Author's POV
The evening had finally descended upon the Raza Mansion—an evening that marked his engagement. The day had arrived for which Sofia had been brimming with excitement, the sole member of the household who carried that glitter in her eyes. For her, this moment was a dream carefully nurtured, a fantasy on the brink of fulfillment. Yet, beneath the grand decorations and the shimmer of chandeliers, the atmosphere within the family was anything but celebratory.
Kaif—silent, composed—had no opinion to offer. Neither elated nor resentful, he carried himself with the stoicism of a man detached from the whirl of emotions, merely observing, neither rejoicing nor objecting. Zorain, on the other hand, wore the burden of duty on his shoulders. His every step, his every glance, spoke of resignation rather than joy. For him, this engagement was not about desire, nor affection, but about one person alone—his grandmother, whose single wish held enough power to bend his will.
And then there was Isra.
Isra, who stood at the heart of his storms without even knowing it. Unlike Sofia's eager anticipation or Kaif's neutrality, Isra's heart harbored something far more volatile. She wasn't happy, not even remotely. Instead, she simmered with a quiet fury, a strange mixture of resentment and an unspoken ache that clawed at her chest. He was getting engaged, and though she claimed to hate him—claimed that there was no affection in her heart—the thought of him belonging to someone else ignited a fire within her veins. It wasn't love, not yet, but it was something sharp, unrelenting, and dangerous enough to shake her.
The mansion itself stood drenched in magnificence that night. Every corner was adorned with strings of golden lights that twinkled like captive stars, while garlands of fresh flowers draped the marble pillars, filling the air with a fragrance that mingled with the warmth of celebration. Guests began arriving in waves—businessmen, family friends, and dignitaries, their laughter and polite conversations echoing through the lavish halls.
And then she walked in.
Isra.
She wasn't dressed as anyone had expected. While the women of the evening shimmered in their heavily embroidered lehengas and traditional silks, Isra chose rebellion as her attire. A short, dangerously enchanting frock clung to her in ways that blurred the line between elegance and defiance. It wasn't merely beautiful—it was lethal, a silent declaration that she refused to bend herself into traditions for a night that wounded her pride.
Zorain, lost in the monotony of greetings and forced smiles, happened to glance her way—just once. But that single glance was enough. His composure faltered, his breath staggered, and for a fleeting moment the world around him dimmed. The chatter, the music, the lights—they all fell away, leaving only her. Her presence was like a blade, carving into his carefully built restraint, reminding him that no matter what this evening symbolized, Isra was the storm he could never silence.
Zorain's POV.
I stared at the girl who was soon to be my fiancée. She was undeniably beautiful—delicate, almost doll-like, as if the mere brush of a hand against her porcelain skin would shatter her into countless fragile shards. But then, as if fate itself wanted to mock me, my gaze inevitably drifted toward her—Isra.
Isra was the embodiment of defiance, the complete antithesis of the fragile doll seated beside me. She looked like the kind of girl who, if anyone dared to mess with her, would slice their tongue out without a second thought and toss it to the fucking street dogs. There was fire in her eyes, the same fire I had admired since our childhood. Her sharp tongue, her mischievous mind—it had always fascinated me. But never in my darkest fucking nightmares did I imagine that one day, that very tongue of hers would stab me, poison me, and make me bleed from wounds no one else could see.
I tore my gaze away from her, afraid. Afraid that if I looked too long, her beauty—sharp, untamed, lethal—would consume me whole. Afraid that my goddamn eyes, tainted and cursed, might stain her. Yet she sat there, with that same infuriatingly arrogant, piss-off expression painted on her lips, like she owned the world and had no fucks to spare for anyone in it.
And then it happened. Rings were exchanged. She—Ibna—slid a piece of gold onto my finger. That moment should've meant something. It should've felt like happiness, commitment, destiny. But instead, it felt like a fucking chain clamped around my heart. Heavy. Suffocating. Wrong. Every beat of my chest whispered that I was betraying not only myself, but something far greater.
I forced the thoughts down, burying them beneath the noise of applause, the clicking of cameras, the endless parade of relatives lining up for pictures. Flash after flash, smile after smile—everything felt staged, plastic, false.
And through it all, she—Isra—sat apart. Distant. Detached. Like she wasn't a part of this family at all. Like she didn't belong to us, or maybe, like we didn't deserve to belong to her. A stranger among blood. An outsider among kin.
And God help me, that truth stung more than the ring digging into my fucking skin.
Author's POV.
The celebration had finally drawn to its close, the once-vibrant hall now silent except for the faint echoes of departing laughter. Guests had retreated to their respective homes, leaving behind only the household staff who moved about quietly, tidying the remnants of festivity. Within the mansion itself, an air of serene stillness prevailed, each family member dispersing to the solitude of their rooms.
Kaif, however, lingered a little longer. He spent a few tender minutes with Isra, coaxing her with his habitual charm. Employing a subtle yet emotional persuasion, almost akin to a gentle blackmail wrapped in affection, he convinced her to remain at the mansion for the night. Despite her initial resistance, Isra relented, allowing herself to stay.
Meanwhile, upstairs in his chamber, Zorain had retreated into his private silence. The day had been long, and he sought reprieve beneath a cold shower. Droplets cascaded over his sculpted frame, washing away both fatigue and an undercurrent of irritation he could never name aloud. Emerging moments later, he wrapped a towel loosely around his waist, his damp hair clinging carelessly to his forehead. He strode towards his wardrobe, rummaging for clothes, wholly unaware of the storm about to breach his sanctuary.
A sudden knock interrupted the quiet rhythm of the room. Zorain, unsuspecting, crossed the floor and opened the door—only for his eyes to widen in sheer disbelief. Isra stood there, her presence charged with something perilous, her gaze sharp enough to pierce through his carefully maintained composure. Before he could form a single word, she raised both hands and shoved him hard against his chest. The unexpected force made him stagger back a step, his towel threatening to slip, while Isra slammed the door shut with a decisive thud.
The silence that followed was deafening—thick with unspoken fury, unresolved tension, and the kind of dangerous proximity neither of them was ready to name.
Zorain's POV.
I had just stepped out of the cold shower, droplets still sliding down my skin as the steam clung faintly to the air of my room. A towel was loosely wrapped around my waist while I rummaged through my wardrobe, searching for something to wear. That was when I heard a sudden knock at the door. Without thinking, I walked over and opened it.
And there she was—Isra.
At this hour. Standing there with that same storm brewing in her eyes. For what the hell had she come here?
Before I could even utter a proper word, she placed both hands firmly on my chest and shoved me backward, stepping inside as she slammed the door shut behind her.
"What the fuc—" I started, but her sharp voice cut across mine.
"Who the hell do you think you are? Huh?" she spat, her eyes glinting with a fire I knew all too well.
I stared at her, confused and exhausted, my voice rough. "What happened?"
"You must be so happy right now, no?" she shot back, her tone dripping with sarcasm.
Aghh. Again. The same fucking sarcasm. The same sharp tongue stabbing through my already worn patience. And honestly, I wasn't in the mood to fight tonight.
"Say what you came to say and get out," I snapped, annoyance threading through my tiredness.
"I'll not." Her reply was stubborn, childlike even, yet venomous. She brushed past me like she owned the place and dropped herself onto my bed, sitting there as if daring me to throw her out.
My jaw tightened. Finally, I exhaled and softened my voice, surrendering to her persistence. "Isra, tell me what happened?"
She leaned back, her expression unreadable, and then asked, "You're getting married, right?"
"Is this supposed to be a question?" I countered flatly.
"Just confirming. Because if something happens at your wedding—or to your bride—it'll be a problem, won't it?" she said, her words laced with poison.
For a fleeting second, I thought maybe, just maybe, a glimpse of the old Isra had returned—the one who could be teasing, mischievous, alive. But fuck, I was wrong. Completely wrong. She was still the same bitter, cruel version of herself. The bitchy Isra who never spared me a shred of mercy.
"Don't you dare, Isra," I said, my voice low, warning. "You'll not cause any drama."
She chuckled darkly, her lips curving into that over-sweet smile I hated and wanted to rip away at the same time. "Chill, buddy. I'm just saying. And why would I cause a scene? You know me."
"I know you," I muttered, glaring at her. "That's exactly why I'm saying it—no causing problems. Otherwise, there'll be consequences. For you."
Her next words froze me where I stood.
"Last time you kissed me because I 'misbehaved with your grandma,' at least that's what you called it. So now, if I cause some little problems again, what will you do? Hmm?" She tilted her head mockingly, her smile wicked. "Let me guess—you'll fuck me forcefully."
My blood burned. Fuck her.
At that moment, every damn nerve in me screamed to bend her over, take her hard and mercilessly until she fucking learned never to throw that shit in my face again. To remind her who the hell she was dealing with. But I couldn't. Not now.
She stood then, not just stood—walked towards me deliberately, with a slow, sensual sway in her steps. God, was she trying to seduce me? She stopped just short of pressing her body against mine, her presence intoxicating and infuriating all at once.
"Will you?" she whispered, taunting, her breath brushing against me.
"Get. Out. Now." My voice came out cold, sharp as ice, betraying nothing though my chest was heaving.
She let out a short, mocking laugh, turned as though to leave, and tossed over her shoulder, "Don't think about me while fucking your wife."
That was it.
I snapped. I grabbed her wrist, yanked her back with force, and pulled her flush against my chest. My words were a growl, low and deadly. "Don't talk to me like this again. Otherwise, I'll give you a punishment you'll never forget."
Her eyes narrowed, her lips curling into that reckless smile. "Let's see then."
And before I could stop her—fuck, before I could even breathe—she brought her face closer and crushed her lips against mine.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't tender. It wasn't even a kiss born out of love. It was fire and fury, anger and hate, tangled with an undeniable undercurrent of desire.
Fuck. Fuck her.
She kissed me with such raw madness that I couldn't resist. My hands found her, pinning her hard against the nearest wall as I claimed her mouth back with equal ferocity. Our tongues battled savagely, hers fighting me as if she could win against me. Never.
I dragged her closer, my grip unyielding, my palm sliding onto her thigh, caressing, owning. And God—she was feeling it. She wanted it, no matter how much venom she spewed.
Her small hands tangled in my hair, tugging, clawing, refusing to yield. She kissed me like she hated me and wanted me in the same damn breath.
But soon, her breath faltered. Her chest heaved against mine as she tapped at my shoulder, desperate, signaling me to release her. Reluctantly, I did.
She pulled back, lips swollen, eyes blazing, chest rising and falling rapidly.
"Keep your desire for your future wife," she said between sharp breaths, her tone mocking yet seductive. "Otherwise, she'll be jealous of me. And I'll love to make her jealous."
She leaned in once more, brushed her lips against my cheek in a fleeting kiss, and then turned on her heel, leaving me there—burning, raging, and fucking undone.
Goddamn her. I'll really fuck her.
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Words: 2156.