The smell of the apartment took her back to another time, the scent of wood polish and floor cleaner and lilies reminding her of the career she had worked for here and how close she had been to achieving her goal of becoming a judge. She now realised it had been an empty existence, that family was what was needed to feel whole. Losing Zan and Ahad had left her raw, as if the very skin had been taken from her. It meant everything was painful; even innocuous comments about birthdays and anniversaries were like shards sometimes, a painful reminder of what she didn’t have. In order to survive she had armoured up and carried on, numbing herself to the pain. But Akbar Khan’s death had changed all that, forcing her to face up to her responsibilities and to the island that she had become.

Now, she was responsible for the happiness and livelihood of scores of families. And she found herself looking for ways to sew up the rift her father had created between her and her son, and make sense of her relationship with Elyas.

She picked up the letters her assistant had opened and organised ready for her return. Invitations to official luncheons, the Law Society Excellence Awards, a former colleague’s wedding – all reminders of a life once lived. A life distant from the one she was living now.

She thought of all the letters Elyas had written her. The ones she had sent back, unopened. The ones he had kept and handed to her as she left for London this morning. She’d been afraid to open them on the train, afraid of her reaction to what was in them, to the opening of the floodgates she had locked and barred.

Alone in her apartment, she took them out and read them one by one.

CHAPTER 35

‘I’m outside,’ said Jia. She’d been knocking on the front door for a while with no answer.

‘I was in the bathroom.’ Elyas pulled on a jumper and went to open the door. ‘It’s the middle of the day. What are you doing here?’ he said, letting her in. He found an old tissue in the pocket of his pyjamas and wiped his nose. She was holding a box, and a bag from the pharmacy.

‘I’ve brought you soup and painkillers.’

‘I don’t drink canned soup.’

‘I made it. Is that so hard to believe?’

‘When do you have time to make soup?’

‘When did you get so mean?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’m not well and my accountant needs some papers for my tax return. I’m just a little stressed.’