.

Instead, she leaned in.

Their lips met softly, then fiercely. Like the storm, they both were.

Not gentle.

But real.

Powerful.

Flawed.

Flawless.