Chapter 2 A husband with secrets

The honeymoon suite was larger than her entire childhood home.

Velvet curtains hung over floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city skyline, and a chandelier made of real crystal glowed softly above the king-size bed. Amina stood near the doorway, stiff, unsure if she belonged here or anywhere at all anymore.

Zayn tossed his jacket on a velvet couch and loosened his tie. He didn't speak right away. He just poured himself a drink from a sleek minibar and finally turned to her.

"You can sleep in the bed. I'll take the couch."

She stared at him, surprised. "You're not... expecting anything?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Did I say that?"

Her breath caught.

He stepped closer, holding her gaze. "But I'm not a monster. I married you for my own reasons. I'm not going to touch you unless you want it."

"And if I don't?" she asked.

"Then I wait," he said simply, sipping his drink. "Or I move on. I don't beg."

That was the first time Amina realised she was dealing with a different breed of man.

Not soft like Idris. Not fake-charming like his mother. Zayn was calm, powerful, and unreadable. His energy filled the room like smoke-intoxicating but dangerous.

"What are your reasons?" she asked, stepping closer. "You never said."

Zayn smiled. "Business."

"That's not an answer."

"That's all you need right now."

He finished his drink and lay down on the couch, kicking off his shoes. "Go to sleep. Tomorrow, we will start fixing your past."

She didn't sleep.

Not because she was afraid, but because, for the first time in years, her mind was alive.

Zayn wasn't just rich. He was powerful. That car, that penthouse, the way people bowed when he entered a room-all of it screamed influence. But no one seemed to know who he really was. No tabloids. No gossip. No social media.

It was like he existed in the shadows... and chose to stay there.

The next morning, she found him already dressed in a black turtleneck and slacks, sipping coffee like a CEO.

"We're going somewhere," he said.

"Where?"

"To meet someone who owes me a favour."

They drove out of the city into a secluded part of town she didn't recognise. High walls. Electric gates. A mansion twice the size of the Mfaume estate.

Inside, a man with grey hair and gold chains greeted Zayn with a nervous laugh.

"Zayn, my brother! You didn't say you were bringing a guest."

"She's my wife," Zayn said flatly. "Amina."

The man's eyes widened. "Wife? You?"

"Relax. She's not the reason I'm here." He sat, motioning for Amina to join. "I need a file. One that went missing ten years ago."

The man's smile faded. "You mean the Mfaume case."

Zayn nodded.

Amina's heart nearly stopped. "How do you know about that?"

"I know everything that touches the gold trade," Zayn said without looking at her. "That's how I knew your case was a setup. Your signature was planted."

She stared at him, speechless.

Zayn turned to the man. "Get me the employee list from 10 years ago. And the transport records. All of it. I want to know who profited from that missing gold."

"You think... someone else took it?" Amina whispered.

Zayn leaned in. "I know someone else took it. Your mistake was trusting people who smile too much."

He was right. Her mistake was believing Idris would protect her.

Later, back at the suite, she confronted Zayn.

"Why are you helping me?"

He looked up from his laptop. "Because I hate people who frame the innocent. Because you have fire in your eyes. And because revenge..." he stood slowly, "is best served with strategy."

She stepped back. "And what do you get out of it?"

Zayn's voice dropped. "Let's just say I have my own history with the Mfaume family. Helping you hurts them. That's enough for now."

"You're using me."

"Maybe," he admitted, stepping closer. "But you're using me too."

She couldn't argue.

That night, she dreamed of her prison cell. Of the cold floor. Of the screams from the other inmates. On the day she collapsed from hunger, no one came to help.

But this time, when she woke up, she wasn't crying.

She was burning.

With purpose.

She walked into the kitchen and found Zayn shirtless, making eggs, tattoos sprawled across his muscled back.

"You're cooking?" she asked.

He smirked. "I'm full of surprises."

Amina watched him silently. This stranger-this new husband-wasn't soft, but he wasn't cruel either. He gave her space. He listened. And when he looked at her, it wasn't with pity... but with respect.

Later that day, he handed her a phone. "Your name is clear. Officially. But the streets still whisper. So we're changing the story."

"How?"

"We give them something juicier than the past. We make them obsess over the present. You, rising from the ashes. My wife. A queen."

She raised an eyebrow. "You want to show me off?"

He stepped behind her, brushing her hair off her shoulder. "No. I want to announce it to you."

That afternoon, a photo of the two of them hit the media.

Zayn Karim, reclusive billionaire, married ex-convict Amina Yusuf in a secret wedding.

The internet exploded.

Some praised. Some judged. Some dug into her past.

But Zayn stood tall beside her.

And slowly, the whispers changed.

Now, they didn't say "thief."

They said, "Wife of a man who could ruin your life in one phone call."

She liked that.

For the first time in ten years, Amina wasn't running.

She was walking back into the fire.

This time, with gasoline in her hands.