Author's POV.
It had been two days since Isra was admitted to the hospital, and finally today she was being discharged. The subtle yet undeniable glow of happiness lingered on her face, a silent reflection of relief, as if freedom itself was waiting at the threshold.
In those two days, Zorain had cared for her with a tenderness that could shatter even the hardest of hearts. He treated her as though she were the most fragile creation in the world—like a porcelain doll that could break with the slightest touch, like a fleeting breath that might vanish if not guarded carefully. To him, she was not merely recovering from illness but existing as something precious, vulnerable, and irreplaceable.
Isra, however, did not resist. She neither complained about the meals he made her take nor about his constant presence around her. Perhaps because she did not have the strength left in her body to fight, or maybe because her will itself had quieted down for the time being. Either way, she chose silence—choosing to endure until she was strong enough again to wield her sharp tongue.
As for their grandparents, Zorain had deliberately hidden the truth. He knew well that if they found out, worry would flood their faces and endless questions would follow. Questions he had no desire to answer, for he was already bearing enough weight on his chest.
—
11:00 a.m.
Zorain stepped into her hospital room, and for a brief second, his eyes softened with a blessing he had longed to see. Isra was laughing. Not faintly smiling, not smirking with her usual mischief, but genuinely laughing while watching cartoons on her iPad. That laughter—it was the same sound he remembered from years ago, from the little girl who once believed the world was simple and safe.
Sensing his presence, Isra turned to him. But this time her gaze was different. No coldness. No venom. Instead, those large eyes of hers, which once held innocence and warmth, peeked through, as though her childhood self had returned for a fleeting moment. Zorain felt like he had been handed the entire world in that single glance.
But just as quickly, the moment slipped away. She shifted her gaze back to the glowing screen in front of her, as if retreating into herself again.
Zorain moved toward her bed and quietly took the chair beside her. His voice was soft, careful, almost hesitant.
"Did you have your breakfast?" he asked.
"Mhm." She hummed in response, not sparing him her eyes.
"Then let's go back home," Zorain said calmly.
"I don't want to go back to your house. It suffocates me there." Isra's words were flat, emotionless, but the bite in them was familiar. Her eyes stayed locked on the iPad, refusing him even the courtesy of her expression.
"Then where do you want to go?" Zorain asked again, this time his tone laced with the gentleness one would use while speaking to a child. He could not risk shattering this delicate peace she had granted him, however momentary.
"My home," she said firmly. "Alvi Mansion."
She expected him to refuse, to argue, to remind her of the situation—but what came instead caught her off guard.
"Okay," he said, nodding without hesitation. "We're heading there."
Isra's eyes flickered wide in surprise, and before she could stop herself, a spark of childlike excitement lit up her voice.
"Really?" she asked, her words carrying a sudden brightness that betrayed her hardened exterior.
"Yes. Really," Zorain replied, and a faint smile curved his lips.
But the moment she saw that smile, her own innocence retreated like the tide pulling back into the ocean. She immediately straightened, adjusting her face back into its usual mask of indifference, unwilling to let him believe he had won even the smallest piece of her heart.
Isra's POV.
Finally, I was back—back to the place that had cradled my childhood, the home whose walls still whispered with echoes of laughter and innocence I could never reclaim. Nostalgia should have comforted me, but instead it cut like glass, because every memory here carried the shadow of him.
The last time I stood within these walls, he had marked me. Not gently, not kindly—his palm had cracked against my face with a violence that still burned in my bones. And then—oh God—he had kissed me. That kiss. My mind refused to stop circling it like a vulture over a corpse. Did he mean it? Was it real? Or just another cruel trick from a man who thrived on contradictions?
Why would he mean it? He was supposed to be marrying that sanctified saint of a woman, the one everyone praised as if she were holiness wrapped in silk. Sachchai ki moorat. How sickening. They were perfect for each other, weren't they? Two illusions dressed in flesh. May they drown in the poison they pretend not to drink.
I had long since accepted I was not a "good" girl anymore. Once upon a time, when my parents were alive, I had tried to be. They taught me kindness, compassion, restraint—but death stole them from me and with them, it stole the version of me that was soft. What remained was sharp, jagged, unapologetically corrupted.
I leaned back against the headboard, trying to steady the hurricane inside me, when the door creaked open. And there he was. Him. Carrying a bowl of steaming soup as though he were some dutiful guardian, as though his hands weren't capable of cruelty.
God, no. Not him. Not now.
His eyes found me, dark and steady, and for a fleeting second I thought I saw something unbearably gentle there—something protective, something that made me feel as though I was breakable porcelain. A lie. It had to be a lie. Everything he had ever given me was deception stitched with just enough tenderness to confuse me.
He settled into the chair beside my bed, composed, infuriatingly calm. He lifted the spoon, steam curling upward, and held it near my lips like I was some helpless creature. My jaw locked. I would not open my mouth. I would not let him feed me, not him, not with those same hands that once hurt me and then claimed me with a kiss I couldn't forget.
"I can drink it myself," I muttered, each word clipped, heavy with disdain. My gaze refused to meet his. "You can leave."
Zorain's POV.
So damn stubborn. Why the hell did God make her this impossibly obstinate? She couldn't even hold the spoon properly in her state, and yet she dared to claim she could drink the soup by herself. What rubbish. What nonsense. This girl would rather set herself on fire than accept help from me.
But I didn't hand her the bowl. I didn't move an inch toward the door either. Instead, I leveled my gaze on her and spoke.
"I'm feeding you. No need to bother yourself." My voice was cold, deep, stripped of softness—because my sweetness never understood my gentle tone. She mistook kindness for weakness, and weakness was the last thing I could afford to show her.
"I said I'll drink it myself," she fired back, her voice laced with defiance. God, she was testing me. I swear, one day I'll tie her down and feed her forcefully if that's what it takes.
"And I said—" I leaned forward, each word clipped, heavy as ice, "I'm. Feeding. You."
That caught her attention. Her eyes, those wild flames, locked onto mine, glaring as though she could pierce my skin and split open my soul.
"Jerk," she spat, the word sharp as broken glass. God, how much this girl cursed. She had a tongue like a blade and she wielded it without mercy.
"If you'll let me feed you," I said slowly, deliberately, "then I'll let you go back to college. Even before your suspension ends." I knew exactly which string to pull. She wouldn't let this opportunity slip—not her, not when freedom meant more to her than air itself.
Her stare lingered on me for a long moment, weighing my words, burning me alive with suspicion. And then—finally—her lips parted. Slowly, reluctantly, like she was surrendering a piece of herself.
I fed her, spoon by spoon, like I once did when she was a baby and I was just a teenage boy holding her clumsily, terrified she would choke but determined she wouldn't starve. Now, years later, here we were again. Full circle.
There was still some soup left when she stopped me.
"I'm done," she muttered, finality in her tone. I didn't push. I knew better than to force her now.
I rose, setting the bowl aside, about to leave her be when her voice cut through the air again.
"I wanna go shopping. Tell your driver to take me to the mall." Her words made me stop mid-step. Was she insane? She couldn't even walk straight without swaying, her body fragile as glass, and she was talking about malls? Crowds? Shopping?
"You'll go when your health improves," I said firmly.
And then—those glares. Those venomous, soul-piercing glares. If looks could kill, I'd have been buried a thousand times over by now. God, my sweetness had turned her eyes into weapons, and she never missed a chance to aim them at me.
Author's POV.
It was late at night. After a day buried in endless meetings and responsibilities, Zorain was finally free. Exhaustion weighed heavy on his shoulders, yet his feet betrayed him—carrying him not to his own room, but towards hers.
He opened the door slowly, careful not to make a sound, and the first sight that greeted him froze him in place.
Isra was asleep. Peacefully.
She looked delicate, almost unreal, her lashes resting against her skin like feathery shadows. A rare sight, rarer than the crescent moon of Eid. It was strange—his sweetness, who was all storms and fire in the day, could look so fragile in slumber.
Zorain stepped closer and sat beside her bed. He didn't wake her for dinner, didn't even move to disturb her. He just sat there, watching her, as though this fleeting glimpse of serenity was worth more than anything in his world.
But soon, the calm began to unravel.
Her face twitched. A crease appeared between her brows. She shifted uneasily, and then, like a sudden storm, fear overtook her. Sweat gathered on her forehead, tears slipped unbidden from her closed eyes, and words—broken, trembling—began to escape her lips.
"M…mum…maa…n-no…ple…please…"
Zorain's chest tightened. At first he didn't understand, but then it struck him—she was having a nightmare. God. How would he know? He had been kept away after her parents' death. She had put a condition back then: if her grandparents wanted her, then Zorain had to leave. And he had left. That distance, those six years, had robbed him of so much—her fears, her tears, her pain. He knew nothing of what haunted her nights.
"Isra… wake up," he said softly at first, patting her cheek. Then louder, "Isra! Wake up, it's just a dream."
But she was trapped in another world, clawing for an escape he couldn't give.
Finally, after desperate attempts, her eyes flew open. She gasped, and before Zorain could even react, she sat up and threw herself against him—hugging him with a desperation that rattled his very bones.
His eyes widened. For the first time in six years, she had touched him willingly. No curses. No venom. Just raw, breaking humanity. Her arms wrapped tight around his waist, her head pressed hard against his chest as though he were the only anchor keeping her from drowning. She was crying—a messy, heart-wrenching sound that pierced him more than any insult ever could.
For a moment, Zorain forgot to breathe. But then instinct, that buried tenderness, returned. He lifted his hand and stroked her hair slowly, rhythmically, whispering nothing, letting her sob into him. For two whole minutes she stayed, clinging to him like her life depended on it.
And then—like a flame realizing it had shown its warmth—she let go. Her hands dropped, her gaze avoided his, shame flooding her features as if she had betrayed herself by leaning on him.
Her voice, weak and trembling, still broke the silence.
"Wh…what are you doing here?"
Zorain's eyes softened. "Just came to check on you. But are you okay?"
"Hnn… mujhe kya hona hai. Aur waise bhi, tumhe meri fikar karne ki zaroorat nahi hai," she muttered, trying to gather her sharpness back like armor.
He didn't let her. His voice came, low and steady, carrying the same stubbornness she did.
"Tumhe kuch hone bhi nahi dunga. Aur mujhe tumhari fikar karne ki zaroorat hai… kyunki koi aur nahi hai. Aur tumhe toh khud ki bhi fikar nahi hai."
Her eyes glistened. She blinked rapidly, fighting the tears with everything she had, but the storm inside her betrayed her.
"Kya hua?" Zorain asked gently.
"Kuch nahi. Tumse matlab," she snapped back, clinging desperately to her bitter facade.
"Batane se dukh kam hota hai, Isra." His tone was soft, coaxing, not demanding.
Her lips trembled. She laughed bitterly through the lump in her throat. "Haan, beshaq hota hai. Lekin tumhe batane se mera dukh sirf badh sakta hai… kam nahi ho sakta."
And then it happened. Those stubborn tears that had been fighting at the edge finally broke free, rolling hot and angry down her cheeks.
"What happened, Isra?" Zorain whispered again, and this time he pulled her into his arms. He expected resistance. A shove. A curse. But none came. She stayed. Maybe because she was too tired. Maybe because, for once, she wanted someone—anyone—to hold her and make her feel like home.
Her words came out broken, strangled, but they cut him deeper than any knife.
"Tumne meri zindagi itni mushkil kyun banayi, Zorain?"
He froze.
Her head was still against his chest when she continued, her voice cracking, drowning in years of suppressed pain.
"Tum toh aise nahi the na… tum toh meri khushi ke liye kuch bhi kar sakte the. Toh kyun… kyun tumne mujhse meri khushiyan cheen li?"
And in that moment, Zorain realized—the nightmare she saw with closed eyes was nothing compared to the nightmare he had become in her reality.
Zorain's POV.
Her words were stabbing me, each one sharper than a dagger, tearing through the already rotting flesh of my guilt. My shirt was soaking with her hot tears, and my skin—my cursed, goddamn skin—burned with every drop that seeped into it. She leaned closer, pressing her trembling body against me, and instead of finding solace, she was emptying her grief into me like venom. Her voice cracked, vulnerable yet fierce, accusing me, breaking me.
"Tumne kyu kiya mere saath aisa? Hn? Tumne kyu nahi bachaya mumma-papa ko? Tu…tum chahte toh kar sakte the! Tumne kyu maani nani ki baat?!"
Her words cut me open. Fuck. I wanted to scream. I wanted to shake her and beg her to stop because she didn't know. She didn't fucking know. If only I could tell her the truth, Isra. That I didn't choose. That I never had a goddamn choice. That everything I did was because of them. Because of the shackles tied around my neck by her grandmother's words, by obligations, by curses I could never explain.
But what good would it do? Would she believe me? No. She would only spit in my face again.
Then she said the words that shattered me into dust.
"A…agr tum mom-dad ko bacha lete t…toh shayad…shayad tum m…mere liye kuch aur hote."
My entire body stilled. The earth beneath me split. That one fragile possibility, that single goddamn shayad—it fucked me over completely.
"Kya hota?" My voice was hoarse, desperate. "Bolo, Isra. Kya hota?"
She stayed quiet, her silence louder than any scream, and for a moment I thought she would never answer. But then she spoke, her words soft yet laced with venom, like poison honey dripping from her lips.
"K…kuch bhi hote. But not my enemy."
Not her enemy. Fuck. That line pierced deeper than any bullet ever could. It made me feel like the biggest sinner alive, like my soul was already burning in some hellfire only she could summon.
I tightened my arms around her fragile frame, burying my face in her hair that still smelled of wild jasmine, and I whispered against her crown, "Gimme one chance. Mai sab theek kar dunga, Isra. I fucking promise."
I kissed her hair slowly, reverently, almost like a prayer, and I couldn't stop myself. God, I was still in shock somewhere that she wasn't pushing me away. She wasn't clawing at my chest, wasn't throwing curses to burn me alive. No—she was letting me touch her. Letting me hold her. This girl, who hated me with her entire being, was letting me stay.
Her voice, fragile yet barbed, broke the moment.
"Kyun du?"
I almost chuckled, bitterly, because that was her. Always questioning. Always stabbing me with why's and how's. Always fucking stubborn. God, this girl.
She broke the hug finally and lifted her eyes, her gaze colliding with mine. For the first time in years, there was no ice, no walls—just rawness, just pain.
I swallowed, my throat dry, and said the only truth I had left inside me.
"Kyunki main sab theek karna chahta hoon."
Our eyes locked, fire to fire, storm to storm. I didn't even realize when my gaze betrayed me, when it dropped from those fierce eyes to her lips. Fucking hell, those lips. Pulpy. Juicy. Red from her constant biting. I had tasted them twice already—stolen, desperate, brutal. But right now? Right now, all I wanted was to taste them again. To devour her until she remembered nothing but me.
And then, Isra leaned in closer, her warm breath brushing against my skin, and whispered, "Agar mai tumhe ek chance de bhi doon… toh kya guarantee hai ki tum is baar mujhe dhoka nahi doge?"
I smirked faintly, the corner of my lips twitching with a mix of arrogance and desperation. My voice dropped, rough, heavy with conviction.
"I'm a man of my words, Isra. And you fucking know that."
Her reaction? A smirk. That damn smirk. She looked away, lips curving in mockery, in defiance, and God—I wanted to rip it off her face. I wanted to crush that smirk beneath my own lips until she had no choice but to melt against me. Until she forgot every ounce of hatred and remembered only one thing—me.
And the worst part? I was two fucking seconds away from doing it.
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Guys… honestly, I'm really disappointed with the response on my previous chapter. 💔 It takes a lot of time, effort, and emotions to write and upload each scene, and when I don't see your votes and comments, it really breaks my motivation.
Still… because I love this story and I know some of you are waiting, I'm uploading this chapter. But please, if you're enjoying it even a little—show me your love. ❤️
I want to see at least 25 votes and 15 comments. Your support means everything—it keeps me going, it makes me want to give you more. Without it, I honestly don't feel like continuing.
So, don't just read silently. Vote. Comment. Share your thoughts.
That's all I ask from you. 💫
Thank you,
—Eshie ✨
Words: 3232