THE SCARLET DHOW (Malik's Story) - Chapter 2: The Velvet Cage

In the days that followed, Malik found himself trapped — not by bars, but by satin sheets and whispered lies.

Aida was a woman of silken danger. Every morning, she stirred beside him with bare thighs tangled in kanga cloth and a crooked smile on her lips that promised more chaos than comfort. He should have walked away. But every time he tried, she touched him — and his resolve melted like sugar over a flame.

They made love often. Wildly. Softly. Sometimes with desperation, other times with reverence. In the hush of the humid afternoons, she’d press him to the bed, her palm to his chest, riding him with slow intent as if writing scripture with her hips. At night, when the ceiling fan clicked overhead and the crickets outside grew loud, she’d pull him into her like she needed to be filled just to feel alive.

But it wasn’t just sex. It was something more consuming.

He started skipping breakfast at the café just to hold her longer. He stopped sketching. His days blurred into her skin — her curves, her scent, the way she would look at him mid-conversation like she was memorizing the slope of his soul.

Still, the silences were growing louder.

Sometimes, when she thought he was asleep, she’d sit at the edge of the bed, naked but far away — staring into the darkness, chewing her lip, gripping the necklace she never took off. It was a simple chain, gold, delicate… and out of place against her reckless energy.

One evening, they argued. It wasn’t loud, but it was sharp.

“Why do you disappear every Thursday?” Malik asked, voice calm but ice-edged.

She blinked. “I don’t disappear.”

“You do. You vanish. You pull away.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just pulled the shawl tighter over her chest and turned to the window.

“It’s complicated.”

“So explain it.”

“I can’t.”

Her voice broke on the last word — and something in Malik cracked. Not because he was angry, but because he cared more than he meant to. Aida wasn’t built for love in the traditional sense. She was the kind of woman you survived, not married.

But he was already in too deep.

That night, they didn’t speak. She lay beside him, motionless, and he didn’t touch her. But around 3 a.m., she turned to him in the dark and kissed his chest once, softly. It wasn’t lust. It was sorrow.

Two days later, Malik followed her.

He didn’t want to be the kind of man who spied. But he had to know. He stayed a few paces behind as she wound through the back alleys of Malindi, her wrap skirt dancing in the ocean breeze. She entered a gated villa — one with manicured hedges and a Mercedes parked out front.

And then, he saw him.

A tall man in a navy blue shirt. Clean-cut. Wearing a wedding band.

He opened the door, smiled, and kissed Aida — on the cheek, like something long rehearsed. They disappeared inside.

Malik stood outside that gate for what felt like hours, his chest hollow. His fists clenched. His jaw tight. He wanted to hate her. But mostly, he hated himself — for not seeing it sooner. For letting his body become hers. For believing she was broken like him.

Later that night, Aida came to him like nothing had happened.

She laughed. She danced barefoot in his room, swaying to a Fadhili Williams record she’d found. But Malik couldn’t dance. Not anymore.

“You lied,” he said.

Her face fell.

“Aida… you’re married.”

Silence.

She looked away. Then, with a sigh so heavy it seemed to age her, she whispered, “I never said I wasn’t.”

“You said you were visiting family.”

“I am. He’s part of that lie.”

“Do you love him?”

Her eyes shone. “I don’t even know what love means anymore.”

And then she kissed him — rough, hungry, angry. She undressed, defiant, pulling him onto the bed with a force that said I need to feel something.

They made love that night like two people trying to erase the truth.

Her fingers clawed at his back, her thighs gripped him with desperation, her lips crushed his like a woman drowning. And Malik gave in, because pain was better than emptiness.

After, she lay on her side, tracing circles on his chest.

“I wasn’t supposed to fall for you,” she whispered.

He didn’t answer.

Because neither was he.