Shadows of the Heart

A matte-black Mercedes-Maybach drifts through the campus gate like it owns the air itself. Tires scream once, sharp and arrogant, then the car glides straight into the reserved spot. No one overtakes. No one even thinks about it.

Because that license plate belongs to the one name this entire university fears: Zayn Abdullah Al-Mansour.

The door opens with a soft, expensive click. He steps out, and the world seems to pause just for him.

Black leather jacket hugging his shoulders, black shirt unbuttoned enough to flash the silver chain against his throat. Black jeans, limited-edition ankle boots that cost more than dreams. Undercut razor-sharp, one thick silver lion ring roaring on his finger. Every inch of him screams money, power, danger.

He shuts the door. The slam echoes like a warning shot.

Girls pretend to scroll, but their eyes stay glued. Guys suddenly remember they have somewhere else to be. Even the wind behaves.

He walks, slow, deliberate, like a king returning king surveying his kingdom, hands slid into pockets, shoulders relaxed, smirk lethal.

He stops dead center of the courtyard, tilts his head slightly, and lets that signature smirk spread.

“Miss me?” His voice cuts through the silence, low and bored and dripping with ice. “I’m back.”

The entire campus holds its breath.

The Ice King is home.

A girl steps out of the house in a soft cream abaya that flows like fresh milk, matching hijab pinned neatly, black niqab already in place. Only her eyes show: warm, gentle, a little nervous.

Maryam pauses at the doorway, bag slung over her shoulder.

“Ami, I’m leaving. Allah hafiz.”

From the kitchen comes her mother’s voice, thick with love. “Fi amanillah, meri jaan. Drive carefully, beta.”

Maryam whispers the dua for leaving the house under her breath, kisses the doorframe the way her mother taught her, and closes the door softly behind her.

Two figures are already waiting at the gate.

Hana, arms crossed, foot tapping. “Maryam! First day of university and you’re late as usual!”

Maryam’s eyes crinkle in an apologetic smile above the niqab. “Sorry, sorry, wallahi you know how Ami is…”

Sumayyah sighs dramatically, adjusting her own niqab. “Let’s move before her ‘five-minute story’ turns into another hour. Come on!”

The three girls link arms and hurry toward the bus stop, laughter mixing with the morning azaan still floating in the air.

Zayn leans against the low wall , one boot crossed over the other, thumb lazily scrolling his phone. The morning sun glints off the silver lion ring as he turns it absently.

Kareem jogs up, eyes wide, grinning like he just won the lottery. “Brooooo, did you see that new girl? 10/10, wallahi she—”

Zayn doesn’t even lift his gaze. “Not interested. Don’t waste my time with crap.”

Kareem throws his hands up. “Yaar, you’re never interested in anyone. At this rate you’ll die single, mark my words.”

Zayn finally looks up, voice low and bored. “I don’t want a participation certificate everyone gets to hold. I want the trophy so rare I’ll lock it behind a hundred veils.”

Kareem blinks. “Then you’re actually hopeless.”

Zayn shrugs, pockets his phone, smirk barely there.

High heels click-clack across the concrete. The university’s self-proclaimed queen (fake lashes, blood-red manicure, perfume strong enough to kill mosquitoes) stops right in front of him.

She reaches out, trailing one sharp nail along his jaw. “Oh Zayn, come on… date me once. I swear you’ll never forget it.”

Zayn catches her wrist mid-air and removes her hand like he’s discarding trash. His voice is pure ice.

“If you have a death wish, touch me again. And I don’t use things the whole world has already played with.”

She gasps, face turning the same shade as her nails. With an angry stomp she stomps away, heels echoing like gunshots.

Kareem clutches his head, half laughing, half terrified. “She literally served herself on a plate and you still rejected her. Bro, I’m speechless.”

Zayn pushes off the wall, eyes scanning the crowd without really seeing it.

“Speechless is good,” he mutters. “Means you’re learning.”

And he walks off, leaving Kareem shaking his head in the dust.

Zayn pushes open the carved wooden door of the villa without knocking; he never has to here.

Aunt Nahid spots him from the hallway and throws her hands up in delight. “Aré Zayn beta! After ages my prince finally shows his face!”

Zayn dips his head politely. “Khala, Taimur kahan hai(Aunt where is Taimur)?”

She laughs, the sound warm and teasing. “As always. You don’t come for your poor khala, you come for that useless cousin of yours.”

Zayn’s lips twitch, almost a smile. He nods once.

She jerks her chin toward the stairs. “Room mein hai, go.(He is in his room)”

He takes the steps two at a time, pushes open Taimur’s door without knocking, and drops into the gaming chair like he owns it. Taimur’s sprawled on the beanbag, headset half-on, mid-match.

Zayn silently picks up the spare controller.

Taimur glances sideways, doesn’t pause the game. “What happened now?”

Zayn exhales through his nose. “Bro, why don’t these girls get it? I’m not interested. Still they keep throwing themselves.”

Taimur snorts, eyes still on the screen. “Besides the fact that you look like that? You’re stupid rich. Rich enough to buy them a new personality if they wanted.”

Zayn leans back, thumbs already moving on the sticks. “That’s exactly why I hate that type.”

Taimur laughs under his breath. “You say that to every girl.”

Zayn shrugs, finally smirks. “And I mean it every time.”

They fall quiet, only the sound of gunfire and engines filling the room as the match restarts.

Just two cousins, one controller each, the rest of the world locked outside.

Maryam steps through the towering gates with Hana and Sumayyah, eyes wide behind her niqab. The campus spreads out like a palace: marble arches, glass buildings glinting under the morning sun, fountains sparkling like diamonds.

She whispers to herself, voice soft with wonder, “Finally… the last step to my dream.”

A shy smile curves beneath the fabric. She glances at her friends; they’re just as stunned. The three of them walk forward, lost in the beauty, until,

Thud.

Maryam stumbles straight into someone.

A sharp hiss slices the air. “Oh my God, my YSL heels!”

The girl in front of her bends dramatically to inspect her stiletto, then straightens, eyes narrowing into venomous slits when she sees the cream abaya and niqab.

“Look where you’re going, you clumsy penguin! Can’t you see? Oh wait,” she sneers, flicking Maryam’s niqab with one manicured finger, “throw this rag off your face and maybe you’ll actually see something. First time inside a real building, huh? I forgot you scholarship rats can’t even afford 1 % of this place.”

The courtyard goes quiet. Phones lift. People smell drama.

Maryam freezes, cheeks burning under the fabric.

Before Maryam can even breathe, Sumayyah steps forward like a shield, gently pushing Maryam behind her.

Sumayyah’s voice is calm steel. “Careful. The price of those heels is probably the same as your yearly personality budget. And let me remind you: clothes that can’t even hide your body aren’t called fashion, they’re called begging for attention. Alhamdulillah, we come from families rich enough to buy us hayaa and manners, not just designer tags with an attitude problem.”

She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to. Every word lands like a slap.

The bad girl’s mouth opens, closes, face turning redder than her lipstick.

Sumayyah links arms with Maryam and Hana. “Come on, girls. Some people’s perfume is expensive, but their character is still on clearance.”

The three of them walk away without looking back, heels clicking in perfect sync, leaving the girl fuming in the middle of a growing circle of whispers and stifled laughter.

Maryam’s heart is racing, but for the first time that morning, she feels something stronger than nerves.

She feels like she belongs here after all

A Note to My Velvet Crowners ♛

Assalamu Alaikum, my darlings, Wallahi, I can’t believe we’re finally here. The day I started writing Zayn & Maryam’s story, I was just a girl with a half-charged phone, too many feelings, and one dua: “Ya Allah, let this reach the hearts that need it most.” And somehow, He sent all of you. My Velvet Crowners. My queens in abayas and niqabs, my kings in thobes and hoodies, my night-owl readers crying at 3 a.m. with black screens and Arabic nasheeds. You made comment sections feel like sujood, turned every chapter update into Eid, and proved that halal love stories can break the internet just as hard as the haram ones.

This journey isn’t mine anymore; it’s ours. Every time you typed “wallahi my heart” or “next chapter or I riot,” you gave me wings to these characters. So this book, this pain, this healing, this “SubhanAllah it was her all along” moment; it belongs to every single Velvet Crowner wearing the crown of hayaa and still slaying the world.

Thank you for choosing modesty and still choosing fire. Thank you for trusting me with your tears. Thank you for making Zayn & Maryam immortal.

The Ice King and his hidden queen are only getting started… Stick around. The best nikah scene of your life is coming.

All my love, black hearts, and gold tears, From your author 🖤✨