Chapter 35: Her Strength, His Shelter

The house was quieter now, not because things had settled—but because everyone was learning how to breathe again.

The court battle had taken a toll on them all. Even Ezra, though just a year old, had sensed the heaviness in the air. His giggles had grown rare. His clinginess stronger. But tonight, for the first time in days, he slept soundly in his crib—his fingers wrapped tightly around Zoha's scarf.

Zafar leaned on the doorframe, watching her.

She had spent the whole day with Ezra, playing, singing, and smiling, even though he could see the tiredness beneath her eyes. But there was something else too—an unshakable grace in the way she moved, a quiet fire that reminded him:

She wasn't weak. She was wounded, yes—but still standing.

Later that night, they sat on the couch, a soft blanket draped over Zoha's lap, the fire flickering gently in the background.

"I want to go back to work," she said suddenly.

Zafar looked at her. "Back to the orphanage?"

"Yes. The children need me. And I need them too."

He nodded slowly. "What about the media?"

She smiled faintly. "Let them watch. Let them judge. If I hide, they win."

Zafar stared at her like he was seeing her for the first time. Not as someone he needed to protect—but someone who had protected him, over and over again, without asking for anything.

The next day, Zoha walked into the orphanage, holding her head high. Some people stared. Others whispered. But then—

"Miss Zoha!"

The children ran to her, hugging her legs, tugging at her arms, squealing in joy.

One little girl, barely five, clung to her waist. "I missed you. Don't go away again, okay?"

Zoha crouched down, holding her face. "I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart."

And just like that, her strength bloomed again—rooted not in silence, but in purpose.

Back home, Zafar was preparing something in secret. He had been working on it since the day the court case ended. Every night after Zoha went to sleep, he stayed up, making calls, finalizing papers, sketching out a plan.

He wanted to give her something. Not just gifts. Not flowers or diamonds or dresses. But something that said:

You matter.

He waited until she came home from work, cheeks glowing from laughter, hair messed by little hands that had hugged her all day.

He took her hand silently and led her outside.

A few blocks down from their home stood a small, old building. The windows were dusty, the paint faded.

"What is this?" she asked softly.

"It's yours," he said, placing the keys in her hand. "A center. For children without homes. For women with nowhere to go. I bought it for you. So you can build your own shelter. The one you never had. The one you gave me."

Her eyes filled with tears.

"Zafar…" she whispered, voice trembling.

"You gave me a second chance, Zoha. Let me give you one too."

That night, she cried in his arms—not because she was broken, but because someone finally saw her not as fragile... but as fearless.

They lay in silence, the kind of silence that feels full—not empty. He kissed her hair, his arms wrapped tightly around her.

"You're not what I survived," he murmured. "You're the reason I survived."

And for the first time in a long time, Zoha believed it.