The first call came just after sunrise.
Zara was awake already, lying still on the wide bed in Adrian's penthouse, staring at the ceiling as pale morning light filtered through the curtains. Sleep had come in fragments—short, restless stretches filled with half-formed thoughts and unresolved emotions. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
She reached for it slowly.
Mum.
Zara exhaled before answering. "Good morning, Mum."
"Good morning, my dear," her mother said, her voice warm but carrying that familiar undertone Zara had learned to recognize since childhood—the tone that meant something important was coming. "I hope you're awake."
"I am," Zara replied, sitting up.
"I had a dream about you last night," her mother continued. "You were standing at a crossroads, and everyone was calling your name from different directions."
Zara closed her eyes briefly. "What kind of dream is that?"
"The kind that means pressure," her mother said gently. "Pressure from family. From life. From the future."
Zara swallowed. Even from hundreds of miles away, her mother always seemed to know when something was wrong.
"Are you happy, Zara?" her mother asked softly.
The question settled heavily in the air.
Zara hesitated. Happiness used to feel like a simple thing—ambition, independence, purpose. Now it was tangled with love, doubt, secrets, and expectations she hadn't planned for.
"I don't know," she admitted.
Her mother sighed. "You're twenty-seven. People are asking questions."
Of course they were.
Aunties, church members, neighbors—everyone who had watched Zara grow up now felt entitled to timelines and explanations. Career success had bought her admiration, but it had not silenced the deeper, more invasive questions.
"Is there someone?" her mother asked.
Zara's fingers tightened around the phone. Images of Adrian flooded her mind—his guarded expressions, the way he reached for her without thinking, the silence he wrapped himself in when emotions became too close.
"Yes," Zara said quietly. "There is."
Her mother paused. "Is he serious?"
Zara didn't answer immediately.
"I think so," she said finally. "But things are… complicated."
"Love is always complicated," her mother replied. "But it shouldn't make you feel small or uncertain all the time."
The words struck deeper than Zara expected.
"I'm not small," Zara said quickly, almost defensively.
"I didn't say you were," her mother replied gently. "I said love shouldn't make you feel that way."
Zara looked around the room—the expensive furniture, the view of the city, the life that looked perfect from the outside. And yet, uncertainty followed her everywhere.
"We just want to know you're not wasting your heart," her mother continued. "And your time."
After they ended the call, Zara sat quietly for a long moment, her chest tight. Family pressure was subtle, rarely loud, but it seeped into every thought like water finding cracks in stone.
She hadn't even had time to process that call when her phone buzzed again.
This time, it was her aunt.
Then a cousin.
Then a message in the family group chat—photos from a recent wedding, captions full of smiling emojis and thinly veiled hints.
Zara muted the chat.
By the time Adrian emerged from the bedroom, freshly showered and dressed for work, Zara was standing by the window, arms crossed.
"You're up early," he said, adjusting his cufflinks.
"So are you," she replied without turning.
He studied her reflection in the glass. "Something wrong?"
She hesitated. "My family called."
Adrian stiffened slightly—so subtle most people wouldn't notice. Zara noticed everything.
"And?" he asked.
"They're asking questions," she said. "About my life. About… us."
Silence stretched between them.
Adrian walked closer, stopping a few steps away. "What did you tell them?"
"That there's someone," Zara replied. "That things are complicated."
He nodded once. "That's accurate."
The word accurate irritated her more than it should have.
"They want to know where this is going, Adrian," she said, finally turning to face him. "They want to know if I'm serious about someone who's serious about me."
His jaw tightened. "Family pressure can be intense."
"That's not an answer."
"I know," he said. "But it's still true."
Zara sighed, rubbing her temples. "I'm not asking you to propose. I'm asking you to acknowledge that this—whatever this is—is real enough to face questions."
Adrian looked away, pacing toward the kitchen. "You know my family situation isn't simple."
"I'm not asking about your family," Zara replied. "I'm asking about you."
He poured coffee, his movements controlled, precise. "I don't like being pushed."
"And I don't like feeling like a secret," she said quietly.
That made him stop.
"You're not a secret," Adrian said.
"Then why does it feel like I'm standing alone every time the future comes up?" Zara asked.
He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he leaned against the counter, shoulders tense. "Because I'm still figuring things out."
Zara laughed softly, without humor. "We're always figuring things out, Adrian. That doesn't mean we don't choose."
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning.
At work later that day, Zara found no escape.
Her office buzzed with excitement—colleagues whispering about promotions, engagements, weekend plans. Someone had brought cake to celebrate an engagement announcement.
"Zara, you're next," one of her coworkers joked, nudging her lightly.
She smiled politely, but inside, the pressure mounted.
During lunch, her phone buzzed again.
This time, it was Adrian's mother.
Zara stared at the screen, heart racing. She hadn't expected that. Not today.
She answered cautiously. "Hello, ma'am."
"Zara," Mrs. Blackwood said warmly. "I hope I'm not calling at a bad time."
"No, not at all," Zara replied.
"I wanted to invite you to dinner this weekend," she said. "Family dinner."
Zara's breath caught. "Family dinner?"
"Yes," Mrs. Blackwood continued. "Adrian mentioned you'd been very busy lately. I thought it would be nice to have you over. Properly."
Properly.
The word echoed in Zara's mind.
"I'll need to check my schedule," Zara said carefully.
"Of course," Mrs. Blackwood replied. "But do let me know. Some conversations are better had face to face."
After the call ended, Zara sat frozen at her desk.
Family pressure—from her side and his—closing in from every direction.
That evening, when she told Adrian about the invitation, his reaction was immediate.
"She called you?" he asked, surprise flashing across his face.
"Yes," Zara replied. "She invited me to a family dinner."
He ran a hand through his hair. "I didn't expect her to move that fast."
Zara folded her arms. "Is that a problem?"
"No," he said quickly. "It's just… complicated."
"There's that word again," Zara said. "Everything with you is complicated."
Adrian met her gaze. "You think this is easy for me?"
"I think you're used to control," Zara replied. "And family—mine or yours—threatens that control."
The truth in her words unsettled him.
"You don't know everything I'm dealing with," Adrian said.
"And you don't tell me," Zara shot back. "That's the problem."
The argument simmered, not explosive, but sharp and exhausting. The kind that left more questions than answers.
Later that night, Zara lay awake again, staring into the darkness.
She thought of her mother's gentle concern, her aunt's not-so-subtle hints, Adrian's mother's invitation, and Adrian's hesitation.
Everyone wanted something from her.
But what did she want?
She wanted love without hiding.
She wanted certainty without pressure.
She wanted a future that didn't feel like a battlefield between families, expectations, and unspoken fears.
As sleep finally crept in, one thought refused to let go:
How long could love survive under this much pressure?
Will Zara choose her family's expectations, or will Adrian finally step forward before the pressure pulls them apart?
What would you do in her place?
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