Cold water burns against my skin. I splash it again and again, watching droplets slide down the sink, wishing they'd drag the memory with them. Ebrahim's hand on me. Yasmin's voice. Shadin's bloodied fists. It clings like rot, no matter how hard I scrub.
I grip the edge of the sink, knuckles white, chest heaving. "Forget it," I whisper to my reflection, like if I say it enough times it'll stick. "Erase it. Erase all of it."
But my face in the mirror doesn't look erased. It looks wrecked.
I drag the towel across my skin, rougher than I should, and force my legs to move. Back to the bedroom. Back to silence.
Except the second I step through the bathroom door—
Snap.
The bedroom door slams open so hard the sound cracks through me. I flinch, body jerking, heart climbing into my throat.
And then—him.
Zayan.
God. Zayan.
He's there in the doorway, frame filling it like a shadow I didn't even know I was begging for. Didn't he say he'd be late? Didn't he leave? My breath stumbles because for the first time all day, the ground feels solid.
He closes the distance in an instant. No pause, no hesitation. Just him, moving like he already knows he belongs here.
His voice cuts sharp. "What happened?"
My chest locks. The words don't make sense. How the fuck does he know? My lips part but nothing comes out.
"I said—" his voice drops lower, dangerous, "—what happened?"
"I—nothing." The word stutters out of me, thin, pathetic.
His jaw ticks. His eyes pin me like he's already tearing the lie apart. "Don't fucking play this game with me, Arshila."
My throat burns. I shake my head, pushing the words out harder, desperate. "I said nothing."
The silence that follows is brutal. He just stares, that stare that strips me raw, like he's waiting for me to break and confess.
And God, I want to. I want to throw it all at him, beg him to fix it, to make it all disappear. But I can't
So I bite my tongue.
His chest rises, slow, controlled. That control is worse than shouting—it's a warning. He takes a step closer, so close I can feel the heat rolling off him. His voice comes out softer, but not kinder. "Arshila. Once. Last chance. What. Happened."
I open my mouth, ready to crack—
Knock.
I jolt like the sound's a gunshot. My head snaps to the door, breath rushing out in relief I don't dare show. A distraction. Thank God.
I move fast, faster than him, crossing the room and yanking the door open.
A staff member stands there, eyes down, voice polite. "Madam, the dinner is ready. Everyone will be in the hall."
I nod too quickly. "Yeah. Okay." I shut the door before he can say more, back pressing against it like I can hold the moment closed.
I grab the scarf from the chair, hands shaking as I wrap it around my arms, like fabric can shield me from what's coming. "Let's go," I say without looking at him.
I don't meet his eyes. I can't. If I do, I'll break. And if I break, he'll know everything before the hall even sees my face.
Behind me, I can feel him watching. That stare that owns the air between us, heavy, relentless.
But I keep my eyes forward.
Because dinner isn't just dinner tonight. It's a fucking stage. Yasmin will be there, waiting. And when the knives come out, I'll have no choice but to bleed.
The hall is already full when we walk in. Every chair taken, voices low, the kind of silence that isn't really silence—it's waiting.
I don't lift my eyes to his parents. I don't dare. If I look at them, they'll see everything written all over my face. And once they see it, there's no pulling it back.
Instead, my gaze finds Shadin. He's already watching me. His eyes catch mine and steady, no words, no movements—just that look, that silent language we built years ago. It's okay. Breathe. Don't worry.
But I can't.
Zayan pulls a chair out for me, smooth, controlled, like the perfect husband who always makes the gesture. My chest knots tighter. I can't sit there, next to him, where his presence will burn through me, where every breath will feel like confession.
So I move past it. Past him. Past that waiting chair. And I sit at the far end of the table, across from him, where the space between us is wide enough to pretend.
I don't look at him. Not once.
Instead, my eyes flick where they shouldn't—Ebrahim. He's lounging back in his chair, a swollen cheek still painted with the shadow of Shadin's fist. And he's smirking at me. Smirking like the whole world is in on his joke and I'm the punchline.
My stomach flips, bile rising.
Then Yasmin. Of course. She doesn't bother with subtle. Her stare cuts across the table, all venom and promise. She's ready. She's waiting. I can see it in the way her lips twitch, the way her spine straightens like she's already stepping onto the stage.
And then—
The air shifts. Heavy. Final.
Kamal Rashid walks in.
The entire table stills, like gravity just doubled. He doesn't walk, he arrives. His presence fills every corner of the hall before he even sits. And when he lowers himself into his chair—his throne—it's not just the head of the table anymore. It's judgment carved in flesh and bone.
The dinner begins. Food moves. Plates shift. Silver scrapes.
But I can't taste a thing.
Because all I can feel is him.
Zayan.
Across from me.
His stare is on me—unmoving, relentless, like a hand around my throat. Every second that passes, I feel it heavier, hotter, demanding I look back.
But I don't. I won't. If I meet his eyes, I'll crack wide open. And when I do, the truth will spill out right here, at this table, in front of the people waiting to shred me apart.
So I keep my gaze down. I push food around my plate. I pretend I don't feel him burning through me.
Because what's the point of saying it to him alone, whispering it in our room, when it will come out here anyway? In front of everyone. From my mouth.
The only question is—when it lands, will Zayan move? Or will he sit there, still, silent, watching me bleed?
The dining hall is too quiet for the weight in the air. Silver cuts against porcelain, the faint scrape of a knife slicing through roasted meat. Yasmin doesn't lift her head. Doesn't even glance at anyone. Her fork moves, steady, like she's talking to her plate instead of the people around her.
"Does anyone here know," she starts, voice low but razor clear, "what it looks like to see blood spilled for something filthy? To watch boys fight over dirt they shouldn't have touched?"
A hush cuts across the table.
"I saw it today," she goes on, calm as if she's reciting the weather. "With my own eyes. Right in the garden, not even hidden. Like savages. Like mud clinging to the soles of our shoes."
Alyan's knife pauses midair. His gaze snaps to her. "What are you talking about?"
Still, Yasmin doesn't look up. Doesn't give anyone the grace of her eyes. Her shoulders stay straight, her cutlery working. Bite. Chew. Swallow. Then, smooth as venom, she answers, "My nephew. Your blood. My son."
The room goes tighter. A thread ready to snap.
"Ebrahim was attacked. Beaten. And not by some stranger or servant—by My own nephew. By Rayhan's boy."
The words slam into the table like a hammer. A sharp gasp breaks from one corner. Someone shifts, a chair creaking under weight.
And Yasmin—she laughs. Soft at first, then sharper. The sound doesn't match her words; it cuts deeper. "Ask me why he did it. Go on. Ask me."
Silence. Nobody breathes.
She lifts her chin, finally, her eyes glinting like a blade catching light. "It was over your daughter-in-law, Alyan."
Her fork clinks against the plate. Her words land like stones.
Across the table, Zayan stills. He doesn't lift his head. Doesn't even twitch. Frozen, caught in the strike without a shield.
Alyan leans forward, voice steel. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Maireen cuts in sharp, sharper than him. "Explain yourself, Yasmin. Enough of this riddling. Speak clearly."
Yasmin smiles—tight, humorless. "Clearly? Fine. I'll give it to you clearly. Today, in the garden, Rayhan's son raised his fists against mine. And why? Not for honor. Not for family. But because of her." Her hand flicks, not even needing to point. Everyone knows who she means. "The girl you've dressed in Tavarian silk. The one you've seated at this table like she belongs."
Her words hang, heavy, foul, unstoppable.
The hall is dead silent, except for the pounding in every chest.
Forks stop moving. The air's heavy like everyone's waiting for someone to choke. Alyan's voice slices through it, sharp as glass.
"What are you talking about, Yasmin? Why the hell would Shadin hit Ebrahim?"
My throat goes dry. My stomach knots. Shadin's name feels like it's burned into the air, and my skin prickles, like somehow all this shit is gonna land on me.
Yasmin finally lifts her head. Her eyes are flat, cold, like she's been holding this poison in just to spit it here. "Didn't I say it already? It was because of your daughter-in-law."
The words slam into me like a slap. I freeze. My fingers curl under the table, nails biting into my palm, but I keep my face blank. Neutral. Don't give her the satisfaction.
Maireen's fork clatters against her plate. "Stop talking in circles, Yasmin. Explain what the hell you mean—now."
Yasmin's mouth twists like she's been waiting for that opening. She leans back in her chair, almost relaxed. "Fine. I'll spell it out for you. Your nephew put his hands on my son because of that girl sitting at your table. He thought she was worth raising fists over. Imagine that. Two grown men spilling blood in your garden… over her."
My chest squeezes so hard it hurts. Everyone's eyes shift—some on Yasmin, some on me. I can feel the weight of it pressing down like I'm about to suffocate.
Yasmin's not done. Not even close. "And you brought her here, Alyan. You put her in Tavarian silk, paraded her like she's something more than a girl dragged into this house. Tell me—" her laugh is sharp, bitter "—do you think she's built for this? Do you think she's worthy? Because I saw what she pulled today. I saw the filth she dragged into your garden. Boys tearing at each other like dogs, and her at the center of it."
Blood rushes in my ears, hot and ugly. My jaw tightens so hard it aches, but I don't open my mouth. Not yet.
Alyan's voice booms back, hard enough to make the chandelier tremble. "Enough riddles. If you're accusing, then say it plain. Do not play games under my roof."
Yasmin's eyes flick to him, unblinking. "Plain? You want plain? Your nephew beat mine bloody because he thought she was his to defend. Because your daughter-in-law doesn't know her place. That plain enough for you?"
Silence. My heart thunders like it's gonna break out of my chest. Zayan doesn't even move, doesn't lift his head, and that makes it worse. He's stone. And me? I feel like a fucking target strapped to this chair.
Maireen's voice cuts through, sharp and furious. "You dare come here and spit this poison at our table? At our family?"
Yasmin laughs again, low and mean. "Poison? No, Maireen. Poison is hiding the truth while the rot spreads. I'm not hiding shit. I'm saying it how it is."
The whole table holds its breath. The tension's so thick I swear the air could crack. My pulse hammers against my throat.
And then—Kamal. His voice slams down like thunder, shaking the walls.
"Enough."
Silence spreads like a slap. Everyone freezes, even Yasmin. She stares at him like she can't believe he cut her off.
His eyes lock on her. Cold. Sharp. "You've got a sharp mouth, Yasmin. I know it. Everyone knows it. But don't you ever use it against this family."
Yasmin lets out this short, bitter wheeze of a laugh. "Our family? What the fuck do you mean by our family? Her? You're calling her family?" She jerks her chin toward me like I'm some bug she found in her food. "She's not family. She's an outsider."
I clench my hands under the table so tight my nails dig crescents into my palm. Don't react. Don't give her the satisfaction.
And then Amira—sweet, soft-spoken Amira who barely ever raises her voice—hits back like a fucking whip.
"How dare you call her an outsider, Yasmin?"
Yasmin's head snaps to her, but Amira doesn't flinch. Her eyes are blazing. "She is Zayan's wife. That makes her Tavarian. That makes her family. Just because she doesn't come from money dripping out of her pockets doesn't mean she doesn't belong here."
My chest squeezes. Hard. Amira—she said it so plain. No sugarcoat. Like I actually… matter.
Yasmin wheezes again, sharper, angrier. "Mom. Don't be stupid. Zayan married her, yes—but how? Why? Everyone here knows why. He married her to cover the fucking accident. To—"
"Enough!" Kamal's voice booms, rattling the glasses. "I said enough, Yasmin!"
The room goes dead still. I can't even look at Zayan—I don't dare. My stomach's a knot, my eyes burning into my plate like it'll swallow me whole.
Kamal turns, his gaze shifting like a blade. "Shadin."
Shadin's head lifts, calm but hard.
"Why did you hit Ebrahim?" Kamal asks, voice sharp but steady. "He's your elder cousin. You know that."
Shadin's jaw tightens, his shoulders squared. "I know he's my elder brother. But that doesn't mean he gets a free pass to do whatever the fuck he wants just because he's got a mother who'll lick his wounds and clap for him."
"Shadin." Rayhan's voice cuts, low and warning. His father tone.
But Kamal doesn't let it slide. He raises a hand, eyes locked on Rayhan. "No. Don't silence him. He's speaking. Let him speak."
Rayhan shuts his mouth. Shadin breathes out sharp, steadying himself, then looks Kamal straight in the eye. "Ebrahim disrespected her. He thought he could touch her, talk down to her, treat her like she's dirt. I'm not standing by and watching that shit happen."
The words hit the table like bricks. My chest's pounding, but I don't move.
"Liar," Yasmin spits, leaning forward, venom dripping off her tongue. "Even if Ebrahim did something, who the fuck are you to meddle in that business? You're not her husband. Why do you care?"
Shadin doesn't blink. Doesn't back down. His voice drops, low and lethal.
"Because I do care. She means a lot to me." His eyes flick to me—fast, sharp—then back to Kamal. "And I'm not saying that as Zayan's wife. I've known her before she even stepped into this house. Before you all dressed her in Tavarian silk and threw her into this circus."
The words slice through me. My stomach flips so fast I can't breathe.
Kamal leans forward, his stare heavy. "Then tell me, Shadin. How did you know Ebrahim was doing that to her? How did you see it?"
Shadin doesn't hesitate. "I was coming from my room. I saw her heading to the west wing. Something felt off. So I followed." His jaw locks, his voice sharp enough to cut steel. "And I fucking saw it with my own eyes."
The room goes dead silent again. You could hear a pin drop.
And I swear to God, I can't even breathe right now.
My hands are ice under the table, but my eyes drift sideways. To him.
Zayan.
While everyone else is stiff, whispering, gasping—he's eating. Calm. Steady. Like none of this exists, like the chaos doesn't reach his side of the table. Knife sliding through meat, fork moving slow, his jaw working like it's any other night.
And that makes my stomach twist worse. How can he just—
Kamal's voice slices through. Soft, but not weak. "Arshila."
My head snaps up. His eyes are on me, sharp but… not cruel. "Say what happened."
Heat crawls up my neck. My mouth is dry as sand.
"I… Grandfather, I—"
The word's barely out before Yasmin explodes.
"Grandfather?" she screeches, shooting up from her chair like a snake uncoiling. Her voice is poison, shrill enough to stab ears. "How the fuck dare you call my father that? Who gave you permission?"
I flinch, shoulders jerking back.
But Kamal doesn't move. Doesn't blink. His gaze doesn't leave me when he says, low and lethal, "I did."
Yasmin freezes. Like the word just gutted her. "What?"
Finally, Kamal turns his head, slow. His stare pins her down like a predator with prey. "I did. I gave her permission to call me grandfather." His voice grows harder, cracking through the air like thunder. "Because she is my granddaughter-in-law. And until my last breath, she will call me that."
Yasmin's mouth opens again, breath sharp like she's about to spit more venom, but Kamal lifts a hand. That's it. She clamps shut, jaw shaking with rage but eyes dropping.
The air is heavy. My pulse loud in my ears.
Kamal looks back at me. "Now. Tell me what happened."
My throat tightens. My fingers knot together under the table. "I… I was in my room." My voice cracks, but I force it steady. "Then I got a text. From Izar's phone. He told me—come to the west wing garden, east side."
A ripple shoots down the table.
Yasmin's laugh cuts sharp. "So that loyal dog has a role in this?"
Kamal's palm slams against the table so hard dishes jump. "Don't you dare speak of Izar like that."
She flinches. Actually flinches, her face draining.
"Continue," he says to me, softer, but it still shakes my bones.
I swallow. My hands are shaking under the cloth. "So I went. I thought… I thought Izar needed me. But when I got there—" My breath hitches. My eyes burn, but I push the words out. "It wasn't him. It was Ebrahim."
Gasps hit from three sides. The whole table tightens.
"He locked me in," I say, voice low but sharp enough to cut. "He had Izar's phone. He was the one who texted me. He trapped me there."
I can't stop. The words spill now, raw, jagged. "He—he told me no one would save me. That Zayan wouldn't care. That I was nothing but a stray dragged into silk. That I was just—" My voice cracks. I bite down hard, force it through. "—a whore he could take for himself."
The table fucking erupts.
Chairs screech. Gasps, curses. Yasmin slams her fist down, shouting, "Lies! She's twisting it, she—"
My chest feels like it's caving in. The second those filthy words leave my mouth, my voice dies. I can't push more out. I can't breathe through the lump in my throat. My lips move but nothing comes, and for a second all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears.
Kamal's gaze swings. Not at me this time—at Ebrahim. The bastard's sitting there cocky, chin tilted, like he hasn't been dragged through the dirt in front of everyone. His mouth curls, a stain of blood still at the corner of his lip from earlier, but he looks proud. Proud that I choked up. Proud of what he said.
And then Kamal turns his head again. Toward Zayan.
My gut twists.
He's still eating. Fork to knife. Bite, chew, swallow. Like this is beneath him, like none of it matters. Like I don't matter. His jaw flexes once, steady, but his eyes never lift.
"Do you know anything about this?" Kamal's voice rips across the table, not loud, but hard. "Did this happen?"
I freeze. My breath catches. My whole body is begging him to lift his head, to just look at me, to give me something—anything.
But he doesn't.
"No," Zayan says. Calm. Flat. He doesn't even lift his head from the plate.
It cracks something in me. Deep. Ugly.
Kamal exhales slow, a sound more dangerous than shouting. He pins Yasmin next with his stare. "See? Your son is the wrong one here. When you reached the garden, you saw Shadin hitting him and you accused Shadin and her for what you saw. You declared it truth when it wasn't. You twisted it because you were blind with rage."
Yasmin spits back instantly, voice shrill, "Blind? Don't you dare say blind. I saw my son bleeding, I saw her—"
"Enough," Kamal cuts her off, voice booming now. It slams over the table, makes silver rattle against plates. "Not another word, Yasmin. Not one."
Her mouth snaps shut, trembling with fury.
Then his eyes swing back to her son. Sharp, heavy. "Ebrahim. Apologize. For what you did to her."
The table goes so still it hurts.
Ebrahim's smirk falters. Just a hair. He hesitates, but the weight of Kamal's glare forces him up. Slowly, he pushes from his chair, stands stiff, and drags his feet around the table until he's in front of me.
His voice comes out flat. "Sorry."
Kamal's growl vibrates the air. "Do it properly."
Ebrahim's jaw tightens. His hands fist at his sides. Then, like it kills him, he bows forward slightly. "I was wrong. I'm sorry."
But when he lifts his head, just a bit—his eyes cut to mine. And he winks.
Heat surges up my neck. White-hot fury. My hands curl under the table so tight my nails dig into my palms. I want to claw his eyes out. I want to scream.
But I can't. Not here. Not with all of them watching.
He straightens, the smug little act sliding back over his face, and strolls back to his chair like he just won something. He sits, adjusts his cuffs, and picks up his glass like nothing happened.
And me? I'm choking on it. My throat's closing, my chest burning. My eyes sting, begging to spill, but I force it down, swallow it back until it cuts.
It's not even him—Ebrahim. It's not Yasmin's venom. It's not the humiliation choking me.
It's Zayan.
Sitting across from me, eating like nothing happened. Like I'm not sitting here ripped open, bleeding in front of all of them. Like I'm invisible.
And that hurts worse than all of it.
I want to kill everyone at this table. And at the same time—I want to disappear.
I want to die .
_________________
Zayan pov
A man's body has 206 bones.
Two hundred and six.
By the time I'm done with him, Ebrahim will have one hundred ninety. Sixteen gone permanently. Each one snapped, crushed, carved out like payment.
And I sit here, chewing. Knife, fork, steady. Bite. Swallow. Again.
Every slice is a promise. A kill-count waiting.
I hear every word. Shadin bleeding for her. Yasmin spitting venom, calling her an outsider. And then the filth—what that bastard dared say to her in the garden. I don't flinch. Don't move. Don't fucking blink. Because if I do, I'll cut his throat here and now. In front of kids. In front of my grandfather. And I'm not giving them that show. Not yet.
So I eat. Quiet. Controlled. Let them think I don't care. Let her think it, too.
Her silence stings, but I make her sit in it. She didn't tell me. Not when she had the chance. She let herself carry it alone. Fine. Let her choke on the thought that I'll let it slide.
But every word Yasmin spits, every time she twists her knife, I'm counting. One. Two. Three. Every second, I'm building the order in which they'll break.
And then—
That wink.
That little piece of shit winks at her.
My jaw locks. My teeth grind slow, controlled, because I can't bare my fangs here. But in my head—I'm already taking that eye. One clean jab. Thumb through the socket, feel the pop, watch him scream blind. He wants to smirk? I'll carve it off his face.
My fork scrapes the plate. Knife carves through the meat like tendon. I imagine it's his arm. His ribs.
One bone. Two bones. Three bones.
By the end, he won't stand again. He won't smile again. He won't fucking breathe without remembering I let him live.
Because I don't want his death quick. I want it slow. Every word he said to her, I'll pay him back bone by bone. Every second she sat there holding back tears, I'll carve into his flesh.
He thinks this table saved him. He thinks Kamal's authority shields him. He thinks my silence means mercy.
It doesn't.
It means calculation.
It means he'll walk out of this room tonight with both eyes, both arms, both legs. But tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that?
He won't.
And when I take him apart, when I leave him crawling in the dark with his blood in his mouth, he'll remember this dinner. He'll remember winking at her. He'll remember thinking he could touch what's mine.
And he'll choke on it.
📍Note: Yesterday, I accidentally uploaded Chapter 88 as Chapter 87. This is the correct Chapter 88, and the numbering is now back on track. Thank you for your patience!
Hope you enjoy this chapter! Your support means so much