CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“The House on the Hill.”
Thursday afternoon arrived with unexpected sunshine.
Zara was halfway through reviewing floral proposals when Camille appeared beside her desk.
"Do you have your notebook?"
Zara looked up.
"I always have my notebook."
"Good."
Camille smiled.
"You're coming with me."
"Where?"
"Site visit."
Thirty minutes later, Zara sat in the passenger seat of Camille's Mercedes as they drove through Brooklyn.
"Who are we meeting?" she asked.
Camille kept her eyes on the road.
"The Carter Foundation."
Zara looked out of the window to hide the smile threatening to appear.
"Oh."
"We're planning the annual scholarship gala."
"I thought that wasn't until next month."
"It isn't."
"But the venue belongs to Mr. Carter."
"So he likes to inspect everything himself."
Zara nodded.
"He seems very involved."
"He is."
Camille glanced at her.
"He never asks someone else to do something he wouldn't do himself."
Twenty minutes later they turned through tall black iron gates.
Zara expected another hotel.
Another office building.
Instead, they drove into a beautifully landscaped estate overlooking the East River.
It wasn't flashy.
There were no marble statues.
No fountains.
Just a restored Georgian mansion surrounded by ancient oak trees and immaculate gardens.
"This is his house?"
Camille smiled.
"No."
"It's the Foundation House."
"The Carter family donated it to the charity years ago."
Zara stared through the windscreen.
Children played football on the lawn.
Several teenagers sat beneath a tree doing homework.
Volunteers carried boxes into another building nearby.
It felt less like an estate...
...and more like a community.
"I wasn't expecting this."
"Most people don't."
Inside, the mansion had been converted into offices, meeting rooms and classrooms.
Photographs covered the walls.
Scholarship recipients.
Graduation ceremonies.
Youth sports teams.
Families.
Every picture told a different story.
"Miss Brooks."
Zara turned.
Malik walked towards them carrying two folders.
He wore navy chinos, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms and brown loafers.
No suit.
No security.
Just a warm smile.
"You made it."
Camille accepted one of the folders.
"We're here to measure the ballroom."
Malik looked at Zara.
"I was hoping you'd come."
She raised an eyebrow.
"You say that as though I had a choice."
"I know."
"I still hoped."
The ballroom occupied the rear of the building.
Sunlight poured through enormous windows overlooking the gardens.
"It's beautiful," Zara whispered.
Malik watched her take everything in.
"My mother loved this room."
"You've mentioned your mother a few times."
A small smile appeared.
"She bought this building before I ever thought I could."
"You mean..."
"It was hers."
He nodded.
"When she passed away, she left it to me."
Zara looked around again.
"You turned it into this?"
"It didn't feel right keeping it private."
"So now..."
"...it belongs to the community."
She smiled.
"I think she'd be proud."
For a moment Malik didn't answer.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.
"I hope so."
As Camille measured the ballroom with another coordinator, Malik offered Zara a tour.
"You've already seen the fancy part."
He led her down a corridor.
"I want to show you my favourite room."
She followed him into a modest library.
Books lined every wall from floor to ceiling.
Children's novels.
History books.
Biographies.
Poetry.
Reading corners filled the space.
A teenage girl sat quietly studying near the window.
She looked up.
"Hey, Mr. Carter."
"How's chemistry?"
She groaned dramatically.
"Still trying to ruin my life."
He laughed.
"You'll survive."
She smiled at Zara before returning to her textbook.
"You know everyone here."
"I try to."
"You remember everyone's names."
"I remember what it's like when nobody does."
The words settled heavily between them.
They stepped outside into the gardens.
A gentle breeze carried the scent of lavender and freshly cut grass.
"This place feels..."
Zara searched for the right word.
"...peaceful."
Malik nodded.
"That's why I kept it."
"You could've sold it."
"I know."
"You would've made millions."
"I've made enough money."
She looked at him curiously.
"What do you mean?"
He stopped walking.
"I spent years believing money fixed everything."
"It doesn't."
"What does?"
He smiled sadly.
"I'll let you know when I find out."
As they reached the edge of the garden, Zara noticed an old wooden bench overlooking the river.
"It has a plaque."
Malik looked at it.
EVELYN CARTER
She taught us that kindness is never wasted.
"Your mother?"
He nodded.
"She used to sit here every Sunday."
"What would she do?"
"Read."
"Pray."
"Tell me I was hard-headed."
Zara laughed softly.
"Was she right?"
"Oh, definitely."
She sat down on the bench.
"So..."
"What would she think of me?"
The question escaped before she realised she'd asked it.
Malik looked genuinely thoughtful.
"I think..."
He sat beside her.
"...she'd like you."
"You've never met my mother."
"I know."
"But I know the kind of people she loved."
He looked out over the river.
"People who didn't pretend to be someone else."
Zara swallowed.
No one had ever described her like that before.
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of tyres crunching over gravel.
A black SUV rolled slowly through the gates.
Malik's expression changed immediately.
The warmth disappeared from his face.
His shoulders stiffened.
"You alright?" Zara asked.
He didn't answer straight away.
Instead, he watched the vehicle until it disappeared around the side of the building.
Finally he said quietly,
"I need to deal with something."
His voice was polite.
Calm.
But different.
"I'll find Camille," Zara replied.
"I'm sorry."
"You don't have to apologise."
He looked at her for a second longer.
Then nodded once before walking quickly towards the offices.
Zara watched him disappear inside.
She had never seen him move with that kind of urgency.
An hour later, the site visit was over.
As Camille drove them back to Manhattan, Zara glanced back through the rear window.
Malik stood alone outside the mansion, speaking to two men in dark suits.
Even from a distance, she could tell the conversation wasn't friendly.
"Camille?"
"Hmm?"
"Who was in the black SUV?"
Camille was quiet for several seconds.
"I don't know."
"You don't believe that."
Camille sighed.
"There are parts of Mr. Carter's life that aren't my business."
She tightened her grip on the steering wheel.
"And if I were you..."
She glanced at Zara briefly.
"...I'd let him tell you about them himself."
That evening, Zara sat on the fire escape outside her bedroom.
The city glowed beneath the fading sunset.
Her phone remained silent.
No message from Malik.
For the first time since they'd met, he hadn't checked whether she'd made it home.
She tried not to let it bother her.
She really did.
But as darkness settled over Brooklyn, she couldn't stop thinking about the look on his face when that black SUV had arrived.
It wasn't fear.
It wasn't anger.
It was recognition.
And whatever—or whoever—had stepped out of that vehicle...
They belonged to a part of Malik's life that he hadn't yet invited her into.