Wounded Heart ✔

Chapter - 12

The room felt heavier than the air outside. Silence pressed against the walls as though the house itself strained to hear what had long been buried. The crib—placed carefully near the window where sunlight filtered in—was a symbol, not of innocence, but of the bonds Amira had chosen for herself beyond blood. Her family downstairs would never understand that. They only understood power, duty, betrayal.

Amira ignored the shock etched across Lilian and Luke's faces. She moved with precision, setting the twins gently in the crib as if sealing them into a world untouched by the chaos circling her own. She did not flinch, she did not explain. She only turned, her steps measured, and sank into the bean bag at the center of the room, a queen on her throne of detachment.

The others scattered quietly, each finding their place around her as though instinctively recognizing the shift: this was her court, her sanctuary, not a space for idle chatter.

"So, Lily," Amira asked, voice steady, stripped of softness, "what is the custom I am meant to perform as their godmother?"

Luke answered in place of his wife, calm but firm. "In our family, the godparent has the right to name the children. Not the parents."

Her eyes widened, but not with joy. With calculation. "You mean it? That authority belongs to me?"

Lilian nodded. "Yes, Ami. It is tradition, and as their godmother, it falls to you."

For a moment, tears threatened—but Amira blinked them away before they could betray her. To them, it might have looked like emotion; to her, it was only the weight of responsibility pressing against her discipline. She would not allow herself to break. Not now. Not ever.

"Then so be it," she said at last, rising. "The girl shall be named Kyra Lilian Williams. And the boy, Sail Luke Williams."

From her pocket, she withdrew delicate chains embedded with stones, their glint catching the light. She fastened each around the fragile necks, claiming them with quiet finality.

"These are my gift to you," she murmured to the sleeping children, her voice clipped, almost cold. "From your godmother. One day you may understand what it means to carry a name."

She kissed their foreheads once, an action more ceremonial than tender, then straightened, mask firmly intact.

Ashwin broke the silence, his tone casual, though his eyes lingered too long on her. "Amira, I will meet you tomorrow evening. But now, I must leave—my mother is waiting."

"Good," Amira replied, relief unhidden in her voice. "Go."

The door closed behind him, and tension eased from the room like a rope pulled too tight. Her friends spread themselves across familiar corners, content in her space. Yet Maan did not move. His eyes burned into her, seeing past her mask.

"How are you, Ira?" His voice was measured, but his gaze demanded truth.

Her frown deepened. "I'm fine. You saw me three weeks ago."

Maan leaned forward, cutting her evasion with the sharpness of a blade. "Ira—how are you?"

Silence. Long, heavy, unrelenting.

When she finally exhaled, it was not relief but surrender. Not of her strength, but of her pretense.

"I understand," Amira said at last, her voice cutting through the heavy silence like glass splintering. "You all want to know what happened in the past month. That's why you're here. Not only for Kyra and Sail's ritual, but because Maan and the others thought it best for you to hear everything at once. Am I right?"

Her tone was steady, almost clinical. Yet the quiet fury in her eyes dared anyone to deny it.

Luke leaned forward, his voice calm but laced with gravity. "Yes, Ira. We've known you since you were fifteen. We've watched you grow, fight, and carry more than anyone your age should. And when we spoke with you two days ago... we knew. Something was breaking you. You just refused to say it."