The Mystery of Angelique's Death

"Why? Surprised, aren't you?".

Heendon's voice was laced with quiet triumph, her words slicing through the tense silence like a blade. She stood poised, her air one of calculated confidence, as though she had waited years for this very moment.

Dr. Zein's eyes narrowed, his sharp, assessing gaze raking over her, searching for any fissures in the façade. But there were none. She was unreadable a far cry from the timid young woman he had left behind.

Gone was the sweet girl from Kuwait, the one who had once been his 'contract wife', a mere pawn in his shadowy mission.

The woman before him now, Heendon Zareema, carried herself with the quiet authority of someone who had seen the world's darkness and survived it.

She was no longer a name in his ledger of regrets, she was a storm he could neither anticipate nor quell.

Unbidden, memories of 2010 began to stir. Kuwait had been a sweltering chessboard of espionage and deceit, and he, a master player, had moved her into position without hesitation.

At twenty, she had been an innocent, untouched by the complexities of his clandestine world. Their marriage, a thinly veiled pretext, was but a tool to serve his mission.

When the game concluded, he had whisked her to Serbia, only to vanish as though their shared history were smoke dissipating into the wind.

She had loved him. Of that, he was now certain. And he had left her with nothing but the ghosts of unspoken promises.

"How is it," Dr. Zein asked at last, breaking the strained silence, "that you came to learn my language?"

"I was your wife," she replied, her tone light yet cutting, as though the answer were self-evident. "Is it so strange for a wife to learn her husband's tongue?"

Her words carried the faintest edge, but her face betrayed nothing.

Dr. Zein faltered, a rare moment of uncertainty. "Heendon… you must understand. What happened between us..." he paused, exhaling slowly as though the words burned on his tongue, "..it was a mistake."

"For you, perhaps," Heendon said, her voice steely, "but not for me."

She stepped closer, her small frame defying its stature. Her dark eyes, alight with a quiet fire, pinned him in place. "If I hadn't loved you," she continued, her voice soft but unyielding, "why would I have joined the organisation? Why would I have come here, to this room, to stand before you now?"

Dr. Zein stared at her, speechless.

"I can hardly believe it," she murmured, her lips curving into a wistful smile. "Your face.. it's the same as I remember. Not a line, not a shadow of age. If anything, you've only grown more…" she hesitated, the faintest crack in her voice, "more striking."

"What do you want, Heendon?" Dr. Zein voice, once so composed, was now clipped, brittle.

"Want?" she repeated, almost amused. "Nothing. I've only come to visit my dear husband."

"Don't twist this into something it isn't," Dr. Zein snapped, his patience wearing thin. "I've..."

"Ah, you mean Zelena? Or Zara? Or perhaps your sister?" she interjected, her words as precise as a surgeon's scalpel.

Dr. Zein froze, his breath catching in his throat. His composure, the armour he wore so well, cracked. "How… how do you know about them?"

"That," Heendon said lightly, "is unimportant." Her tone shifted, steel beneath velvet. "What matters is that you acknowledge me. I was your first wife, wasn't I? Even if it was a farce. Angelique, for all her beauty, was only your second."

"Enough!" Dr. Zein voice ricocheted through the room, but she stood unmoved, her calm a mirror to his storm.

"Tell me," she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "Don't you want to know who poisoned Angelique?"

The words struck Dr. Zein like a physical blow. His lips parted, but no sound emerged.

"Poisoned?" he finally managed, his voice hoarse. "What are you saying?"

"You didn't know?" she asked, her incredulity genuine. "After all this time?"

"What do you know?" Dr. Zein's voice rose, desperation creeping in. His hands gripped her shoulders, his knuckles white. "Tell me everything."

"Control yourself!" she snapped, shaking him off. "You're hurting me."

She took a step back, composing herself. Slowly, methodically, she began to recount the story, the dark threads of betrayal, the unseen hands that had taken Angelique from him. As she spoke, Dr. Zein's world unravelled.

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2016

(Knock, knock)

The knock at the door was soft but insistent. The hour was mid-morning, and the aroma of freshly baked bread lingered in the air. Angelique, her auburn hair pinned back, bustled to answer it, her hands still dusted with flour.

"Who is it?" she called, her voice melodic. "Just a moment!"

Opening the door, she was greeted by an older gentleman, his attire impeccable, his manner deferential.

"Good morning, Mrs. Zein," he said, inclining his head slightly.

"Oh, it's you," Angelique said warmly. "Do come in."

"There's no need to trouble yourself," he replied, producing a small vial from his pocket. Inside was a single, pale-blue pill. "Dr. Zein asked me to deliver this. He mentioned it was for your digestion and that you should take it immediately."

Angelique accepted the vial, her expression curious. "Thank you. It's just the one?"

"Indeed," the man confirmed with a polite smile. "A special formulation."

With that, he turned and departed, the door clicking shut behind him.

Outside, his polite demeanour melted away. His lips curled into a sinister smile, his footsteps echoing faintly as the morning breeze carried away his dark chuckle.

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Present Day

Dr. Zein sank to the floor, his head bowed, his hands trembling. Tears coursed down his face, silent yet unrelenting. The truth hung in the air like a noose. Angelique had not succumbed to illness. She had been murdered.

"It's all clear now, isn't it?" Heendon's voice was soft, almost tender. "Even the motives."

But he could not answer. Grief and fury warred within him, rendering him mute.

"Come now," she urged, her tone hardening. "Where's the man I once knew? The Filzev who would never let anything or anyone stand in his way?"

Zein rose slowly, his frame towering, his shoulders squared. When he spoke, his voice was cold, deliberate. "Filzev is nothing. I am Zein El-Ghifari. If Filzev was ruthless, then Zein El-Ghifari is cruelty made flesh."

Thunder growled in the distance as the lights flickered. In the flashes of lightning, his face appeared carved from shadow, his greenish-brown eyes alight with something primal.

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Elsewhere

Rain hammered down as the gardener worked, his figure hunched against the storm.

"Look at that one," a guard muttered from a nearby window. "Working through this weather. They say he's a foreigner."

The gardener glanced up, grinning broadly. He waved, his gesture cheerful, harmless.

Inside, however, his mind was alive with darker thoughts. 'Oh, how sweet this is, he mused, his smile sharpening. Soon, you'll all play your part'.

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