Chapter 5: Nadia Watches Through the Crack
The door clicked shut behind her.
Amara stood in the corridor, her back against the cool wood, her breath still uneven. The taste of him lingered on her tongue—salt and whiskey and something darker. She could feel him trickling down her inner thigh, warm and wet, evidence of what they'd done.
She should go to the nursery. Layla would be waking soon, hungry and fussing, and the night nurse would be expecting her.
But her legs wouldn't move.
She pressed her palm flat against her stomach, feeling the subtle ache deep inside—the places he'd stretched, the walls he'd bruised. Every breath reminded her. Every heartbeat.
The hallway stretched before her, dim and silent. To her left, the stairs leading down to the nursery. To her right, the closed door of his bedroom—the room she'd never entered, the room Nadia had warned her about.
She wasn't supposed to be here.
She was supposed to be downstairs, tending to the baby, keeping her distance, remembering her place.
But her place had shifted. Everything had shifted.
Amara pushed off the wall and walked toward the stairs. Her hand found the railing, and she descended slowly, each step sending a fresh throb through her battered body. The house was quiet at this hour—the staff gone, Nadia asleep in her wing, the only sound the soft hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen below.
She reached the nursery and eased the door open.
Layla was awake.
Not crying, just lying in her crib with her dark eyes open, staring at the shadows on the ceiling. She turned her head when Amara approached, and something in her tiny face softened—recognition, maybe, or just the instinctive knowledge that food was near.
"Hello, little one," Amara whispered, lifting her.
The baby nuzzled against her chest, mouth working, and Amara settled into the rocking chair. She unfastened her dress, guided Layla to her breast, and winced as the baby latched on. Her nipples were raw—Karim had sucked them hard, bitten them, left them tender and swollen—but she breathed through the pain, stroking Layla's dark hair.
The night nurse, a quiet woman named Fatima, appeared in the doorway.
"You're back," she said.
"I'm back."
"I can take over if you need to rest."
"I'm fine."
Fatima hesitated, her gaze flickering to Amara's neck—to the marks there, the red blooms of passion that no amount of hair could hide. She said nothing. Just nodded and retreated, closing the door behind her.
Amara rocked slowly, eyes fixed on the window. Outside, the city glittered—a thousand lights, a million lives, none of them hers. She was a ghost in this house, a woman who existed only to feed a child and warm a bed.
But she wasn't a ghost. Not anymore.
She was alive. She was sore. She was wanted.
The thought terrified her.
---
Karim didn't come to her that night.
She waited—in the nursery, then in her own small room, then back in the nursery again—but the door never opened, the footsteps never came. She told herself she was relieved. She told herself she needed rest.
She didn't sleep.
At dawn, she rose and dressed and went through the motions of her day. Feed Layla. Bathe Layla. Sing to Layla. Smile at the staff. Avoid Nadia's knowing gaze.
The house felt different now. Tighter. Like a held breath.
At noon, a car pulled into the drive.
Amara was in the kitchen, preparing a bottle for Layla, when she heard the engine. She looked out the window and saw a black sedan, sleek and expensive, parked in the circular drive. Two men emerged—bodyguards, by the look of them—and then a woman.
She was tall. Elegant. Dressed in a cream-colored suit that probably cost more than Amara's entire wardrobe. Her hair was dark and straight, cut in a sharp bob, and her face was beautiful in a cold, calculated way—high cheekbones, full lips, eyes that missed nothing.
Samira.
Amara's stomach dropped.
She set down the bottle and wiped her hands on her apron, her heart hammering. This was it. The woman who held Karim's contract. The woman who could take everything away.
The front door opened. Voices murmured in the foyer—Nadia's clipped tones, Samira's smooth responses. Then footsteps, approaching the kitchen.
Amara turned just as Samira appeared in the doorway.
She was even more striking up close. Flawless skin. Diamond earrings that caught the light. A smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"You must be Amara," she said.
"Yes."
"The wet nurse."
"Yes."
Samira's gaze swept over her—slow, deliberate, taking in the simple dress, the braided hair, the tired eyes. Her smile widened.
"Karim told me about you."
Amara's throat tightened. "He did?"
"He said you've been wonderful with Layla. That she's thriving under your care."
"She is."
"Good." Samira stepped closer. "I wanted to meet you. To see for myself."
"See what?"
The smile sharpened. "What makes you so special."
Amara didn't flinch. She'd been looked down on before—by her ex-husband, by his family, by everyone who'd ever thought her circumstances defined her worth. She knew how to weather contempt.
"I'm not special," she said. "I'm just a nurse."
"Mm." Samira circled her slowly, like a cat sizing up prey. "That's what I thought at first. But Karim has been... different lately. Distracted. And my sources tell me he's been spending time with you."
"I care for his daughter. That's all."
"Is it?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and sharp. Amara held Samira's gaze and said nothing. Silence was safer than lies.
Samira stopped in front of her. "I'm going to be honest with you, Amara. I don't like you. I don't like the way Karim looks at you. I don't like the fact that you're here, in his house, taking care of his child as if you have any right to her."
"I have every right to her. I'm her wet nurse."
"You're a temporary solution to a permanent problem." Samira's voice dropped. "And I'm the permanent solution. I'm the contract. I'm the family alliance. I'm the future of this house. You're just... a phase."
Amara's hands clenched at her sides. "If that's true, then why are you here? Why are you threatened by a phase?"
Samira's eyes flashed. For a moment, the mask slipped—something ugly beneath the polish.
"Careful," she murmured. "You're not as safe as you think you are."
"I'm not afraid of you."
"You should be."
Footsteps in the hallway. Karim appeared in the doorway, his expression unreadable, his gaze moving from Samira to Amara and back again.
"Samira," he said. "I didn't expect you until tomorrow."
"I decided to come early." She turned to him with a brilliant smile, all warmth and charm. "I wanted to surprise you."
"You succeeded."
His eyes found Amara. Held. Something passed between them—silent, electric, undeniable.
Samira noticed. Her smile tightened.
"I was just getting to know your wet nurse," she said. "She's charming."
"Is she?"
"Very. I can see why you've kept her around."
Karim's jaw ticked. "Amara, would you give us a moment?"
"Of course."
She moved to leave, but Samira's hand caught her arm—nails digging into her skin.
"Wait," Samira said. "I have a question."
Amara stilled.
"How long do you plan to stay? Here, in this house, nursing someone else's child?"
The question was a blade, and it found its mark. Amara felt it twist—the reminder that Layla wasn't hers, that Karim wasn't hers, that she was nothing but a servant in someone else's story.
But she didn't bleed. Not visibly.
"As long as I'm needed," she said.
"And when you're not needed anymore?"
"Then I'll leave."
Samira released her arm. "Good. I'm glad we understand each other."
Amara walked past Karim without looking at him. She felt his gaze on her back—burning, desperate—but she didn't turn. She couldn't.
She made it to the nursery, closed the door, and leaned against it, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
Layla was asleep in her crib, tiny chest rising and falling. Amara crossed the room and knelt beside her, resting her forehead on the crib rail.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."
She didn't know what she was apologizing for. For being here. For staying. For falling in love with a man who could never be hers.
Because she was falling. She'd known it last night, when he'd kissed her forehead and told her she made him feel alive. She'd known it this morning, when she woke up alone and ached for him.
She loved him.
And it was going to destroy her.
---
The day passed in a blur.
Samira stayed for lunch, sitting at the long dining table with Karim and Nadia, her laugh echoing through the halls. Amara ate in the kitchen with the staff, her food untouched, her mind elsewhere.
Through the wall, she could hear Samira's voice—bright and brittle, performing the role of the devoted fiancée. She talked about the wedding, about the contract, about the future. She talked about Layla, about how she couldn't wait to be a mother.
Amara's stomach turned.
That evening, she bathed Layla and put her to bed. Then she retreated to her small room and lay on the narrow cot, staring at the ceiling.
The house was quiet. Samira had retired to the guest wing. The staff had gone home. Nadia had bid her goodnight with a look that said everything and nothing.
Amara closed her eyes.
She was almost asleep when the door opened.
He didn't knock. He didn't speak. He just crossed the room in three long strides and climbed onto the cot, his body covering hers, his mouth finding her neck.
"Karim—"
"I can't stop." His voice was ragged. "I tried. I told myself to stay away. But I can't."
She should push him away. She should tell him this was wrong, that Samira was here, that they'd be caught.
But her hands were already in his hair, pulling him closer.
"She's in this house," Amara whispered.
"I know."
"She could find out."
"I know."
"Then what are you doing?"
He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were wild—burning with something she'd never seen before.
"I'm choosing you," he said. "Fuck the contract. Fuck the family. I'm choosing you."
The words hit her like a blow. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
"Karim—"
"Shut up." He kissed her—hard, bruising. "Shut up and let me have you."
He flipped her onto her stomach.
Amara gasped, her body bracing against the thin mattress. His hands found her hips, yanked her up onto her knees, and she felt the cold air hit her exposed cunt.
"Look at you," he breathed. "Still swollen from last time. Still wet for me."
"I'm always wet for you."
"Cheeky."
His hand cracked against her ass—sharp, stinging—and she cried out. The pleasure was instant, electric, a bright bloom of heat that spread through her entire body.
"Again," she said.
"Beg."
"Please—"
He slapped her other cheek. Then again. Then a third time. Each blow sent fresh fire through her, and she whimpered into the pillow, her thighs shaking.
"Please, Karim. Please."
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me. Please put your cock in me. I need it—I need you—"
He grabbed her braid.
Wrapped it around his fist like a leash and pulled, arching her back, forcing her head up. She could barely breathe, barely see, the world narrowing to the pressure on her scalp and the emptiness between her legs.
"Look at yourself," he said. "Look at what I've turned you into."
She couldn't see anything but the wall. Couldn't feel anything but the ache, the need, the desperate hunger.
"Please—"
He pushed in.
One brutal stroke. No warning. No mercy.
The stretch was apocalyptic. He split her open—wide, deep, impossibly full—and she screamed into the pillow, the sound muffled but raw.
He didn't pause.
He pulled out to the tip and slammed back in. Then again. Then again. Each thrust drove the breath from her lungs, rattled her teeth, made stars burst behind her eyes. He was so deep she could feel him in her throat.
"Fuck," he groaned. "Fuck, you're so tight. So fucking tight around me."
"You're—" she gasped. "You're too big—"
"You can take it. I know you can."
He yanked her braid again, pulling her head back so far her neck strained. Then he released it and grabbed her hips, fingers digging into the bruises from last night, and fucked her in earnest.
The pace was punishing.
Relentless.
Brutal.
He was a man possessed—driven by something primal, something desperate. She could feel it in every stroke—the need to claim her, to mark her, to brand her as his in a world that insisted she wasn't.
"You don't get to come," he said.
"What—"
"Not yet."
He slid his hand between her legs. Found her clit and rubbed—rough, fast circles that sent lightning up her spine.
"Please—"
"You don't get to come until I say so."
"Karim—"
"I said no."
She sobbed. The pleasure was unbearable—the stretch, the friction, the pressure building low in her belly—and she needed release more than she needed air.
"Please. Please let me come."
"No."
She was failing. Falling apart. Her orgasm was right there, a bright, burning thing just out of reach—and he pulled out.
She screamed. Not into the pillow this time—a real scream, loud and raw and desperate.
"Fuck you," she spat. "Fuck you, Karim."
He laughed. Low and dark and wicked.
"That's not very nice."
"I don't care. I don't—"
He slapped her ass. Hard.
"You don't what?"
"I don't—" She choked on a sob. "I don't know. I don't know anything. Please. Please, I need to come."
"Beg me properly."
"I'm begging you. I'm on my knees, I have your handprint on my skin, I have your cock in my—"
He thrust back in.
She screamed again. Not words this time—just sound, raw and animalistic.
He fucked her harder. The headboard slammed against the wall. The mattress creaked. The whole room seemed to shake with the force of it.
"That's it," he grunted. "Take it. Take all of it."
"You're going to break me—"
"Good. I want to break you."
He grabbed her braid again. Pulled. And reached around to rub her clit.
"Come."
"Not yet—"
"Come now. I'm not going to stop until you do."
The orgasm hit her like a freight train.
She shattered around him—screaming, convulsing, her body clenching so hard he had to fight to stay inside her. The pleasure was so intense it was almost pain, a white-hot supernova that burned through every nerve ending.
"Yes—yes—yes—" she was babbling, sobbing, writhing under him.
He didn't stop. He kept fucking her through it, chasing his own release.
"Oh my gosh—oh my gosh—Karim—"
"Amara—"
"Please—I can't—I can't—"
"You can. One more."
"I can't—"
"One more. For me."
And she did.
Somehow, impossibly, she came again—a second wave that ripped through her like a blade. She screamed his name, her voice cracking, her entire body dissolving into pure sensation.
He followed.
Three more thrusts—deep, grinding, desperate—and then he spilled inside her, hot and thick, a groan tearing from his throat. She felt him pulsing, filling her, marking her in the most primal way.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
He was still hard inside her. Still buried to the hilt. She could feel their mingled fluids trickling down her thighs.
Then he released her braid. Stroked her back. Pressed a kiss between her shoulder blades.
"Good girl," he murmured.
She was too exhausted to respond. To do anything but lie there, trembling, while the aftershocks rippled through her.
He pulled out slowly. She whimpered at the emptiness—at the sudden rush of wetness that followed.
"Shh," he said. "I've got you."
He lay down beside her. Pulled her against his chest. She could hear his heart pounding, feel the sweat cooling on his skin.
"Karim?"
"Mm."
"Samira."
He tensed. "What about her?"
"She's in this house. She could have heard."
"She didn't."
"How do you know?"
"Because no one came running." He stroked her hair. "You were loud, but not that loud."
Amara closed her eyes. Her body was aching—thoroughly used, thoroughly fucked—but her mind was racing.
"What are we doing?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"We can't keep doing this."
"I know."
"If she finds out—"
"She won't."
"You can't promise that."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "I spoke to my lawyer again. About the contract."
"And?"
"He thinks there's a way. A legal loophole. But it'll take time."
"How much time?"
"Weeks. Maybe months."
She opened her eyes and looked up at him. His face was shadowed in the dim light, but she could see the exhaustion there, the weight.
"I don't know if I have months," she said.
He kissed her forehead. "Then we'll have to make the most of the time we do have."
It wasn't a promise. It wasn't even a plan. Just a truth—raw and honest and insufficient.
But it was something.
She nestled against him and closed her eyes. Sleep pulled at her, dragging her down into darkness.
She didn't hear him leave.
She didn't hear the door close.
She didn't hear Nadia's footsteps in the hallway, retreating back to her own room.
She just slept.
---
Nadia stood in the dark of her bedroom, her back against the wall, her hand pressed to her mouth.
She had heard everything.
Every scream. Every moan. Every filthy, desperate word.
She had crept up the stairs—drawn by the sounds, unable to stop herself—and stood in the hallway, watching through the cracked door as her brother fucked the wet nurse into oblivion.
She should have been horrified.
She should have been angry.
But she hadn't been able to look away.
She'd watched Karim's massive body pump into Amara's smaller form, watched his hands grip her hips, watched her face twist in ecstasy. She'd watched Amara scream his name—"oh my gosh, oh my gosh, Karim"—and felt something shift inside her.
She had always known her brother was capable of this. He was a man of appetites, of violence, of control. But she had never seen him like that—never seen the tenderness beneath the brutality, the desperation beneath the dominance.
He loved her.
He actually loved her.
Nadia pressed her thighs together. She could still feel the heat—the unwanted, shameful arousal that had coiled in her belly while she watched.
She was a terrible person.
She was a jealous, bitter, lonely woman who had spied on her brother and gotten wet from it.
She was everything she hated.
But she couldn't unsee it. Couldn't unhear it. Couldn't unfeel it.
Amara had been right.
Nadia's problem wasn't that she hated the wet nurse.
It was that she wanted what Amara had.
She wanted someone to look at her the way Karim looked at Amara. Wanted to be screamed for, wanted to be chosen, wanted to be wanted.
She sank onto her bed and buried her face in her hands.
What was she going to do?
Samira was in the house. The contract was still in play. Everything was falling apart.
And Nadia was caught in the middle.
She thought about her brother—about the grief that had swallowed him after Mira's death, about the walls he'd built around his heart. She thought about Layla, innocent and unknowing, caught in a war she'd never understand.
She thought about Amara—her gentle hands, her quiet strength, the way she'd looked at Nadia with something almost like understanding.
You're not a terrible person, Amara had said. You're just lonely.
Nadia lifted her head.
Maybe it was time to stop being lonely.
Maybe it was time to choose a side.
She stood. Crossed to her window. Looked out at the city—the lights, the shadows, the secrets.
Tomorrow, she would talk to Amara.
Tomorrow, she would decide what kind of person she wanted to be.
Tonight, she would wash the shame from her skin and try to forget the sounds she'd heard.
Try.
And fail.
Because some things—some sounds, some truths—could never be forgotten.
They could only be carried.
And Nadia had been carrying secrets her whole life.
What was one more?