Isra's POV.
Finally, I woke up at noon today, body heavy as if I had been dragged through hell. My muscles ached, my mind felt fogged, and yet—I knew exactly why. The flashes of last night struck me mercilessly, one after another, like sharp blades tearing through my thoughts. I wanted to ignore it, bury it deep, but the memories came anyway, uninvited, unrelenting.
Dragging myself upright, I sat on the edge of the bed, palms pressed against my temples, trying to steady the storm inside. A shower, I thought. Maybe that would wash off the residue of whatever the hell I was feeling. But before I could even move, my gaze locked onto the couch across the room.
And my breath fucking stilled.
There they were—shopping bags. Piled neatly, almost deliberately, as if mocking me. My brows knitted together in confusion and disbelief. What the hell? Who put them here? I stood up, walked toward them cautiously, heart pounding like I was about to uncover something forbidden.
I pulled one bag open, and when I took out what was inside, my throat went dry. It was a dress. Not just any dress—the exact fucking dress I picked yesterday. The one I had wanted, the one I had practically begged for, but Zorain had shut me down, refusing me with his cold, merciless tone.
But it wasn't just that. Every single bag contained the things I had chosen yesterday, the ones he had refused to buy. All of them. As if he had watched me, memorized every damn thing, and bought them anyway.
And the only name that hammered in my head was his.
Zorain.
Zorain fucking Raza.
I swallowed hard, emotions clashing violently inside me—rage, confusion, and something far more dangerous. Something that made my chest tighten in a way I didn't want to name.
Shaking my head, I threw the bags back onto the couch, refusing to let his shadow ruin my sanity first thing in the day. I forced myself into the bathroom, freshened up, and headed downstairs for lunch.
As always, the house was empty. Dead silent. It pissed me off how this dining table used to be the liveliest place in the world for me. I used to sit here with my parents, throwing tantrums, pouting until I got my way. Even Zorain was a part of those memories—taunting, teasing, sometimes infuriating me. But now?
Now this place was just a fucking graveyard.
I sat down, poking at my food, chewing without tasting, the silence pressing in like a suffocating blanket. And yet, even in the quiet, even when I wanted to block it out, one thought refused to leave me.
The bags.
The gifts.
Him.
Zorain Raza.
And the fact that I had no idea whether I should burn those things or wear them and drive him insane.
Author's POV.
After lunch, Isra escaped to her sanctuary—her painting room. The one place where her thoughts didn't feel like a noose around her neck. She lost herself in colors, her brush moving furiously against the canvas as if bleeding out her chaos. Hours slipped by until the sun had long drowned into darkness, and only when her neck began to ache did she finally set the brush down.
But she wasn't done rebelling yet. She craved air. Freedom. The suffocating walls of the mansion made her feel like a goddamn prisoner. Yet, even her rebellion had limits. She couldn't walk out without his permission, and of course, the two shadows—her bodyguards—followed her every step. His orders. Always his orders.
By the time she returned, the clock was striking close to eleven.
Zorain was already home. Dinner finished, glass of scotch on the table, and his broad frame sprawled lazily across the leather couch. The glow of his MacBook lit his sharp face, eyes narrowed, focused. He wasn't angry. He never wasted anger on things he already expected. Isra was a mess of her own, and he had memorized her habits. Whenever she stepped outside, she never came back on time. And tonight was no different.
When Isra walked into the living room, her heels clicking against the marble floor, her eyes landed on him immediately. For a split second, she considered ignoring him—marching straight to her room, locking herself away, pretending he didn't exist. But then, like a spark reigniting a dangerous fire, the memory of those shopping bags crashed into her mind.
Fuck ignoring him.
She dropped onto the couch opposite him, legs crossed, her stare burning holes into his calm facade. Zorain lifted his gaze from the laptop screen, dark eyes locking with hers, a flicker of amusement twitching at his mouth.
"Did you keep those shopping bags in my room?" Her voice was sharp, cutting.
"Which?" His tone was cool, detached, as if the question didn't matter.
Isra's jaw clenched. "Just shut the crap, Zorain. Don't play dumb with me. Otherwise I'll pluck your fucking hair out."
One corner of his lips curved upward, not quite a smile, not quite mockery. "Hmm…" he pretended to think, fingers lazily tapping against the MacBook, "…maybe I kept them."
Her chest tightened, heat crawling up her spine, though she couldn't name if it was fury or something else entirely. "Take them back. Gift them to anyone you want—or wait, actually…" she leaned forward, venom lacing her words, "…why don't you give them to your sweet fiancée? She'd probably love them."
That struck. She knew it did. His jaw ticked, eyes narrowing into a dangerous glare. The lazy calm disappeared, replaced with a razor's edge of irritation.
"Why the fuck do you always bring her between us?" His voice was low, sharp, every word laced with restrained fury.
Isra shot back without flinching, her voice dripping venom. "Because I hate everything that's related to you."
The silence that followed was thick, suffocating, brimming with tension.
And before he could reply, Isra stood up, flipping her hair back, and walked away, her heels echoing in the room like a final slap.
Zorain sat there, fists clenched against his knee, staring at the space she left behind. She thought her words rolled off him. She thought she could wound him and get away. But if Isra only knew the storm she was toying with—she would've run instead of walked.
_________________
It had been almost a month since Isra and Zorain had been living under the same roof of the Alvi Mansion, breathing the same air, sharing the same walls, yet colliding in a thousand unsaid ways every day. Their lives, however, looked strikingly different. Zorain drowned himself into his empire—his business and the blood-stained shadows of his mafia world—while Isra balanced her chaos between college, friends, and her endless hunger for drama.
Isra was a ticking bomb on campus. Everyone knew it. From her professors to her principal, from the nerds who feared her sharp tongue to the boys who burned under her mocking glances—she was unpredictable, untamed, reckless in a way that only Isra Raza could be.
Now, her college's annual day was arriving, and of course, Isra had thrown herself into it with the same arrogance and passion she carried everywhere. She had chosen to perform a solo dance—something bold, something that would command every gaze in the auditorium. But her principal, poor man, already carried scars of her previous stunts. He knew Isra too well. She was a walking disaster, a girl who could turn a performance into a warzone if she decided she was bored.
So this time, he wasn't taking chances. He had laid down the condition in his strictest tone: Bring someone from your family. No excuses. No tantrums. Or you don't perform.
Isra had rolled her eyes, but the demand had stuck in her head.
Her options were few—actually, none. Her grandfather was out of state, buried in work, unreachable. Her grandmother, Mrs. Raza, wasn't an option either; Isra hadn't spoken to her in forever, and everyone in the family knew why. Which left only one name. The one name that made her blood boil and her veins itch with fury and something far more dangerous.
Zorain fucking Raza.
Her legal guardian. Her jailer. Her curse. Her unwanted shadow.
And the only man she had no choice but to drag along.
The idea itself made her want to punch a wall, but the truth was simple: she was desperate. For once, she wanted to shine under the spotlight, to let her wild energy spill out without boundaries, and the thought of being stopped because of a missing "family member" was unbearable.
So tonight, she had to tell him. Tonight, no matter how much it bruised her pride, she had to walk up to the man she swore she hated, and demand that he show up for her tomorrow.
Except, knowing Zorain, it wouldn't be simple. Nothing with him ever was. He'd be working late, half his mind buried in contracts and the other half buried in the kind of sins Isra could only imagine. He'd look at her with that detached, fucking smug expression—the one that said you don't order me around, sweetness.
Isra bit her lip, pacing her room as she thought of it. Just the thought of asking him made her feel like she was kneeling, and she hated that more than anything. But if she didn't, her dance was gone, and she wasn't ready to surrender that.
"Fuck," she muttered under her breath, dragging her hands through her hair. "I'll fucking kill him if he says no. I swear I will."
But deep down, she already knew—Zorain Raza never really said no to her. Not when it mattered. Not when it was about her.
The only problem was, he never said yes without making her burn first.
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