His Heartless Soul (Under Major Editing and re-writing)

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Ayla's Pov:

Two weeks had passed since Uzair's conversation with me—two long weeks of overthinking, every possibility and question swirling through my mind. As if that wasn't enough, residency had proven to be far more difficult than I'd imagined. My desk was a sea of notes, all covered in neon yellow highlighter.

What could I do? Everything was too important not to highlight.

I absentmindedly flicked the business card Uzair had slipped into my coat pocket before I'd left that day, leaving without giving him a clear answer. My eyes kept darting between the phone number on the card and my phone, which was resting in my palm.

Don't do it, Ayla...don't text him.

But my father's situation was getting worse. The threats were becoming more relentless, and the latest one—a cyberattack targeting his political campaign—was impossible to ignore. Every computer screen in his office had gone black, except for one glaring message: Ayla

Maybe it wouldn't hurt to reach out to Uzair, just for more information?

"No, don't do it," I muttered to myself, groaning as I face-planted into my textbooks. I threw my phone onto the floor, trying to distance myself from the temptation, and returned to highlighting medical procedures I couldn't care less about at that moment. But my mind was racing. I couldn't focus. I needed answers.

With a sigh of defeat, I grabbed my phone off the floor and typed out a message before I could stop myself.

Me: It's Ayla. We need to talk.

I held my breath and hit send, immediately tossing my phone into my pillow, praying he wouldn't reply for at least a month. Just as I reached for my neon pink highlighter, a notification chimed.

My heart skipped. I fumbled to unlock my phone—stupid Face ID wouldn't work with my blue-light glasses on.

Uzair: I'll be at yours in an hour.

WHAT?! In an hour?!

I shot off my bed and did a frantic search of the house to make sure no one was home. Once I confirmed it was just the staff, I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror.

Oversized hoodie. Bright pink gym leggings. Hair barely contained in a messy bun. My crooked blue-light glasses hanging off my nose.

"Oh, God."

I'd spent half an hour checking if anyone was home instead of worrying about how I looked. Panicking, I rushed to my room, swapped the leggings for wide-leg jeans, pulled off my glasses, and yanked my hair free from the bun. As I brushed it out, I reached for lip gloss but froze.

*What am I doing?* I should make myself look ridiculous, not the other way around! Yet, something in me wanted to look presentable. I'd been trapped between hospital, gym, and these four walls for weeks. Part of me craved a social life, something more than just shadowy bodyguards following me everywhere I went.

Maybe marrying Uzair wasn't the worst idea after all.

I took a final glance in the mirror and gave myself a nod of approval. I looked casual and basic—just the way I wanted. Making my way down to the living room, I waited, my nerves on edge.

"Miss Malik, you have a visitor," Thomas, the doorman, announced. Yes, we had a doorman—ridiculous, I know.

"Thanks, Thomas. Let him in."

And there he was. Uzair walked in looking like he'd stepped off the cover of *Forbes*. A light grey suit, waistcoat, blazer draped over his arm. His shirt sleeves were rolled up just enough to show off those defined biceps. I quickly averted my gaze.