Author's POV.
The car screeched to a halt in the wide parking lot of Zorain's private residence. His grip never loosened from Isra's wrist, fingers biting into her delicate skin as though he feared that if he let go for even a second, she would vanish into the shadows like smoke. Isra twisted, jerked, yanked with all her might, but her resistance was useless against his iron strength.
The heavy front door of the house swung open with a resounding thud, and he dragged her inside, ignoring the violent tugging of her arm. Her nails scraped against his wrist, leaving angry red marks, but Zorain didn't even flinch. His face was carved into ice, his jaw locked, his eyes forward. He wasn't a man at that moment—he was a force, a storm, dragging her up the stairs like she was nothing more than a stubborn child refusing to obey.
Finally, he pushed open the door of a spacious room and pulled her inside. His voice, when it came, was void of warmth, stripped of humanity—sharp, cold, merciless.
"This," he said, releasing her wrist at last, "will be your room. And you will not step outside it without my permission. Do you understand?"
Isra's breath came heavy, her wrist throbbing from his grip. She turned to him with fire in her eyes, her lips parting, voice dripping with rebellion. "I'll no—"
"I. Asked." His interruption was brutal, each word punctuated with ice. His voice lowered, darker, dangerous. "Did. You. Understand?"
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Isra looked away, her jaw clenching as fury and helplessness churned inside her like poison. She refused to give him the satisfaction of an answer, yet her silence spoke enough. His glacial gaze remained locked on her, unblinking, unwavering, until she felt it crawling under her skin.
But Isra was Isra. Silence was never her endgame. After a beat, her lips curved into a bitter smile, her eyes flashing with defiance. "I'll make sure you regret this decision," she hissed, her voice trembling not with fear, but with fury caged too long.
Zorain's response was infuriatingly calm—a low, nonchalant hum, as though her threats were nothing more than background noise.
Her anger spiked. "I don't want to see your face. So get out. Now."
He didn't move. Instead, he stepped closer, the space between them evaporating in an instant. Isra instinctively took a step back, but the wall met her spine, cold and unforgiving. Zorain's presence loomed over her, his voice sharp enough to slice through her bravado.
"This is my house, my sweetness," he said, the endearment rolled from his tongue like venom, deliberate and cruel. "Here, every breath obeys me. Every shadow bends to me. And you—" his eyes flicked down, trapping hers with a dangerous intensity—"you will learn to keep that bitter tongue on a leash. Because in this house, disobedience comes with punishment. And make no mistake, Isra—you may not be a good girl now, but I'll make sure you become one."
Isra's eyes narrowed, hatred burning in their depths, but her heart thudded painfully in her chest. She clenched her fists, steadying her voice. "If I need anything, I'll take it myself. Don't you dare play caretaker for me."
Zorain tilted his head, unbothered, his lips curling into that infuriating smirk. "If you need anything, Miss Emma is downstairs. Ask her." He turned toward the door, but paused when her sharp voice stabbed the air behind him.
"I need poison."
He stopped, half-turned, his smirk widening into something darker. "Not so soon," he murmured, voice low, almost like a promise. And then he walked out, shutting the door behind him, leaving her with silence, fury, and the unbearable weight of her own helplessness.
Zorain's POV.
I was in the middle of a meeting when my phone buzzed, flashing an unknown number. I ignored it at first, but when it rang again with persistence, I excused myself and answered.
The moment I heard the voice on the other end—her principal's—I knew something was wrong. But I wasn't prepared for that.
Drugs.
She was caught fucking taking drugs.
For a second, my mind went blank. My own blood pressure spiked, and the rage that crawled under my skin was venomous. Isra. My Isra. Twenty-one years old, and already trying to destroy herself in the worst possible way. And the worst part? I hadn't even known. She never let me close enough, never allowed me to fucking see her. God, how was I supposed to protect her when she had made an art out of pushing me away?
I gritted my teeth, shoved my phone back into my pocket, and stormed out of the building. The entire ride to her college was nothing but a blur of red anger, my knuckles white as I clenched the steering wheel.
By the time I entered the principal's office, I was a walking storm. And there she was.
Standing there like nothing fucking mattered.
Our eyes met. And for the first time in a long time, she actually looked at me. No walls, no pretenses—just… stillness. But the anger already running through me didn't let me pause.
The principal began his rant immediately, spitting out words that sliced deeper than knives. She's caught with drugs. She bullies students. She skips classes. She disrespects faculty. Every goddamn sentence was a slap across my face, each one reminding me of how badly she was spiraling while I stood on the sidelines like some useless fucking guardian.
I kept my composure outwardly—because I knew how to handle men like him. Money, influence, power—it was easy to silence people, to make problems disappear. And I did exactly that. I cut him off mid-threat, promised this wouldn't go beyond his office, and made damn sure the police wouldn't be called.
Because handling him was simple.
Handling her? That was the fucking war.
When the principal was finally done, I didn't even wait for Isra to open her mouth. I grabbed her wrist—harder than I should have—and dragged her out of that suffocating office, through the corridors, straight to the parking lot. My blood was boiling, every step echoing with the thought of how recklessly she was wasting her life.
The second we reached the car, I snapped.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, Isra?" I roared, the words tearing out of me before I could hold them back. My voice was so loud that she flinched, her shoulders jerking like I had struck her.
And fuck, that killed me.
For a split second, I hated myself for yelling like that, for being the monster she thought I was. But goddamn it, I wasn't wrong either. She was ruining herself, piece by piece, and I couldn't just stand there and watch it happen.
"Do you have any fucking idea what you're doing? Do you even realize you're burning yourself alive with this shit?" My chest rose and fell violently, my breaths uneven. "Drugs? Drugs, Isra? You're twenty-one, not a fucking junkie from the streets! What the fuck were you thinking?"
Her eyes glistened, but she stayed silent, and that silence pushed me over the edge.
"Answer me, dammit!" I barked, running a hand through my hair, my jaw clenching so hard it hurt. "Do you want to end up dead? Because if that's what you're aiming for, congratulations—you're fucking halfway there!"
Author's POV.
The night was wrapped in silence, the kind of silence that only Zorain's mansion carried—grand yet suffocating, echoing emptiness within its walls. Isra had locked herself in her room since evening, refusing to step out, while Zorain, after leaving her there earlier, had gone back to his office.
When he returned late into the night, exhaustion hung in his shoulders though his face betrayed nothing. He entered his room, freshened up with his usual discipline, and made his way downstairs for dinner. Sitting at the head of the grand dining table, he casually glanced at his phone, scrolling through important documents, numbers, details—anything to distract himself from the chaos of his day.
He didn't need to lift his eyes when he felt it—the faint disturbance in the air, the subtle shift of another presence. He knew who it was. Isra.
She walked in with that effortless defiance of hers, yet tonight she seemed unusually quiet. She slid into a chair, carefully leaving a safe distance between herself and him. No tantrums. No venom-laced words. No sarcastic remarks designed to pierce him. Only silence.
For Zorain, it was… unsettling. Surprising, yes, but not unwelcome. Peace was rare around Isra, and though a part of him wanted to question the sudden calmness, he chose not to. Who in their right mind would complain about quietness when they were used to storms?
---
Days bled into nights, and before either of them realized, a week had passed. A whole week of Isra under his roof. A week without her burning the house down with her sharp tongue or disappearing into reckless chaos.
For Zorain, it was a strange reality. The same Isra who had once refused to breathe the same air as him now lived in his mansion. The same Isra who spat venom whenever he so much as stood near her now coexisted with him, even if silently. His grandparents were equally surprised, their curious eyes always carrying questions. And yet, Zorain said nothing. He told himself he was overthinking, that maybe Isra was simply tired of fighting.
Still, the unease sat in the pit of his stomach. Isra was never this quiet. Isra was a storm caged in a fragile body. And storms did not sleep for long.
---
The following day carried its own weight. His fiancée, Ibna, was expected for lunch. His grandmother had personally invited her, delighted at the prospect of them spending some time together. And though Zorain knew the expectations that rested upon him, he could not ignore the subtle heaviness that clouded his thoughts.
At precisely 12:45 p.m., Ibna arrived.
Graceful, poised, she sat on the plush living room couch, her elegant hands folded neatly in her lap. Across from her, Zorain sat with his usual composure, listening to her soft chatter about trivial matters—her friends, a recent gala, the color palette she had chosen for an upcoming event. She smiled sweetly, spoke animatedly, but Zorain's responses were clipped, short, bordering on disinterest. His mind was elsewhere, though he hid it with the kind of restraint only he possessed.
Then, like an uninvited gust of wind, Isra entered.
Descending the stairs without a care in the world, she wore what could only be described as her usual attire—though there was nothing usual about it. A silky camisole that clung to her curves, the neckline dipping just enough to reveal the soft swell of cleavage, paired with shorts that barely reached the mid of her thighs. Careless. Shameless. Seductive in the most infuriating way.
Did she care? Not in the slightest.
Her hair tumbled carelessly over her shoulders, her steps lazy, unhurried. She made her way to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and drank without sparing anyone a word. Then, glass abandoned, she walked past the room, casting only a fleeting glance at Zorain and Ibna. Just one look—cold, detached, but sharp enough to pierce.
And then she was gone, disappearing back to her room like she hadn't just disrupted the air between them.
Zorain's jaw clenched imperceptibly. Ibna's voice faltered mid-sentence, her smile tight, her posture stiff. Silence lingered for a breath too long, heavy and suffocating.
Isra's presence had always been like that—unpredictable, disruptive, impossible to ignore. Even in her silence, she was chaos.
----
The long table was set in its usual grandeur—polished cutlery, sparkling crystal glasses, and silver dishes steaming with freshly prepared food. Yet for Zorain, none of this mattered. His eyes lingered on the stairs, waiting for the sound of footsteps that would inevitably drag his patience thinner.
Finally, Isra appeared.
She descended the staircase with the same unnerving quietness she had been carrying like a shadow ever since she was forced to live in his mansion. There was something eerie about that silence; it wasn't submission, no. It was the silence of someone who was plotting, someone who stored her venom to spit at the right moment.
Her dress today was deceptively simple—a pastel bodycon frock that hugged her slender figure in ways that infuriated him. Cute, yes, but not for him. Not in his eyes. On her, even simplicity carried an edge of rebellion.
Zorain sat at the head of the dining table, his presence commanding without effort. To his left, Ibna sat with her perfect posture and practiced smile—the epitome of the fiancée his family adored. Isra, without a glance at either of them, slipped into her seat across from Ibna. She lowered her eyes to her plate and began eating with quiet determination, as though she were dining alone.
Ibna, always polite, broke the silence first.
"How are you, Isra?" she asked, her tone gentle, laced with an attempt at friendliness.
Isra didn't even spare her a glance. "Doing well," she replied flatly, her voice dripping with disinterest.
Ibna smiled, refusing to take offense. "You've become so much prettier than before. Right, Zorain?" she asked, her voice soft with admiration.
At that, Zorain's eyes flickered to Isra. She was still focused on her plate, chewing slowly, deliberately, as though their words were none of her concern. His gaze lingered, cold and unreadable. "Hmm," he hummed in agreement—nothing more.
Ibna continued with undeterred cheer. "The last time I saw you, you were only ten."
Still, Isra did not answer. Her silence stretched like a sharp blade. For Zorain, it sparked irritation. Ibna was extending her hand, yet Isra, with her deliberate coldness, was slapping it away without a word.
---
Lunch ended with Isra leaving her plate untouched midway and rising to go back to her room. But before she could slip away, Ibna's sweet voice called after her.
"Isra, won't you sit with us for a while?"
Reluctantly—or perhaps to amuse herself—Isra obeyed, sinking into the couch opposite them. Zorain sat in silence, watching the exchange while half-distracted with his phone.
"So, Isra, tell me," Ibna began kindly, "how's your life going?"
Isra's lips curled into a smirk, her words slicing through the air like daggers. "Ask your fiancé how he's making my life—beautiful." Her eyes deliberately found Zorain's, piercing, mocking, her voice laced with poison only he could taste.
Ibna, oblivious to the venom, smiled softly. "He's caring, isn't he?"
"Yeah," Isra replied with a chuckle that wasn't a chuckle, "too much caring. Especially for me." Her tone was edged with scorn, her eyes still fixed on Zorain. Perhaps it was her week's worth of restrained rage finally finding its way out, disguised as casual conversation.
"I suppose your life will be heaven with him, after marriage," Isra added, her voice deliberately mocking as Ibna flushed pink with shy happiness.
Zorain said nothing, only staring at Isra with his usual cold, calculating eyes. And Isra, as always, ignored the weight of his gaze.
---
The conversation dragged on, Ibna doing most of the talking, Isra offering curt replies, and Zorain silently observing everything while pretending to scroll through his phone. But beneath his composed exterior, he was studying Isra, trying to make sense of her strange compliance to sit and talk instead of fleeing to her room.
Finally, Ibna leaned forward with a girlish blush. "Isra, tell me about Zorain—his likes, dislikes… the little things."
The question made Isra's face twist with irritation. "I don't know. Ask him directly."
Ibna pouted. "No," she said sweetly, "I'd rather hear it from you."
Isra leaned back, her eyes flicking to Zorain. Her lips parted in a sarcastic drawl. "He won't eat you. Am I right, Zorain?" The words were drenched in mockery, and Zorain caught the real meaning beneath them. Only he ever did.
"You call him by his name?" Ibna asked, surprised.
Isra nodded lazily.
"He's much older than you, Isra. You shouldn't call him by his name. We must respect our elders," Ibna said softly, though her words carried the weight of a gentle scolding.
For a moment, Isra's jaw tightened, anger flickering in her eyes. Yet she smiled—fake, sweet, poisonous. "Zorain doesn't mind. Do you?" she asked, her voice deliberately slow, daring him.
Zorain didn't answer, his silence more powerful than words.
"He won't mind," Ibna continued with a naïve smile, "but he's your brother, Isra. You should respect that and call him brother."
That was it. The end of Isra's fragile restraint. She straightened, her eyes gleaming with fury that no smile could conceal.
"I understand you're obedient, Ibna. A good girl," Isra said, her voice sharp as broken glass. "But good girls like you shouldn't poke their noses into everything—especially not into my matters. Take it as advice… or warning. Your choice."
With that, she rose, her face carved in cold defiance. But before retreating to her room, she turned her gaze on Zorain, her final words slicing the air like a blade.
"Make your fiancée understand that she should stay away from me. I'm being nice now, but it won't last forever. And you know me well, Zorain."
His name rolled off her tongue intentionally, deliberately, like venom poured in honey.
And then she was gone.
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