CHAPTER SEVEN
“The man behind the name.”
The following Saturday was supposed to be Zara's first day off.
Instead, she found herself standing in the Bellamy & Co. office at eight-thirty in the morning with a clipboard in one hand and an iced coffee in the other.
A charity brunch had been moved forward after another coordinator came down with the flu.
Camille needed volunteers.
Zara had needed the overtime.
So here she was.
"You sure you don't mind?" Camille asked as they loaded floral arrangements into a delivery van.
Zara smiled.
"I came to New York to work."
Camille raised an eyebrow.
"Careful what you wish for. Event planning isn't glamorous when you're carrying twenty-pound flower stands."
"I'll survive."
Camille laughed.
"I believe you."
The event was taking place at the Brooklyn Youth Community Centre, a renovated warehouse that had been transformed into a bright, welcoming space for local teenagers.
As soon as Zara stepped inside, she noticed something different.
There were no celebrities.
No luxury cars.
No photographers.
Children ran through the hallway carrying basketballs.
Volunteers arranged books in a small library.
A group of teenagers laughed loudly around a table covered in chess boards.
It felt...
Real.
"This is nice," Zara whispered.
Camille nodded.
"One of my favourite events every year."
"Who funds it?"
"You'll see."
An hour later, Zara was arranging name cards when applause erupted near the entrance.
She glanced up.
Malik Carter had just walked through the doors.
Except...
He wasn't dressed in an expensive suit.
He wore dark jeans, clean white trainers and a navy hoodie beneath a lightweight jacket.
The moment he entered, children rushed towards him.
"Mr. Carter!"
"Coach Malik!"
"You coming to the game later?"
One little girl threw her arms around his waist.
Malik laughed, lifting her effortlessly into the air.
"I thought you were supposed to be taller since last week."
"I am!"
"No, I think you've shrunk."
She giggled.
"You always say that."
"I'll keep saying it until you beat me at basketball."
Zara watched quietly from across the room.
This wasn't the polished businessman she'd met at the gala.
This wasn't the former kingpin everyone whispered about.
This was...
Different.
A teenage boy approached Malik carrying a school report.
"I got an A in maths."
Malik took the paper and read it carefully.
"You worked hard for this."
The boy grinned proudly.
"I told you I would."
Malik reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded envelope.
"I also told you there'd be a reward."
The teenager looked inside before his eyes widened.
"Front-row Knicks tickets?"
"You earned them."
The boy hugged him so tightly Zara thought they might both fall over.
Camille walked beside Zara.
"Told you."
"I've never seen anything like this."
Camille smiled.
"Most people haven't."
The brunch officially began just after eleven.
While guests found their seats, Zara carried fresh juice to one of the tables.
She turned the corner—
—and walked straight into someone.
Orange juice splashed across both of them.
"Oh my goodness!"
"I'm so sorry."
Zara looked up.
Malik stood there staring at the wet stain spreading across his hoodie.
For one second...
Then two...
Neither of them spoke.
Finally Malik looked down again.
"I was wondering how long it'd take before you tried to throw something at me."
Zara covered her mouth.
"I cannot believe I just did that."
"You've got impressive aim."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
She grabbed a napkin from the nearest table and began blotting the stain before suddenly freezing.
She was standing far too close.
Her hand rested against his chest.
Heat rushed into her face.
"I'm..."
She stepped back quickly.
"...sorry."
Malik looked at the growing orange stain and sighed dramatically.
"This was my favourite hoodie."
"It was?"
"No."
She narrowed her eyes.
"You're making fun of me."
"A little."
"You deserved that juice."
"I probably did."
They both laughed.
After the brunch, volunteers stayed behind to help clean the centre.
Zara carried folded chairs into a storage room.
When she returned, she found Malik wiping down tables.
"You know," she said.
"I assumed someone else would do that."
He looked confused.
"What?"
"The cleaning."
He shrugged.
"Why would they?"
"Because..."
She hesitated.
"I don't know."
"You thought I'd leave after the speeches."
"Maybe."
Malik smiled.
"My mother would've haunted me."
"Your mother sounds terrifying."
"She was."
"You said 'was.'"
He nodded quietly.
"She passed away three years ago."
Zara's expression softened.
"I'm sorry."
"So was I."
The familiar answer carried a different weight this time.
They worked in comfortable silence for a few moments.
Finally Malik spoke.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Depends."
"Why New York?"
Zara stacked another chair.
"I needed a fresh start."
"From?"
"My life."
He nodded.
"That's usually the hardest thing to leave."
She looked at him.
"You understand?"
"I understand more than most."
She wanted to ask about prison.
About gangs.
About everything she'd heard.
Instead she asked,
"Do people ever let you forget your past?"
Malik smiled without humour.
"Not really."
"Does it bother you?"
"It used to."
"And now?"
"I've realised something."
"What?"
"The people who matter judge me by who I am today."
He lifted another chair onto the stack.
"The rest were never really watching me anyway."
As the afternoon came to an end, Zara walked outside to wait for her taxi.
The community centre buzzed behind her.
Children waved goodbye to volunteers.
Parents thanked organisers.
Across the car park, she watched Malik kneel beside a teenage boy sitting alone on a bench.
The boy looked upset.
Malik didn't interrupt.
He didn't lecture.
He simply listened.
For almost fifteen minutes.
When the conversation ended, the boy stood and hugged him before walking away smiling.
Zara couldn't stop watching.
"You see it now?"
Camille's voice startled her.
"What?"
"Why people stay loyal to him."
Zara nodded slowly.
"I do."
Camille looked towards Malik.
"He's made mistakes."
"Serious ones."
"But every Saturday for the last seven years..."
"...he's been here."
"No cameras."
"No press."
"No interviews."
"He just shows up."
That evening, Zara returned home exhausted.
Miss Claudette was reading in the sitting room.
"Long day?"
"The longest."
"Good one?"
Zara smiled.
"I think so."
Miss Claudette looked over the top of her glasses.
"You saw him again."
"How do you know?"
"You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one where your opinions are changing."
Zara laughed.
"I still don't know him."
"No."
Miss Claudette closed her book.
"But today you saw something people can't fake."
"What?"
"How someone treats people who have nothing to offer them."
Those words stayed with Zara long after she went upstairs.
Later that night, she found herself standing by the window, watching the lights of Brooklyn shimmer against the dark sky.
Her phone buzzed.
Malik: I bought another hoodie.
She laughed.
Then another message arrived.
Malik: Although I might send you the dry-cleaning bill.
Smiling to herself, she typed back.
Zara: Only if you promise not to stand in the path of orange juice next time.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Malik: Deal.
For the first time in years, Zara fell asleep smiling.
She didn't realise it yet...
But somewhere between spilled orange juice, shared laughter, and quiet conversations, her walls had begun to crack.
And on the other side of those walls...
Malik Carter was waiting.
End of Chapter Seven.