Kais's Pov
Aubrey Ardel — a name that carried the kind of power that made even silence bow in respect. The surname alone could bring half of New York to its knees. Yet I often wondered: did Aubrey hold any power of his own, or was he merely a shadow of Ardel — a name gilded in glory and curse alike?
As the eldest son of the Ferdous family — a man built on tradition, pride, and the instinct to protect — these questions gnawed at me more than I'd care to admit.
Seven years ago, my baby sister called me, her voice sparkling through the receiver like laughter caught in sunlight. She'd met someone — a peculiar young man, she said — someone who intrigued her in ways she couldn't quite explain.
Intrigued her?
Those words alone were enough to send a chill through my veins. The idea that some stranger had managed to captivate her attention infuriated me. I was ready to board the first flight to New York and break that fascination by any means necessary. But Ayah, ever quick to sense my anger, tried to soothe me.
"Nothing's happening, Kais," she had said softly. "He's not even my friend. Just… someone I met for a moment."
And yet, that moment changed everything.
I'll give the man sitting across from me some credit — it takes guts to decide, after one fleeting encounter, that my sister was meant to be his.
When I finally met Aubrey Ardel seven years ago, I understood what Ayah meant. He wasn't loud or flamboyant. He was the calm before the storm — and the storm was his surname. Together, Aubrey Ardel was a paradox, a fragile balance between light and shadow, tenderness and terror.
But after Ayah's death, the storm broke loose.
The man vanished, and only Ardel remained — hollow, terrifying, unstoppable.
He became something else entirely. Something darker. Something unpredictable.
People often call me a psychopath — and maybe they're right. But the difference between a man like me and a man like Aubrey is simple: when I strike, you see it coming. With him, you never do. One moment, you think you're safe; the next, you realize you've been standing inside the lion's cage all along.
Aubrey doesn't just command fear. He breathes it in, and exhales it like art.
Even now, as he sits before me — calm, polite, a faint smirk ghosting his lips — every instinct in me is screaming run.
And I can tell Hayat feels it too.
We all see it.
Seven years, and we still haven't figured him out. The only person who ever could is buried beneath six feet of earth.
The air between us felt suffocating, too still. So, to cut through it — or maybe to breathe through it — I decided to ask the question that had haunted me for years.
Ayah was many things — stubborn, reckless, insufferably impulsive. She wasn't the kind of woman who turned heads. Not the way others did. So what could a man like Aubrey — refined, precise, always in control — have possibly seen in her?
I had to know.
He looked down for a moment, his long fingers tracing the rim of his cup before speaking. His voice was low, rich, heavy with memory.
"When people find something they truly want," he said, "they'll do anything to hold onto it — even if they know they can never really have it. That's what Ayah was to me."
He paused, eyes softening as if the past had come alive before him.
"She was… precious beyond words. Both then and now. From the moment I saw her, something inside me woke up — something I'd forgotten even existed. Happiness. It had been so long since I'd felt it that I didn't recognize it at first. But in her presence, I smiled — not the polite kind, not the empty one I'd mastered for the world. A real one."
His tone wavered for the first time — just slightly. "She brought warmth back into my world. Made me remember what it felt like to want a tomorrow. I wanted to know her, protect her, love her… because before Ayah, there was no one I could truly call mine."
I swallowed hard. Damn it. Was I seriously crying?
I blinked fast, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer some distraction. The lump in my throat was unbearable. Hayat, sitting beside me, wasn't even trying to hide her tears — her small shoulders trembled as she wept into her hands.
Then Aubrey's voice broke the silence. "Kais," he said, tone laced with that calm, knowing humor that always unnerved me. "Are you crying?"
I turned to him, forcing a smirk even as my voice cracked. "Nah, man," I muttered, waving vaguely at the chandelier above. "It's just… the ceiling. It's so damn beautiful. Who designed it? I need their number."
Aubrey chuckled — a low, velvety sound that carried a thousand emotions I couldn't name. The glint in his emerald eyes told me he saw right through me, but for once, he didn't push.
"Dinner's ready!" Kennedy's voice rang through the hall, mercifully breaking the spell.
I glanced at my watch — 10:25 p.m. How the hell had time slipped by so quickly? Aubrey rose gracefully, stretching his long frame as his joints cracked quietly. Hayat, ever the helper, darted into the kitchen to assist Kennedy, her red-rimmed eyes betraying the storm she was trying to hide.
I began packing up my equipment — pens, recorders, notes — the mundane rhythm grounding me. Outside, snow blanketed the city in silence. The world was hushed, the streets bathed in silver light. The flakes glimmered under the moon like falling ashes.
When I finally turned toward the dining table, my heart eased a little. It was set like a feast: golden roast beef, glazed lamb, bowls of steaming vegetables, freshly baked bread still glistening with butter. It felt almost holy, like a prayer in the form of food.
I sat down, fork in hand, ready for that first perfect bite.
Then the doorbell rang.
The metallic chime echoed through the house, slicing through the warmth. My fork froze midair.
I looked at Aubrey.
He was already staring at the door — his face unreadable, his eyes dark and far away.
And in that stillness, I realized something: whatever waited behind that door… it wasn't done with him yet.