Page 34 of Oliver
Eleven
OLIVER
I staredat the king-sized monstrosity dominating the center of the honeymoon suite, the scattered rose petals a mocking splash of red against the pristine white sheets.
The contract folder sat useless on the dresser. There were no clauses, no contractual loopholes that could make this acceptable.
One bed. With Zahra.
My watch read 10:32 PM, the day’s chaos—family, the kiss, Parisa’s upgrade, and now this—pressed down on my chest like atmospheric compression.
Orbital decay. The slow, inevitable lowering of an object's path until it crashes into the body it had been circling.
I kept my tone neutral, a scientist addressing a variable. “We’ll call the front desk. Get another room.”
Zahra winced, twisting the keycard between her fingers. “The hotel is booked solid for the wedding. I’m guessing Parisa swapped us with her friend who was supposed to stay in thisroom.” Then, almost apologetically, she added, “Plus, it’ll look weird to our family if we do that.”
My pulse ticked, irritation mixing with something sharper.
Right. Our story was only as strong as our actions made it.
"I could sleep on the couch," I suggested, though we both knew it was too small even for Zahra, barely qualifying as a loveseat.
"Don't be ridiculous." Zahra sighed, pushing her hair behind her ear. "The bed is huge. We can share it."
Like it was that simple.
Her practicality did nothing to ease the tightness winding through my chest, the feeling that I'd just stepped into zero gravity with no anchor.
Sharing a bed with Zahra had not been part of our agreement. It hadn't been factored into my calculations. It certainly hadn't been war-gamed in my mental preparations for this trip.
"Well," I shrugged, mechanically unpacking my suitcase to give my hands something to do. “There’s always the floor.”
The truth was, I'd slept in worse conditions than on a lush carpet. But Zahra was having none of it.
“Absolutely not.” She crossed her arms, acting offended on my behalf.
I hesitated—just a fraction of a second, a hairline fracture in my carefully structured logic. My pulse ticked, a warning signal. I ignored it.
“We could always construct a pillow wall,” I said, half joking, but the second the words left my mouth, I realized it wasn’t a bad idea.
“Oliver, that’s brilliant.” Zahra was already gathering extra pillows from the closet before I could form a plan.Of course, she was on board. "A pillow wall down the middle of the bed. You stay on your side; I stay on mine."
The solution was so childishly simple I almost smiled. Almost.
Bed pillows. Throw pillows. Blankets. Sofa cushions. As if cotton and down were a sufficient barrier that could keep me on my side, keep me from acknowledging the fact that she was right there.
I started stacking them, each one lined up with precision, while Zahra worked beside me—a little too fast, a little too eager, like momentum was the only thing keeping her from thinking too hard about what we were doing.
When the first layer was built, she sat back on her heels, studying the structure with a tilted head and a tiny crease in her brow.
"This’ll work," I said, adding another throw pillow to our fortress of fluff.
Zahra nodded, but her fingers curled into the edge of a duvet like she wasn’t quite convinced anymore.
“You’re overthinking it.”
“And you’re pretending this is normal,” she shot back.
