Dinner ends with silence.
Not peace—silence.
The kind that presses on your ears until you want to scream just to hear something break.
Nobody looks at me. I don't look at him. Not once. Not when my chest is still burning, not when his fork is scraping slow like nothing fucking happened. I swear my teeth will crack with how hard I'm grinding them. I hate him. Hate him so much it hurts my ribs to breathe.
He was right. He is a monster. A heartless, ice-blooded bastard who can sit there while I bleed in front of everyone. Who can watch me choke on humiliation and keep eating like I'm invisible.
When it's finally over, the chairs scrape back, footsteps echo, plates clatter. Everyone drifts out, leaving shadows on the walls and scraps on the table. My stomach's a pit. My throat's raw. I stand there, rooted, because if I move I'll break.
That's when his parents come. Alyan's hand lands gentle on my shoulder, and Maireen pulls me close like I'm hers. Her voice low, steady, soft in my ear:
"It's okay, sweetheart. You're safe now."
Safe.
The word makes my throat ache.
I nod, because what the fuck else can I do? Pretend? Pretend I'm not dying inside while their son watches with that dead face?
Then Rania slips in, eyes sharp, voice almost a whisper but heavy enough to bruise.
"I'm not scared for you," she says. "I'm scared for Ebrahim. I hope he doesn't die tonight."
My brows knit. I open my mouth, but she's already gone, sliding out of the room like she never said it. I stand there dumb, the words crawling under my skin. Die tonight? What the hell does she mean—
A hand clamps around my wrist. Hard.
My head jerks up.
Zayan.
His grip is iron, his face unreadable, eyes locked on mine for a split second before he turns and pulls.
"Let me go." My voice snaps, sharp, but he doesn't even twitch. He drags me out of the dining hall like I weigh nothing.
I twist my wrist, dig my heels in. Nothing. His hand is a vice. The more I fight, the tighter he holds.
So I change the game. I slow my steps deliberately, every one of them a drag. Petty as hell, but it's all I've got. If he wants me in that room, he's going to drag me like the caveman he is.
He does. His stride never falters. The muscles in his forearm flex against my skin, veins popping, and I know he feels me resisting but he doesn't care. Doesn't even look back.
By the time we reach the room, my blood is boiling.
He pushes the door open, yanks me inside, and slams it shut with a sound that rattles the frame.
The door slams, the walls shake, and I spin on him before he can even move.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" My voice rips out of me, raw, jagged, too loud for the room.
His face doesn't move. Calm. Too calm. Like he's holding something back. His jaw tightens once, and then—
"Explain why you didn't tell me about this."
I bark out a laugh. Ugly. Bitter. "Explain to you? For what, exactly? So you can laugh in my face? Or sit there like you did tonight—like a fucking stone while they tore me apart?"
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't raise his voice. Just repeats, steady, low, dangerous:
"Why didn't you tell me?"
That calm cuts deeper than if he'd screamed. My chest caves. My nails dig into my palms.
"Why?" I throw it back at him, spit flying, throat burning. "Why the fuck would I? You've never cared about me! Never. You never needed me, never looked at me like I was worth a fucking thing. Even if I was dying, even if I was standing alone in the fire—you wouldn't see me."
My voice cracks. The fury twists sharp into something heavier. My eyes burn, and the tears fight their way out no matter how hard I bite them back. I hate it. Hate the weakness. Hate that he's seeing it.
His chest rises slow, controlled, and then he moves. Steps off the door, steady, closing the space between us. His shadow eats mine. His presence suffocates.
"Why did you hide this from me?" His voice is low but it slices, a knife in the dark.
I shake my head, laugh bitter through the tears. "Hide? You make it sound like it matters. Like you would've done something. You don't even look at me when I'm breaking in front of you. You sit there chewing your fucking food."
My throat closes. The tears spill, hot, ugly, blurring my sight.
"You don't care if I'm in danger. You don't care if I'm humiliated. You don't care if I choke on my own blood in front of them. You never cared, Zayan. Not once."
He's right there now, close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off him, close enough that the air feels tight, choking. His hand twitches at his side like he's one second away from grabbing me again. His eyes—dark, unreadable, dangerous—pin me still.
"Why," he says again, voice so low it vibrates through me, "did you hide it from me?"
My fingers shake, but I shove them into his chest anyway, grabbing a fistful of his shirt like I'm trying to rip it off him. My nails dig into the fabric. My voice comes out broken and sharp, the kind that tastes like blood in your mouth.
"Fuck you, Zayan."
The words hit the air like a slap. "Fuck you for everything you've done to me. Everything you've let happen. You know what? Ebrahim's right. I'm nothing to you. Nothing. You won't care about me. He was right."
His eyes flicker but his face stays carved from stone. I pull harder, dragging him closer, my voice climbing.
"Even when I'm in danger, even when I'm standing there scared out of my fucking mind, I thought you'd come. I thought—" my throat catches and I spit it out anyway— "I thought you'd save me. But you didn't."
His jaw flexes once. His hands stay at his sides like he's holding himself back from touching me, holding himself back from… something.
"I never knew about this." His voice is low but it hits like a punch. "You lied to me when I asked you. I commanded you to say the truth. You didn't. Why?"
I laugh, a horrible, choked sound. My fingers loosen on his shirt but I don't let go. My tears spill down anyway, hot and humiliating.
"Because I thought you wouldn't care. I thought you wouldn't make a scene for me. You wouldn't even look at Ebrahim for me. You wouldn't sacrifice your blood for me. I thought…" My voice breaks again, softer now, smaller. "I thought you'd let it go. Let me go. Like always."
Something in his face flickers, the smallest crack in that mask, but it's there. He leans down, his shadow swallowing mine, voice rougher now.
"Is that why you hid it?" His eyes burn through me. "Is that why you even ordered Izar to keep it a secret from me?"
The air between us is so tight I can't breathe. My fingers slide from his shirt to his chest, but I keep them there, like the contact is the only thing keeping me upright. My head drops, my hair falling between us, and I whisper it, hoarse.
"Yes." My nod is small, jerky. "Yes, I did."
He's so close now I can feel the heat of his breath on my forehead, but he doesn't move. Doesn't touch. Just stands there, fists curling and uncurling at his sides like he's holding back a storm.
His eyes lock on me, so still it makes me want to scream. No twitch, no blink, no breath out of place. Just that stare, sharp enough to skin me alive.
Then his voice drops, low, steady, the kind that shakes more than if he yelled.
"Tell me. What did Ebrahim do?"
My throat seizes, but the words rip out, cracked and jagged. "He—" My chest caves in and I choke on it, sob breaking free. My hands slam against his chest again, fists balled, beating at him like that'll keep me upright. "He texted me from Izar's phone. He pretended—it was him. He trapped me out there."
My lungs burn. Tears stream hot, uncontrollable, while my voice shreds itself raw. "He said I'm nothing. Said I'm your concubine. That I'm just a whore you keep around for fun. And I—" my chest shakes so hard it hurts, "—I know he's right. Because you don't care. You just sat there like nothing happened. You didn't even look at him for me!"
The words spill out wild, ragged, sobs ripping through every one. I'm shaking, my whole body trembling against him, but his face doesn't move. Doesn't change. Just those eyes, staring, burning me alive.
"Then?" he asks, voice steady as a blade.
I almost collapse. "Then he slammed me against the wall." My hand clutches my wrist, still sore, skin burning where Ebrahim's fingers left their mark. "He grabbed me so hard I thought he'd break my bones. He wouldn't let go. He—he—" My voice breaks into a scream, raw, helpless. "Before he could do anything else, Shadin came. He pulled him off me. He saved me."
My knees nearly buckle, but Zayan doesn't move to catch me. Just stands there, stone, watching me fall apart. His calm makes me want to tear him apart with my nails.
His voice comes again, quiet, cruel in its steadiness. "It's not the first time, is it?"
The air freezes. I sob harder, shaking my head before the truth punches out.
"No." My scream rips out. "No—it's the third."
His jaw ticks once. "When was the first?"
My throat locks, but the answer claws its way out between sobs. "The first time was—" my chest heaves, "—after our marriage. At your family dinner. He cornered me. Tried to get his hands on me. Izar—Izar was there. He helped me."
I drag my sleeve across my face, but it doesn't stop the tears. My words tumble out fast, broken, ugly.
"And the second time too. Izar was there again. He saved me both times because you weren't. Because you didn't even notice." My voice cracks into a scream, my hands shaking so bad I can barely keep them up. "And I hate you for it. I fucking hate you, Zayan!"
I'm crying so hard it feels like my lungs will collapse, but he doesn't flinch. Doesn't break. His calm is suffocating, terrifying, like he's not even human.
His fingers clamp around my wrists and rip them off his shirt. Not rough enough to hurt, just firm, final. He's done letting me claw at him. He lowers my hands, still holding them, and for a second I can feel the tremor under his skin that shouldn't be there.
"Sit," he says. No yelling, no sharp edge—just a command that leaves no space for a word back.
I freeze, still shaking, then sit down on the couch like my body's on autopilot. My chest is still heaving, face wet, but I can't stop looking at him. He turns away from me without another word, walks to the drawer by the study desk and yanks it open. Bottles clink. He pulls out a small white tube and a roll of bandage, comes back, crouches down in front of me.
His head lowers a fraction, eyes flicking over my wrist like a surgeon checking a wound. Then he opens the tube, squeezes the cream onto his fingers and presses it against my skin. It's cool, burning and soothing at once.
"If any of you—Izar, or even you—" his voice is low, jaw clenched but steady, "—had talked to me about this before, today wouldn't have happened."
A sob shakes out of me, but nothing comes out of my mouth.
His fingers slow against my wrist. He exhales through his nose.
"I'm sorry."
I blink at him. For a second I don't even breathe. Did he just—?
He doesn't look up. Just keeps rubbing the cream in slow circles over my skin, voice almost quiet enough to vanish.
"I'm sorry for everything. I should've asked you. I shouldn't have left you alone in this house, not for one second. I should've dragged the truth out of you myself instead of waiting for you to break."
My throat locks. I still don't speak.
He finally looks up at me, and his eyes aren't stone anymore. They're dark, dangerous, but not cold.
"From now on, you won't have a problem here. Not one. No one touches you. No one raises their voice against you. Nobody fucking breathes wrong in your direction. Not while I'm alive."
Still I say nothing. My fingers are clutched in my lap so tight they hurt.
"Sleep," he says.
"I—" I start, voice small, but he cuts me off before the word forms.
"Sleep. That's what you need now. Not another fight. Not another tear."
The way he says it leaves no room. My body moves before my mind catches up. I lie down on the bed, still staring at him.
"I won't leave until you sleep," he says, like it's a contract.
I swallow. "After?"
"After," he says. "I have some business to do."
I don't ask what business. I already know it's not paperwork.
Silence fills the room. He sits down beside me, still holding my wrist gently. Then, out of nowhere, he leans down and blows on it, slow and steady, the way you cool a burn. The sting fades under his breath.
Something inside me unclenches. My chest is still raw, but my body stops shaking. His presence pins the air down, not like a cage but like a shield.
He doesn't speak again. He just stays there, one hand on my arm, watching me like he's counting every breath until it evens out.
For the first time that night, my eyes start to close.
______________
ZAYAN POV
The door shuts behind me, soft click.
She's asleep now. Finally.
But my head won't shut the fuck up.
Concubine.
The word slams through my skull like a gunshot, again and again. Concubine. That motherfucker had the audacity to spit it at her? At my wife?
No.
No.
Not tonight.
I walk down the west wing, slow, controlled. My hands flex at my sides, knuckles itching, jaw locked so tight it hurts. I can still see her face in my head—eyes wide, shaking, tears falling, whispering that she hates me. And underneath it all, that word. The one that made her believe she's nothing.
He put that in her head. He touched her. He laughed.
Never again.
I cut left, into the side hall. No guards here. No cameras. This wing was built for secrets, and tonight, I'm the only one using it. My feet hit stone, then grass, as I step out into the east garden. The air is heavy with damp earth and smoke.
Smoke.
I smell him before I see him.
And then there he is.
Ebrahim.
Standing in the shadows by the fence, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. One leg propped on the stone edge, head tilted like he's king of the fucking world. He exhales, smoke curling around him like he owns it.
I whistle.
Low. Sharp. The kind that carries in the silence.
His head jerks up. He turns, eyes squinting through the dark. Then he sees me.
And he smiles.
That fucking smile.
"Well, well," he drawls, dragging his smoke. "Look who's here. The golden heir himself. What's the matter, prince? Can't keep your—"
Before he can complete the sentence I grab the heavy stone plant pot from the ledge next to me, lift it in one brutal motion, and—
CRACK.
It shatters against his skull.
He doesn't even have time to scream.
His body crumples backward into the grass, blood already running from his scalp.
I'm on him before he can breathe. Straddling his chest, knees pinning his arms. My fist drives into his face once—skin splits. Twice—teeth crunch. Third—his head bounces off the ground.
"You smirked at her?"
CRACK.
"You touched her?"
THWACK.
"You winked after apologising?"
CRACK.
"You thought you'd walk away from this?"
CRACK
"You fucking dared—" My fist slams down again, his nose breaking under it. "—?"
Blood sprays across my knuckles, hot, slick.
"You called her—" I hit again, harder. His lip tears, blood soaking his chin. "—concubine?"
I don't stop.
Punch after punch. His face caves in under me, swelling, cracking. He tries to lift his arms, but my knees dig in, holding him down like prey.
"Say it!" I roar, spitting the words at him as my fist collides again and again. "Say what she is!"
He wheezes, choking, blood clogging his throat.
"She's my wife!" I slam his jaw sideways, spit flying. "Say it!"
"she ... is.....Y-your… wife," he stammers, teeth rattling, voice garbled through blood.
Not good enough.
I grab his right wrist, the one that dared touch her, and twist. Slow. Deliberate. His scream rips the night in half.
SNAP.
The bone gives way. His hand hangs at the wrong angle.
I lean in close, my face dripping with his blood. "That's the hand you touched her with? Consider it gone."
He cries, a raw animal sound, body thrashing useless under me.
I drive my elbow into his ribs, again and again, until I hear the crack of cartilage giving. He coughs blood into my shirt, and I don't give a fuck.
"You looked at her like she was yours?" Another punch to his swollen eye—the same one he winked with. The socket crunches under my knuckles. He howls.
"You smirked?" I smash his head into the ground.
"You spoke her name with filth in your mouth?" Another hit. And another.
He's barely conscious now, body twitching, blood pooling under his head.
I grab his collar, haul his ruined face up close. My voice drops, lethal.
"Tomorrow, you'll crawl. In front of everyone. On your knees. You'll apologise to her. Loud enough for the walls to remember. Loud enough for God to hear. And if you don't—" I slam him back down, skull bouncing off stone. "—I'll finish what I started tonight."
His breath rattles, shallow, broken. He tries to move his busted jaw, but nothing comes out but a wet sob.
Pathetic.
"If you ever look at her again… I'll bury you so deep not even your bloodline will remember you existed."
I slam one final punch into his face, hard enough his eyes roll back.
Unconscious.
Bleeding.
Broken.
I sit there for a second, fists dripping, chest heaving. The grass under me is wet, stained dark. My hands shake, not from weakness, but from rage still boiling.
She's asleep upstairs. Safe. Believing I'm just sitting there watching her.
Good.
She doesn't need to see this part of me.
I stand, wipe my hands on his shirt, and step back into the shadows.
This garden belongs to ghosts now.
And Ebrahim will never fucking forget who made him one.
The night is quiet again. Too quiet.
Ebrahim's blood still sticks between my knuckles, dried in the cracks of my skin. The air reeks of iron and smoke. My chest is steady, but my head is still a furnace.
I stand in the yard, staring into the dark. My shadow stretches long across the grass.
Then—footsteps. Slow. Careful. But I know them. I don't need to turn.
He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. I know he's there, standing a few feet back like a soldier waiting to be called.
My voice cuts the air, low, flat.
"Tell me. What's your job?"
His voice is quiet, steady, but heavy. "To protect her."
I keep my eyes forward, staring at the night, jaw locked tight.
"Did you do it today?"
The pause is long. Too long. Then he says it—rough, broken.
"No. I failed today."
The air shifts. That one sentence slices through me sharper than my own fists did against Ebrahim's skull.
I turn, slow. My eyes find him in the dark. His head is down, gaze fixed on the ground. Shoulders squared, but heavy, weighed with guilt.
I start walking toward him. Step by step. My boots drag against the dirt, deliberate, like each one is a warning.
"Izar." His name leaves my mouth like a sentence.
His head snaps up. Just for a second. Just long enough for our eyes to lock.
Then my fist collides with his face.
The crack echoes through the yard. Blood bursts from his lip instantly, splattering against his jaw. He doesn't stumble. Doesn't even raise his hands. He takes it.
I stand over him, breathing heavy, my voice sharp as glass.
"Don't ever make a mistake like that again."
Silence. Just his blood dripping on the ground. Then—
"Yes." His voice is low, guttural, like it's dragged from the pit of his chest. "I won't."
I stare at him for a beat longer, letting it sink in, letting him taste the weight of my words. Then I lift my hand, not in anger this time—flat, deliberate—and tap his shoulder once.
"Go back."
He nods, silent, and turns. Blood streaks his chin, but he doesn't wipe it. Doesn't even flinch. He just walks, slow and steady, back toward the mansion. Back into the shadows.
I watch him go until the night swallows him whole.
Then I turn, hands still stained, and start toward my room.
She's there. Sleeping. Breathing steady.
And no one—not family, not blood, not even Izar—gets another chance to fucking fail her.
____________
ARSHILA'S POV
The first thing I see when my eyes crack open isn't the ceiling.
It's him.
Zayan.
He's out on the balcony, broad shoulders cutting into the pale morning light, one hand on the railing, the other hanging loose by his side. He's not even moving—just staring at the roses like they've got answers he's extracting without a word.
I shift under the blanket, slow, trying not to make a sound. My wrist aches when I move it, and the memory of his hands bandaging me last night hits me in a way I don't want to process yet.
"Good morning."
I jolt. My chest locks.
How the fuck does he know I'm awake? He doesn't even turn his head, doesn't glance back, doesn't blink—just says it while still watching the damn roses.
I don't answer. My throat feels scraped raw anyway. I throw the blanket back and head to the bathroom.
Shower. Clothes. Routine. Anything that gets me away from the memory of his voice saying I'm sorry. That word hasn't stopped ringing in my head.
When I come back out, he's still by the balcony, but his eyes flick once to me this time. His face gives nothing.
"Come," he says. "Everyone's waiting in the yard."
I don't ask why. Don't say a word. Just slip past him, ignoring the thud in my chest, ignoring that apology echoing like a ghost.
We step outside.
The yard is already full. Every face turned heavy, tense, like the air itself is too thick. Kamal stone-faced. Maireen stiff. Alyan scanning everyone like he's about to bark orders.
But no Yasmin.
No Ebrahim.
No Ravza.
My eyes drift and land on Shadin across the way. He catches me looking and—fuck—he gives me the smallest smile. Just a curve. Not mocking, not soft, just something I can't read right now.
Then—
"ZAYAN!"
The shout rips through the air, sharp enough to make me flinch.
My head whips toward the sound. Yasmin. She's standing at the far end of the yard, fury written across every line of her face, eyes burning, voice cutting.
But it's not her that steals my breath.
It's the thing rolling out behind her.
My lungs seize. My feet glue to the ground.
Broken. Bandaged. In a fucking wheelchair.
EBRAHIM.
📍Author's Note:
First of all, thank you so damn much for your support.
I just uploaded my 100th chapter (not here — it's 89here), and I'm honestly emotional and high right now. Four months ago, I was nothing. I had nothing. I was drowning in depression, isolation, and more pain than a person should handle.
But I didn't want to lose to fate — or whatever the hell it was — so I started to write. The plot that got stuck in my fucking brain when I was at my lowest became the thing that pulled me out.
On June 20th, I uploaded my first chapter. I expected nothing. I was just doing my usual work, and then somehow, I checked Webnovel and saw 1.47k views. I was so damn shocked. Without your support, I couldn't have reached this far.
Being a dependent author — not under contract — is hard as hell. It takes time, energy, and faith. A month ago, on September 7th, I launched my exclusive account just for supporters to get more content. Still no members yet, but honestly, I'm happy to have reached this milestone. I'm still improving, still grinding, still giving my best.
I don't know your thoughts on my story or characters (you guys never comment), but that's okay. I hope you're enjoying this story as much as I do. The plot's about to get intense — real soon. Without proper world-building, a story isn't complete, so I've been laying the foundation. I'm dropping bombs soon.
I love you guys — even though I don't know who you are. You're everything to me.
We're now at 34k views on Webnovel, and it feels like a dream. But I know it's real — because you guys made it real.
I owe you guys an apology — yesterday I accidentally uploaded Chapter 88 instead of 87. I know it probably caused some confusion in the plot, and I'm really sorry about that. I was rushing and didn't double-check before posting.
To make it up to you, this chapter is an extra one — my small way of saying thank you for understanding and being patient.
I hope you enjoy it.
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