Chapter 1: The Black Record That Never Existed
My name is Zara.
If you asked the discipline teacher at SMK Taman Saga, my name would be inside that thick red record book. Even after they changed the book three times, my name still stayed on the first page. Not because I fought. Not because I skipped school.
Because I was quiet.
The worst thing I ever did in Form 4 was swapping sugar with salt in the Chemistry teacher’s bottle before practical class. He drank plain water mixed with salt while yelling at another student. His face turned red like chili peppers. I sat at the back, copying notes with a blank expression. Nobody suspected me.
That was my style.
Do it. Walk away. Disappear like I was never there.
I never scored in exams. Not because I was stupid. I just hated looking smart. If people noticed you too much, it became hard to do things quietly.
For SPM, I got 2Cs, 4Ds, and 3Es. Just enough to leave school with a certificate nobody wanted to ask about.
My parents didn’t care much.
“As long as you finished school,” Mom always said.
Dad died when I was twelve. Hit by a garbage truck right in front of our house.
Funny, isn’t it?
After SPM, I didn’t continue studying. Worked in a factory for a while, then got a job at Alam Hijau Waste Management Company. Salary: RM1800.
My job was simple: key in truck data, check garbage weights, handle complaints from residents angry about late trash collection.
A boring place.
But peaceful.
Until that Thursday.
“Zara, come to the manager’s office for a bit,” Kak Liza from HR called out. She had the kind of face people made when they were delivering good news that was actually bad news.
Inside the office sat Encik Razlan and a man I had never seen before.
Maybe thirty-eight years old.
Dark blue shirt. Neat slacks. Light beard. Sharp eyes.
He sat too straight. The kind of straight posture that made you feel guilty even when you did nothing wrong.
“This is Mr. Fahad,” Encik Razlan said. “My nephew. He just came back from Dubai and will be taking over northern branch operations.”
I nodded politely. Empty-faced.
“Mr. Fahad wants to get to know the senior staff. Zara has been in the data department the longest,” he continued.
Fahad looked at me.
For too long.
Like he was scanning me from head to toe.
I stared back with my usual poker face.
“How long have you worked here?” he asked. His voice was low and heavy.
“Two years.”
He nodded.
Then smiled slightly.
A smile that never reached his eyes.
The next week, Mom called me.
“Zara, I met Makcik Salmah. She said her nephew has a good job, thirty-eight years old, divorced, no children. She asked if you’d be willing to get to know him.”
I was carrying a box of files.
“Mom, I’m twenty-three. He’s thirty-eight. That’s basically my father.”
“Age isn’t a problem. He has a stable job, his own house. Doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink. Who are you waiting for? Your old school crush? The boy you bullied until he transferred schools?”
I went silent.
Mom didn’t know everything.
Nobody did.
But mothers had instincts.
“He’s coming over Friday. Just bringing fruits. Come home early,” she said before hanging up.
I was being arranged into marriage.
With Mr. Fahad.
My manager’s nephew.
The world was ridiculously small.
Chapter 2: Marriage
I had never dated anyone.
No time. No interest.
Love was noisy.
I liked silence.
But I accepted the proposal.
Not because I liked Fahad.
Because I was tired.
Tired of living like a ghost in school, then a ghost at work. If I got married, people would finally stop asking, “When are you getting married?”
That question was louder than love itself.
The wedding was simple.
A local mosque after Asr prayer.
Two witnesses.
RM3000 dowry.
No expensive gifts.
“No need to waste money,” Fahad said.
On our first night, he handed me the keys to a two-story terrace house in Bukit Sentosa.
“You don’t have to work anymore if you don’t want to,” he said while carrying my luggage into the room. “But if you still want to work, I won’t stop you. Just come home.”
I placed my bag down and sat on the bed.
Then I looked at him.
“Why did you choose me?” I asked directly. I never knew how to sugarcoat things.
He sat beside me, still leaving a foot of distance between us.
“Your mother said you’re honest,” he answered. “You don’t like lying. It’s hard to find people like that nowadays.”
I laughed softly.
If Mom knew what kind of honesty I actually had, she would never say that.
“Honesty is expensive, Fahad. Can you afford it?”
He stared at me for a moment.
Then he said quietly, “Call me Fahad. There’s no ‘Mr.’ inside this house.”
That night we slept in separate rooms.
He gave me the master bedroom and took the room beside it.
“Love after marriage,” he said before closing the door. “We start from zero. Agreed?”
I nodded in the dark.
Zero was good.
Zero had no black records attached to it.
Chapter 3: The First Three Months
Living with Fahad felt strange.
He woke up at 5 a.m., prayed Fajr, left for work at 6:30, came home at 7 p.m.
We had dinner together.
He would ask, “How was your day?”
Then quietly read old newspapers afterward.
He never touched me.
Never pressured me.
And me?
I started feeling guilty.
Because I was still the old Zara.
I threw away his RM200 fuel receipt because I thought he was lying about his claim.
I secretly changed the bedroom air-conditioner from 18 degrees to 26 because I was cold.
I never told him.
But he never got angry.
He just muttered, “Maybe the air conditioner’s broken. I’ll call a technician.”
He treated me like I was normal.
Like I didn’t have a history.
Until Saturday of the thirteenth week.
I was cleaning the upstairs storage room when I found an old box.
Letters. Photos. Certificates.
Then a blue file.
“Accident Claim: Truck SISA-0047. Victim: Hassan bin Abdullah.”
My father.
I opened the file.
Inside were police reports, truck photos, and the driver’s name.
Driver: Fahad bin Mazlan.
My blood turned cold.
I walked downstairs.
Fahad had just returned from work. The moment he saw the file in my hands, his expression changed.
“Zara—”
“You were the one who killed my father?” My voice cracked, but it stayed quiet. Like always.
He sat down.
Didn’t defend himself.
“Yes,” he said. “In 2015. I was a new driver back then. I fell asleep at the wheel. I went to prison for two years. I paid every compensation I could. But I know money can’t replace your father.”
I wanted to laugh.
To scream.
To run.
But instead I asked, “Why did you marry me?”
Because if this was revenge, it was the stupidest and most effective revenge possible.
Fahad stared at the floor.
“Your mother came to see me six months ago,” he said quietly. “She told me, ‘My daughter already finished serving her own punishment. She needs someone who knows she’s damaged but still chooses her.’ I didn’t know you were Hassan’s daughter at first. Not until I saw your name in the HR file.”
I gripped the file so hard the papers crumpled.
“So this was all planned?”
“No. It was coincidence. But after I found out, I didn’t back away. Because maybe… maybe this is the only way I can repay a debt that never ends.”
I stood up.
“Get out. I need to think.”
He left.
Didn’t argue.
Didn’t ask questions.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
I remembered every cruel thing I did back in school.
I remembered the Chemistry teacher getting blamed for being careless.
I remembered the boy who transferred schools because I spread rumors about something he never did.
Me and Fahad…
We were the same.
Two broken people trying to live like normal humans.
Chapter 4: The Offer
For three days, I locked myself inside the room.
I barely ate.
Fahad didn’t make noise about it. He would leave a tray of food outside the door, knock twice, then walk away. No pressure.
On the fourth day, I came out.
Pale face. Swollen eyes.
But my mind had finally cooled down.
He was washing the car outside the house. The moment he saw me, he froze. Water still dripping from his hands, the cloth falling onto the ground.
“Zara.”
I walked straight toward him. Picked up the cloth. Threw it back onto the floor.
“You think I’m some kind of doll? You think saying sorry and marrying me suddenly fixes everything?”
He stayed silent.
“So what do you want?” he asked softly.
I smiled.
The kind of smile I hadn’t used since school.
“There’s only one thing I want to know. When you hit my father… did you feel guilty? Or were you relieved because finally you had an excuse to quit driving trucks?”
His expression changed instantly.
Nobody had ever asked him that question.
Not once in eight years.
“Why would you ask something like that?” His voice lowered, almost angry.
“Because I’m the same,” I answered. “I hurt people… then I felt relieved. After that, I felt empty. So I want to know if you and I are actually the same.”
Fahad placed both hands on the car hood. His fists tightened hard.
“I felt guilty every single day,” he admitted quietly. “But yes… I was relieved too. My father had begged me to quit that job for years. He said the work would kill me someday. When the accident happened, I didn’t have a choice anymore. I had to face it.”
I nodded slowly.
“Good. Honest.”
I turned to walk back into the house.
“Zara,” he called out. “If you want a divorce, I’ll sign the papers right now. No questions asked. But if you stay… I can’t promise I’ll become a good husband. I can only promise I’ll never lie to you again.”
I stopped at the door.
“Don’t give me stupid promises. Give me work instead.”
“Work?”
“You own a company. I know every truck route, every data system, every hole inside that operation. Give me a real position. Not keying in data anymore. I want access to every cent moving through your company.”
He knew me.
He knew that when I spoke like that, I was serious.
“You want to audit me?”
“I want to make sure you don’t lie to other people the way you lied to me. Fair enough, right?”
Fahad stared at me for a long moment.
Then he laughed softly.
The first time I had ever heard him laugh.
“Deal,” he said. “But one condition.”
“What?”
“In this house, we stop playing games. If you’re angry, be angry in front of me. If you want to hit me, hit me. Just stop doing things quietly. I’m tired of living with ghosts.”
I didn’t answer.
But I walked inside the house.
That counted as agreement.
Chapter 5: Hell Audit
Two weeks later, I was sitting inside the accounting office at Alam Hijau HQ.
Not my old tiny desk anymore.
A large desk.
Right beside Fahad’s office.
My new title: Internal Operations.
People started calling me Puan Zara.
I hated it.
My job was simple:
Find suspicious things.
Double claims.
Trucks claiming 200 kilometers with only RM20 worth of fuel.
Resident complaints that mysteriously disappeared before reaching management.
First week: I found RM47,000 missing.
Second week: RM120,000.
Third week: I found Fahad’s own cousin listed under fake supplier payments.
That night, I dropped the files onto Fahad’s desk.
He read them silently.
His face darkened more with every page.
“You know who did this?” I asked.
“My cousin,” he answered flatly. “Razif. He thought I wouldn’t notice.”
“So?”
Fahad closed the file.
“What do you want me to do? Fire him? Make a police report?”
I smiled again.
The same dangerous smile from school.
“No. I want us to use him. He’s greedy, but stupid. Let him feel safe first… then we pull everything away at once.”
Fahad stared at me like he was seeing me properly for the first time.
“Zara… you’re cruel.”
“Alhamdulillah. Glad you finally noticed,” I replied.
That night he didn’t sleep in the room next door.
He slept in my room instead.
Nothing happened.
He just laid beside me, staring at the ceiling.
“Are you afraid I’ll use you too?” he asked quietly.
“I am,” I admitted. “But if you’re using me to become a better person… I can live with that.”
He reached for my hand for the first time.
His palm was rough, marked with old burn scars.
“Welcome back, Zara,” he whispered.
I didn’t answer.
But I didn’t pull my hand away either.
Chapter 6: A Love That Wasn’t Loud
Three months later, Razif got arrested.
The evidence was clean and complete.
Police officers came to the office and dragged him out in front of every staff member.
Fahad said nothing.
He just drove me home afterward.
Inside the car, he suddenly spoke.
“You know… I thought you’d hate me until the day you died.”
I looked outside the window.
“I did hate you once. But hatred is exhausting. Same goes for being cruel.”
We arrived home.
He opened the car door for me.
That night, for the first time since our marriage, we ate dinner while talking about things other than work.
He told me stories about Dubai.
I told him about the stray cats behind the old office building.
No fireworks.
No dramatic confessions.
But when he said, “Goodnight, Zara,”
something inside me felt different.
And I answered softly, “Goodnight, Fahad.”
Simple.
But somehow, the fifteen-year age gap suddenly felt ten years smaller.
Alright, here’s the full English translation, keeping the tone, tension, and depth you intended — showing that path to redemption isn’t straightforward, and darkness always lingers close by.
Chapter 7: New Terms
After Razif’s case blew up, Fahad’s reputation skyrocketed. People started calling him: “The clean CEO running a waste management company.” Local newspapers ran full articles about him and his business.
I hated all the attention.
But Fahad knew exactly how to use it to his advantage. He launched a new initiative called the “Second Chance Programme” — hiring former convicts to work in the company, taking them on as truck drivers, machine operators, and office clerks.
“I owe people like me a chance to start over,” he said during the meeting.
I sat at the very end of the table, quietly noting down every word. But inside my head, I was already running calculations: costs, risks, loopholes, and every possible way things could go wrong.
After everyone had left, he came into my office.
“You don’t like the idea, do you?”
“It’s not that I dislike it,” I answered plainly. “I just don’t believe people change just because you hand them an opportunity. People only truly change when they realise they have absolutely no other choice left.”
Fahad pulled a chair and sat right in front of me.
“So then, what does our chief auditor suggest we do?”
I pushed a thick file across the table toward him.
“We create a scoring system — similar to a credit rating. Arrive on time, no complaints, work hard — earn points. After three months, they get bonuses and better benefits. Break rules, cause trouble — points deducted. If they lie or cheat, we hand them straight over to the police. Make it crystal clear: there is no grey area here, no room to hide or play games.”
He went through my proposal page by page — fourteen pages in total, complete with detailed flowcharts, performance targets, and strict penalties.
“You know, if you had decided to become a criminal instead, even the FBI would be terrified of you,” he said with a small shake of his head.
A thin, cold smile touched my lips. “Too late for that. I’ve already been one.”
That night, for the very first time, he leaned forward and gently kissed my forehead. There was no desire or lust in the gesture — it felt more like the way an older brother would kiss his stubborn younger sibling.
“Thank you for not leaving me to handle all of this alone,” he whispered.
I didn’t reply. But I made no move to wipe his touch away either.
Chapter 8: Old Ghosts
The Second Chance Programme ran smoothly for the first four months. Everything seemed to be working well.
Until the day a new employee arrived.. His name was Amir, twenty-five years old, previously convicted for vehicle theft.
The moment I saw his face, my blood ran cold and my whole body froze.
Because this was the boy I had framed back when we were in Form Five. I had spread lies accusing him of stealing money from our class fund. As a result, he was expelled from school, even though the truth was — I was the one who took the money, just to buy vapes for my friends.
He didn’t recognise me. Eight years had passed, and I had changed completely: my hair was short now, I no longer wore the long loose headscarf I used to, and my face had hardened, carrying the weight of everything I had done.
But I recognised him instantly. I could never forget his face.
That night I barely slept. I sat in front of my laptop, searching through old files, digging up memories — class photographs, old Facebook posts, anything that could prove I wasn’t imagining things.
At three in the morning, Fahad found me sitting there, staring blankly at the screen.
“What’s wrong?” he asked softly.
“He’s here,” I said, my voice barely audible.
“Who?”
“The person whose life I destroyed.”
Fahad sat down beside me. He didn’t rush me or ask unnecessary questions. He just waited patiently until I was ready to speak.
I told him everything — every single detail, from beginning to end. The chemistry teacher, Amir, the class fund money, even the bottle of salt I had used to plant false evidence. Every dirty secret I had kept buried deep inside my heart for eight long years finally spilled out.
When I finished speaking, I felt strangely empty, as if I had just vomited up every poisonous thing I had swallowed for years.
Fahad remained silent for a long while, thinking carefully. Then he asked quietly:
“Do you want me to fire him and send him away?”
I shook my head firmly.
“No. I want him to stay. I want to watch him live and work right before my eyes. I want to see exactly what he will become if I actually give him the fair chance he never got before.”
“And what if he finds out the truth and hates you more than anything?”
“Good,” I answered sharply. “Let him hate me. At least it means he is alive and has a reason to keep going. Unlike my father — who died carrying nothing but regret and silence.”
Fahad nodded slowly, understanding the darkness behind my words.
“Very well. But if you ever decide to confess and ask for forgiveness, you will do it alone. I won’t interfere or help you.”
Chapter 9: Confession
For two weeks, I watched Amir closely. He worked harder than anyone else — always arriving early, leaving late, speaking very little, keeping entirely to himself.
On Friday evening, after work finished, I waited for him inside the small prayer room located within the factory compound.
“Amir.”
He turned around, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
“Madam Zara? Is there something you need?”
I took a deep breath, my heart beating wildly.
“I am Zara — Zara Hassan. Form 5C, year 2018.”
His face went pale, eyes widening in shock and disbelief.
“You… you are the one who…”
“Yes,” I interrupted before he could finish. “I am the person who lied and framed you for stealing the class fund.”
He took one large step backward, looking at me as if I was some kind of madwoman.
“Are you out of your mind, coming here to tell me this now? What exactly do you want from me?”
“I want you to slap me,” I said calmly.
He let out a cynical, bitter laugh. “Excuse me?”
“If you slap me right here, right now — we call it even, we are settled. If you prefer, you can report me to the police, and I will accept every punishment. If you wish to shout and curse at me, I will listen quietly. But I will not run away anymore. Not this time.”
Amir stared at me for a long time, searching my eyes, trying to figure out if I was serious or just playing another cruel game.
Then he laughed again — hollow, empty, and painful.
“You think it’s that simple? You think one slap can erase everything? For eight years, I had to work three jobs just to survive, all because my school certificate was stained with your lies. My own mother died before she ever saw me live a decent life or find happiness. And now you come here and say — slap me, and everything is settled?”
I nodded slowly. “Yes. Because I honestly don’t know any other way to fix this.”
He raised his hand slowly, fingers tightening, ready to strike.
I closed my eyes and waited, accepting whatever pain was coming.
But the blow never landed.
When I opened my eyes again, he had already turned his back to me.
“Just forget about it. I am tired, exhausted from carrying this pain. If you truly want to do good now, go ahead and do it — but don’t expect me to ever forgive you. That is something you can never buy or earn back.”
He walked away and left me standing there alone.
I sat on the cold floor of the prayer room for an hour, letting every word sink deep into my heart.
When I finally stepped outside, Fahad was waiting by the door. He didn’t ask what happened. He simply handed me a bottle of plain water.
“He didn’t hit you?” he asked softly.
“No.”
“That’s actually a good sign. It means you still have a chance to make things right — slowly, patiently, and honestly.”
Chapter 10: Tug of War
Two months later, our company received a major tender offer from the City Council — worth twelve million Ringgit annually.
But there was a problem. We were competing against another company owned by Datuk Halim — a powerful, wealthy man who had been in this industry for decades. He knew every single person sitting in the council offices. He also knew my late father very well; they were rivals back in the old days.
Three days before the final decision was due to be announced, I received an anonymous email.
Attached to the message was a video file.
It was footage from my school days — showing me exchanging exam papers with a friend, charging fifty Ringgit in return for helping them cheat.
The message read: “If the contract is awarded to Green Earth Waste Management, this video will be published across every news portal in the country. Headline: ‘Wife of the famous CEO — A Cheater since School Days’.”
That night I showed everything to Fahad. He read the message carefully, his expression remaining completely calm and unchanged.
“Datuk Halim,” he said simply, knowing exactly who was behind it.
“What do you plan to do now?” I asked anxiously.
Fahad smiled — that particular smile I knew all too well; the one that meant he was about to fight fire with fire.
“We will send the video back to him.”
“What?”
“We will send it back, but we will include the full unedited version. The part that clearly shows exactly who paid you that fifty Ringgit back then.”
My whole body stiffened.
Because I remembered perfectly who it was.
It was none other than Datuk Halim’s own son — Amirul. Today, he serves as the director of his father’s company.
Fahad had done his research long ago.
“You intend to expose his own son?”
“No. I will give him a choice instead. Withdraw his bid quietly, or I reveal every single secret I have collected — including the incident three years ago when his company’s lorry hit and killed one of our workers, and how he used his power and money to settle the case out of court and bury the truth.”
I looked at him, realising how much he had changed.
“You are starting to think and act exactly like me now.”
“Yes,” he answered without hesitation. “Because you taught me something important: sometimes, the only language evil people understand is the language of evil itself.”
That night, I slept in another room, away from him. Not because I was angry, but because I was terrified.
I was afraid that if I continued walking down this path, I would eventually become much worse than I had ever been before.
Chapter 11: Decision
In the end, the contract was awarded to us.
Datuk Halim withdrew his application just twelve hours before the final announcement was made.
I never asked Fahad exactly how he managed to convince him. I didn’t want to know the ugly details.
A week later, Amir came to my office.
“Madam, I would like to resign.”
“May I ask why?”
“I have found work at a workshop owned by a friend. The salary is lower, but it is far away — far away from this place, and far away from you.”
I nodded slowly, understanding his reasons perfectly.
“Before you leave, there is one last thing I need to say.”
He waited silently, arms crossed over his chest.
“I am sorry. Not because I expect you to forgive me, but because I have carried this guilt for too long and I finally needed to say it out loud.”
Amir stayed quiet for a moment. Then he placed a plain envelope on my desk.
“This contains the money you stole — with interest added. Fifty Ringgit from 2018 is now one hundred and twenty Ringgit. Don’t try to find me again, and don’t look for me anymore.”
He turned and walked out, closing the door gently behind him.
I held the envelope tightly, my hands trembling uncontrollably.
That evening when I went home, I placed the envelope on the dining table.
Fahad saw it but didn’t ask any questions.
“I feel… like I have finally paid off one of my debts,” I whispered softly.
He walked closer and wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder.
“You paid it in your own way — the way you know best. And that is enough.”
I leaned back against him, seeking comfort and strength.
“Fahad… if one day you discover that I have done something even darker and unforgivable, will you leave me?”
He kissed my hair gently, holding me tighter.
“I will only leave you if you ever stop trying to become a better person. As long as you keep trying, no matter how many times you fall — I will stay right here.”
Chapter 12: Five Years Later
Now I am twenty-eight years old. Fahad is forty-three.
We have two beautiful children — a boy named Aiman and a girl named Aisyah.
I still work at Green Earth Waste Management, but my official title is now Director of Special Operations. My job is simple yet heavy: ensuring no one inside the company ever makes the same mistakes I made, and that no one can secretly do wrong or hide crimes in silence.
As for Amir? He successfully opened his own repair shop. Sometimes he sends Fahad’s vehicles there for service and maintenance. He never speaks to me, but whenever we meet, he gives me a short, respectful nod. That small gesture is more than enough for me.
Datuk Halim passed away last year, and shortly after his death, his son Amirul was sentenced to prison on corruption charges.
And me? The dark side inside me hasn’t completely disappeared. There are still moments when anger takes over and I feel the old familiar urge to do something reckless or dangerous.
But every time that feeling begins to rise, Fahad will say just one sentence — and it is enough to bring me back.
“Zara, you paid a very high price to bury your secrets and silence your past. Don’t throw away everything you have fought so hard to rebuild.”
Tonight, our children are fast asleep. I sit out on the balcony with Fahad. He drinks his favourite iced tea, while I sip plain water.
Suddenly I ask him: “Do you think we are good people now?”
Fahad thought for a while before answering carefully.
“We are not good people, Zara. We are people who are constantly trying to become good. There is a huge difference between the two.”
For the first time in years, I smiled genuinely — no hidden sarcasm, no bitterness, no pain behind it.
“I guess falling in love after marriage is a slow process, isn’t it?”
He chuckled softly.
“It is slow indeed. But it is peaceful, quiet, and safe. I wouldn’t trade it for anything else.”
I rested my head on his shoulder, feeling completely safe and at peace.
“Fahad… thank you for never running away from me.”
He pulled me closer, wrapping me in his warm embrace.
“And thank you, Zara… for choosing to stay and build a life with me.”
