Aiden left Italy with his family—bar Jordan, of course—a month after being rescued.
He would’ve liked to say that he was easily able to reclaim his old life in Boston, but that would’ve been a lie. He had missed two terms and returning to school was out of the question in the middle of the current term, so for the time being, he was pretty much confined to his parents’ house.
Considering that the house in question was guarded by a dozen security guards 24/7, Aiden soon started feeling like he really was confined. Locked up. Suffocated by his parents’ overprotectiveness.
“The bodyguards aren’t here for your sake, darling,” his mother had said when Aiden had brought it up. “They were assigned to us by Damiano in December, when Jordan started seeing him. Damiano doesn’t want us to be kidnapped and used against him by his enemies.”
Aiden wasn’t sure whether he believed her or not. Either way, he felt constantly watched even if he went for a walk. It didn’t help that the therapist his parents had found for him had strongly advised against giving him a phone.
“It’s not that we don’t trust you with a phone, Aiden,” his mother had said. “But Dr. Richardson said that limiting access to electronic devices would be beneficial for honest communication between us.”
Aiden had wanted to yell at her. He still did. He felt suffocated in his parents’ house in a way he hadn’t felt even in the first months in Zain’s house: at least he had been left to his own devices back then. Here he was watched constantly, and there was something wary in his parents’ eyes, as if he were a feral cat they had brought home and didn’t know what to expect from it. Aiden hated it, and he hated that he hated it.
He didn’t actually want to be resentful and miserable. He didn’t want to mope around and worry his parents. He wasn’t the moping kind. But his ability to feel joy seemed completely gone.
He just… he just…
He felt hollow on the inside, like he had swallowed a huge, cavernous nothing, and at the same time he felt like his insides were shrinking and curling around themselves, hungering for something that wasn’t there. The feeling was ever-present and ever-growing. Dr. Richardson had said that it was normal to feel post-traumatic depression and that it would get better once he reclaimed his old routine, but Aiden didn’t buy that. He didn’t feel traumatized.
“Then how do you feel, Aiden?” Dr. Richardson said.
Aiden gave a listless shrug. “Like a bird in a cage.”
She looked at him thoughtfully. “And you didn’t feel that way in the UAE?”
“The irony is,” Aiden said with a crooked smile, “he actually gave me more freedom than my parents do now.”
“He,” she repeated, a contemplative look in her eyes. “Is that how you think of him? He? Mr. Rahim? Or Zain?”
Aiden pursed his lips. “I already told you I don’t want to talk about him.”
“How do you expect to ever get better if you refuse to talk about the cause of your depression?”
“He isn’t the cause of my depression,” Aiden said, acutely aware of how unconvincing he sounded.
Sometimes he almost hated Zain. Hated him for turning him into this miserable, mopey person who craved him like he craved air. Zain had done this to him. It was as though Zain had contaminated him, infected him with a feverish sickness for which he was the only cure. He wanted—needed—Zain close. He wanted his body inside his. He wanted to feel his dark-brown eyes on him. He wanted his arms around him. He wanted to sleep against him, his ear pressed against the steady beat of his heart.
He wanted a lot of things he was never going to have again.
Dr. Richardson gave him a patient look. “Aiden, you can trust me, you know. I’m not going to tell your parents anything you tell me. They might be paying the bills, but I’m here to help you, not them.”
“You want to help me?” Aiden said. “Convince my parents to allow me a fucking phone. That would be a good start.”
Later that evening, Aiden stood outside Dr. Richardson’s office and listened to his parents’ argument with her.
“You were the one who told us not to allow him a phone!” his father said.
“It was my recommendation to limit his access to electronic devices, to make him talk to you. But you pushed him too far. He feels like you’re his jailers, not his parents. Buy him a phone and don’t monitor what he does.”
“But,” his mother said. “He might contact that man if we do it.”
“If he wants to, eventually he’ll find a way to contact him, no matter how many bodyguards you assign to him. By actively forbidding it, you’re only making him resent you instead of making him forget about that man.”
“But what if he does contact him?” his mother said plaintively.
Dr. Richardson sighed. “Frankly, it might actually do Aiden some good. The environment in which he developed his attachment to that man was very unusual. If he talks to him, it might help Aiden realize how far apart their real lives—and their real selves—are. It might give him the closure he needs.”
“But what if contacting that man makes things worse?”
“How?” Dr. Richardson said. “It’s been three months since he was rescued and your son isn’t getting better.” Her voice softened as she added, “I know you feel overprotective after what happened, but Aiden is not a child. The truth is, he lived with the man for nearly a year. While we don’t know what exactly transpired between them, the fact is, at least physically Aiden seems to have been treated well enough. A phone call wouldn’t break him.”
“She’s right,” his father said with a sigh. “I’ll get Aiden a phone.”
True to his word, his dad handed him a brand new iPhone the very next morning.
“Thanks, Dad,” Aiden said before running back upstairs, the box clutched in his hand.
It took him ten minutes to set up his phone, and it still felt like forever.
Once he was done, he stared at it, his body shaking with a terrible mix of excitement, longing, and trepidation.
To make things worse, he wasn’t even sure he would be able to get through to Zain. He hadn’t bothered to memorize his number, and trying to get to Zain through his company’s corporate numbers seemed like an impossible task.
But luckily, Aiden knew a person in the UAE who was easier to get in contact with than Zain was. Salma Abadi owned a prestigious spa and wellness center in Dubai—Aiden recalled Zain mentioning it in passing—and it was easy enough to find it on Google.
It still took Aiden a good twenty minutes before he was finally connected to Salma.
“Hello,” she said. “Who is this?”
Aiden licked his lips. “Hi, you probably don’t remember me—I’m Aiden. We met last year, when Sheikh Zain Rahim visited you—”
The woman chuckled. “Oh, I do remember you. You’re the kid Zain looked at like he couldn’t decide between putting a collar on you and strangling you.”
Aiden flushed. “I—lost Zain’s number. Could you please give it to me?”
“I could,” she said. “But I wouldn’t contact him right now if I were you, in light of recent events.”
“What recent events?” Aiden said, frowning. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t had the opportunity to Google Zain—he could have done it, regardless of his limited access to electronic devices. The truth was… he’d been scared to learn that Zain had easily moved on with his life—that Aiden had never mattered to him as much as Zain mattered to Aiden.
“You haven’t heard? His brother ran away just before his wedding. It’s been a shitstorm. Zain has been breathing fire ever since. The sacrifice he had to make to placate the President would infuriate anyone.” She sighed. “But to be fair, he’s been breathing fire for a few months now, ever since that terrorist attack on his house.”
Aiden swallowed. “Yeah, I heard about that. Is he okay?”
“Darling, it’s Zain. Who knows what’s going on in his head?” She snorted. “But I’d really stay away from him if I were you. He’s been scaring even me a little. He’s in a nasty mood these days.”
“Noted,” Aiden said. “But I really need his number.”
“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Here it is…” She rattled off the number, and Aiden hastily wrote it down.
“Thank you,” he said.
She chuckled. “Don’t thank me yet. Seriously, don’t call him now. He bit my head off last time I called him.”
That seemed like sound advice.
Sadly, Aiden was too weak to follow it.
He called.
He waited with bated breath, his heart beating in his ears and his stomach attempting to crawl out of his mouth.
Finally, on the fifth ring, Zain answered, barking something into the phone.
“Hi,” Aiden stammered. He hadn’t meant for it to come out so weak and shaky. It barely even sounded like him.
Zain said hoarsely, “Aiden?”
A whine building in his throat, Aiden pressed the phone closer to his ear, as though that would make him closer to him. Hearing Zain’s voice was like allowing a starved man to smell a feast but not allowing him to eat. “Yeah. I’m—how have you been?”
“How have you been,” Zain repeated flatly. “I’ve been busy hiring new people after you had all of my staff killed.”
Aiden lay down on his bed and hugged his pillow, pressing the phone even closer to his ear. He could hear Zain’s every breath that way. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend he was right there, behind him.
“I didn’t do it, you dick. It’s not my fault I was rescued.”
“Congratulations,” Zain said and hung up.
Aiden nearly cried—no, please, it wasn’t anywhere near enough. But then his phone rang. It was Zain. Aiden had never answered a call so fast.
“I don’t get something,” Zain said testily. “Why the hell are you bothering me after siccing your mafioso of a brother-in-law on me?”
Aiden frowned, utterly confused. “What? I don’t understand.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“You didn’t tell Damiano Conte to threaten me to stay away from you?”
“What? No!” Aiden scowled. “I told Damiano to leave you alone. I told him you didn’t do anything to me.”
Silence fell over the line.
“I definitely did something to you,” Zain said at last, very dryly. But his tone was softer now.
Aiden found himself smiling. “I miss you,” he blurted out before he could stop himself.
Silence.
He could hear Zain inhale deeply.
“I thought they’d cure you of that nonsense by now,” he said in a clipped voice.
Nonsense.
It was nonsense.
Of course it was. Had he actually expected Zain to say that he missed him too? That he wanted him back?
Aiden pressed his trembling lips together.
“They’re definitely trying,” he said, forcing lightness into his voice. “It hasn’t worked yet. But I’m sure it will soon enough.” I miss you. I wish you were here. I miss your weight on me, your arms around me, even your scent.
Aiden didn’t say any of that. He wanted to, but nonsense still stung.
“Probably,” Zain said tonelessly.
Silence fell again.
“It’s probably for the best that they took you away,” Zain said. His voice sounded rough. Stiff. “I wouldn’t have—” He cut himself off. “It’s a good thing they separated us.”
“Yeah,” Aiden said, closing his eyes. His throat ached. This felt like a goodbye. “Probably.”
Silence reigned again.
“You’ve lost weight,” Zain said.
“What? How do you even—Are you keeping tabs on me?”
“It’s easy enough for a man with my resources,” Zain said, irritation in his voice. Or was it defensiveness?
“I didn’t say it was hard,” Aiden said, smiling involuntarily. “But it’s sweet of you to care.”
“Sweet,” Zain repeated. “Some would call it stalking. You really need to get your head fixed.”
Aiden smiled helplessly. God, he missed him so much. So much. It felt like he was alive for the first time in months. Just hearing Zain’s voice was invigorating. “I probably do,” he said agreeably. “But in the meantime, I’m allowed to say all the nonsense a person in their right mind wouldn’t say. So I will. I miss you. I miss you so much.”
Zain inhaled audibly. And then he hung up.
Aiden blinked, his eyes suddenly burning.
But before he could wipe the stupid tears away, his phone rang again.
“I’ll be in the US next week,” Zain said. “I might find time to see you, but it’s a business trip.”
Aiden’s heart soared. “Right,” he said, smiling. “I had no idea you even had business here.”
He could practically see Zain’s dark eyes glowering at him.
“I’ll text you when I’m there.” Zain hung up again.
Grinning, Aiden hugged his pillow to his chest and screamed with joy.
“Aiden?”
Aiden froze.
He turned his head toward the door and found his mother watching him with a troubled frown on her face.
“You called that man, didn’t you?” she said.
“Yes,” Aiden said.
His mother’s lips thinned. “Aiden…”
“I know, Mom,” he said with a long-suffering sigh. “I know what you’re going to say. He’s bad for me, what I feel for him isn’t real, I should stay away from him, and so on and so forth.” He smiled, hugging his pillow. “I don’t care. He’s coming to the US next week, and I’m going to see him, just once. Please. Don’t ruin it for me.”
Looking pained, his mother closed her eyes and ran a hand over her face. “Aiden… That man should be in jail, not—”
“Mom.” Aiden got to his feet and moved to take her hands into his. “I know you’re worried, but I promise seeing him won’t hurt my recovery or whatever. I just need to see him. I need some closure. Please.”
She looked at him searchingly before sighing. “You’re not asking for permission.”
“I’m twenty-two years old, Mom. Of course I’m not asking for permission. But I’d like to have it. I don’t want to worry you.”
She shook her head. “Sweetheart…”
“Please, Mom.”
Her lips pursed tightly.
“All right,” she said at last. “But you will meet him in a public place where he can’t—where he can’t do anything to you. And you will take at least a few bodyguards with you.”
“All right,” Aiden said, beaming at her. Frankly, he would agree to pretty much anything, as long as he got to see Zain.
She shook her head, her eyes suddenly glistening with tears.
“What is it?” Aiden said, frowning again.
“It’s the first time you really smiled since you were returned to us,” she said, her voice strained. “I’m happy that you’re smiling again, but I wish it were for another reason, not him.”
Aiden didn’t know what to say to that.
So he said nothing.
Turning away, he couldn’t help but smile again.
He was going to see Zain soon.
That was the only thing that mattered.
