Author's POV.
After breakfast, the two of them finally headed to the mall. From the moment they stepped in, Zorain already knew—deep down, in the pit of his gut—that he had made the worst possible decision of his life. Choosing to escort Isra Alvi for shopping instead of sitting in his billion-dollar meeting wasn't bravery, it was stupidity dressed in arrogance. And not because the deal wasn't important—fuck, it was monumental—but because her shopping habits were a kind of personal hell no man in his right mind would volunteer to suffer.
Isra wasn't like every other girl who wandered through racks with dreamy eyes and soft giggles. No. Isra's version of shopping was war. She had tantrums sharp enough to draw blood. She would insult the very clothes she picked up, tear them apart with her words—calling out every flaw, every shortcoming, every stitch out of place—and then still toss them into her basket because "maybe I'll wear it once." God help the poor bastard unlucky enough to be her company.
Right now, she was prowling the clothing section like a predator, her perfectly manicured fingers flicking through racks of dresses. The problem? Every piece that caught her eye was immediately shot down by Zorain. Too short. Too bold. Too indecent. She wanted to strangle him with one of those silky straps.
"Zorain, lemme buy these dresses," Isra snapped, holding up a handful of fabric that screamed trouble.
His eyes narrowed, his voice calm but carrying the kind of finality that drove her insane. "No. Too fucking short. I don't like them."
Her jaw clenched. "I'm the one who's gonna wear it, not you."
He leaned back against the rack, arms crossed, eyes glinting with quiet power. "But my money's buying it. So, no."
That tone. That smug finality. Isra's blood pressure spiked, and she could almost feel herself combusting. "I swear, Zorain, I'll kil—"
"Yeah, kill me later," he cut her off smoothly, not even blinking, his casual tone pouring gasoline on her already raging fire.
Her fists balled. She was seconds away from lunging at him. Instead, she dropped the dresses back on the rack and hissed through gritted teeth, "I'm not buying anything. You buy what you like. Oh wait—" she gave him a venomous smile, "you've got a fiancée now, don't you? Then go buy her a sexy little dress. Something to seduce you. Because as far as I know you, Zorain Raza, you're nothing but a lusty fucking man."
Her words were knives, dipped in poison. Zorain knew she was pissed—he could read her fury like scripture. He also knew she always turned toxic when she burned this hot. It was a bad habit. A destructive one. But fuck if he didn't secretly love it. That venom in her tongue was Isra being Isra—raw, untamed, unfiltered.
She stormed out of the shop, her heels clicking like gunfire against the polished mall floor. But fate had a twisted sense of humor. Because just as she tried to escape his suffocating presence, she collided straight into someone.
Isra's head snapped up, ready to curse the poor soul who dared get in her way, and froze.
Ibna.
The living definition of irritation, standing right there. And not alone—oh no, fate wasn't done mocking her yet. Beside Ibna was her mother, and her grandmother. Isra's nani's best friend. Two walking, talking packets of unwanted judgment wrapped in fake smiles and loud gossip.
Isra's bad mood curdled into something darker. This was the last thing she needed. But before she could roll out her arsenal of venom, she felt a familiar presence at her back. Zorain. Standing close. Too close. His tall frame shadowing hers like a shield she never asked for.
And then she saw it—the faint blush blooming across Ibna's face. Her eyes lingered a little too long on Zorain. That soft, sweet, pitiful pink spreading across her cheeks was enough to make Isra's stomach twist with fire.
Her blood boiled. Her teeth clenched. If Isra had been a grenade before, now the pin had been pulled.
Isra's POV.
God… out of every damn thing left to happen today, this was the cherry on the rotten cake. I already wanted to break someone's face—preferably Zorain's—but instead I was stuck here, standing in front of the most irritating people alive.
And then the cherry turned into poison. Because the moment Ibna laid her doe eyes on Zorain, she fucking blushed. Like a schoolgirl who just got caught staring at her crush.
Yuck. Disgusting. My insides flipped, bile rising in my throat. I wanted to punch her face until that blush bled out of her skin. My fists itched to land across her jaw. And for what? Why the hell was I this angry? It wasn't like I gave a fuck about what she thought of her so-called fiancé. She could throw herself at him, strip naked, do a whole damn circus for him if she wanted. But seeing her act like that—seeing her cheeks stain pink at the sight of my Zorain standing behind me—pissed me off in a way I couldn't explain.
Maybe it wasn't her. Maybe it was me. Maybe I was pissed because I didn't get the dresses I wanted, because he rejected every damn one of them like the arrogant bastard he is. Yes. That had to be it. Nothing else.
Zorain's deep, cold voice snapped me back. "How are you all?" he asked, standing like a tower behind me. His tone, that same ice-laced calm. My blood boiled.
Ibna's mom beamed, her sugary smile so fake it could choke a diabetic. "What are you doing here, beta?"
Oh, brilliant. Genius question. It's a mall. What the fuck do you think we're doing here, knitting sweaters? Shopping, obviously.
Before Zorain could even bother replying, my mouth shot off like a loaded gun. "We were here finding our grandpa. Right, Zorain?" I said sweetly, venom dripping underneath.
Her mom blinked, confused like the idiot she was. But her grandmother—oh, that old witch—she caught it. She always did. She never liked me, not since I was a child, and the feeling was mutual. Her sweetness was always a mask, a spoonful of honey laced with cyanide. And she knew I had just pulled the opposite answer out of spite. She didn't comment, because she knew if she poked me, she'd get burned. I was a bad girl in everyone's eyes already—spoiled, wild, a storm wrapped in silk. And I didn't give a single fuck what they thought.
"Umm, beta," the old hag cooed, "let's have lunch together if you're free?"
I almost gagged. And of course, Zorain had to nod, his voice curt. "Yeah."
Yeah? Really? Yeah? Of course, he'd have lunch with them. Why wouldn't he? After all, they were his precious in-laws. His fiancée's family. The people he was supposed to sit with, eat with, smile politely with. Meanwhile, here I was—the invisible irritation in his life. He didn't even care that I hadn't bought a single damn thing. Why would he? Why would he ever care? Fuck him. Let him go to hell with them.
I turned on my heel and walked. I didn't say a word, didn't bother hiding my fury. My heels clicked faster, harder, as my anger burned hotter. I didn't know what was wrong with me—why I was shaking with rage, why I felt like I was about to explode. All I knew was that I couldn't stay there another second.
And then—fuck.
A rough hand clamped around mine, yanking me back with a force that made me stumble. My body collided with hard muscle, my forehead thudding against his chest. His chest—broad, solid, unyielding. Too fucking hard.
I looked up, fury blazing in my eyes. "What the hell do you want now?" I spat.
His jaw was tight, eyes sharp. "Where do you think you're going?"
"Home," I shot back. "Because I'm not interested in wasting my time with useless people like your in-laws."
His voice dropped, firm, cold. "Isra. Respect your elders."
I barked a laugh. "Oh, fuck off. Why are you even here in the first place? Huh? Go have your precious lunch with them—they're dying for it. Especially your darling fiancée." The words were acid, burning even my own tongue.
He didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. "I'll do that. But you're also coming with me."
A humorless laugh tore from my lips. "What do you think, that I'll actually do that?"
"Yes," he said flatly, his eyes gleaming like steel. "Because I said so."
"Newsflash," I hissed, shoving his chest. "You're not my dad. I don't have to fucking listen to you."
And then his lips curved into that sinful smirk, that wicked glint sparking in his eyes. "But I can be your daddy."
Heat rushed to my cheeks, unwanted, uninvited. I hated him. Hated him for saying it. Hated him for the way my pulse skipped, the way my body betrayed me. I wanted to claw his face off.
"Now come," he ordered, his voice dropping to that deep, cold baritone that twisted through me like smoke.
I was about to refuse, about to tell him to go fuck himself and his lunch, when something sparked inside me. A thought. A deliciously wicked thought.
So instead, I smiled. Sweet. Poisonous. Fake.
"Why not?" I purred. "Let's go."
Because if he thought dragging me there was going to be easy, he had no idea what kind of storm I was about to unleash at that lunch table.
Zorain's POV.
Why the fuck were they even here? Couldn't they all just stay the hell out of my space for once? I was having a good time with my sweetness, finally managing to drag her along with me instead of watching her storm out like some firecracker about to explode. Then that old lady—grandma's friend—had to poke her nose in, asking about lunch. And of course, I couldn't say no. Not because I gave a damn about her, but because if she went back and tattled to my grandmother that I'd refused her, I'd have to deal with hours of her disappointed silence. And that, I could never stand.
So here I was, stuck with Isra on my side, simmering in her anger and venom. She was practically burning holes into the air, but I didn't let her leave. I wanted her here. I always wanted her here, no matter how much she clawed, scratched, or spat poison at me.
First, she outright refused. But then—suddenly—she agreed. That was my first red flag. Isra never agreed without a fight. Which only meant one thing: she was plotting. And God knew, when that girl plotted, the devil himself sat back to watch.
We all slid into our respective chairs in the restaurant, and the air itself turned into a battlefield of unspoken tension. I leaned toward her, lowering my voice as I asked,
"What would you like to have, Isra?"
I could feel their eyes—the three women sitting across us—digging into me like vultures ready to tear me apart. I ignored them, focused only on her.
"Whatever you'll have, I'll have the same," she said.
Fuck. That voice. Honey-coated, soft, sweet, almost sinful. It was Isra, but not the Isra I knew. Which meant only one thing: she was about to play a dangerous game.
The orders came. I made sure to get us pizza, because I knew her taste even when she pretended she didn't have one. Five minutes passed, and I was halfway through a slice when my phone buzzed. I picked it up, absently putting the half-eaten slice back on the plate.
And then the little witch struck.
She fucking grabbed my slice—my half-eaten slice—lifted it like it was hers all along, and bit into it without hesitation.
"Zorain, why did you put sauce on your slice? You know I don't like to have it with sauce," she said, casual as fuck, like we were the kind of couple who shared bites and complaints over food.
I froze. My jaw clenched. My gaze flicked up. And there it was—the real target of her venom—Ibna.
The poor woman tried to cover the way her face twisted, but I knew the look. Anger. Jealousy. Insecurity. My fiancée sitting across me, staring at the girl beside me eating off my plate like it was her right.
"You can eat another slice, Isra. As it was already half-eaten by Zorain," Ibna said, her voice too calm, too measured. That fake little mask didn't fool anyone. Not me. Not Isra either.
And Isra, being Isra, didn't miss her chance to stab.
"We share food. Even everything. Right, Zorain?"
Her voice dripped honey, but every syllable was laced with poison. She pressed hard on everything, and I knew exactly where she was taking this conversation. Straight into hell.
I cut her off before she could burn the entire table to ash.
"Isra, don't talk while eating." My tone was sharp, commanding, final. The only way to shut her up before she spilled blood.
And she did. For once, she obeyed.
The lunch ended, but not without leaving its wreckage behind. I saw it all—Ibna's stormy silence, her jealousy ripping her apart. And maybe I should've cared, maybe I should've given a fuck about how she felt, sitting there watching the man who was supposed to be hers give another girl more attention. It hurt her. It killed her.
But the truth was brutal and simple: nobody mattered more than Isra. Not her feelings, not her tears, not her place in my life. Isra was mine, whether she loved me, hated me, or burned me alive.
We slid into the car afterward. She was smiling now, smug, in her good mood. That infuriated me even more. She'd played her little game, rattled the cage, and now she was sitting beside me like a queen who had just conquered her battlefield.
I gripped the wheel tighter, my jaw aching from the way I clenched it. God, what the fuck should I do with her? How do you punish someone you can't let go of, even when they're laughing at the fire they set in your veins?
Author's POV.
The car ride was silent. Not the calm, soothing kind of silence, but the heavy, suffocating one that wrapped itself around both of them like chains. Zorain didn't utter a single word. His jaw was locked, his eyes fixed on the road, his grip on the steering wheel iron-tight. Isra didn't speak either. Outwardly, she remained the same—aloof, cold, untouchable. But deep inside, that silence needled her. It shouldn't matter. She told herself it shouldn't fucking matter. Yet it did. Somewhere, in some buried corner of her heart, it gnawed at her pride that he wasn't speaking to her. But she would never, never show it. Not when her entire personality was built on defiance.
By the time night settled over the mansion, Isra was back in her room. Her sanctuary. She had slipped into her night suit—a silk shirt and shorts with cartoon pandas printed across them. Cute. Too cute, perhaps, for someone with venom always resting on her tongue. But that was Isra. Contradiction wrapped in silk. The night suit might have been "too much" for anyone else, but for her, it was perfect. She had always loved clothes with animals on them. It gave her a strange kind of comfort, a childish softness she never allowed the world to see.
She sat in front of her mirror, skin glowing under the warm lamplight, massaging strawberry-scented lotion into her legs and arms. The fragrance clung to her, sweet, almost addictive—much like her. When she finished, she slipped into bed, pulling the blanket over her.
But sleep… sleep refused to come. She tossed, turned, sighed in frustration. An hour passed, and then suddenly—like a spark—she remembered. The strawberry ice cream she had bought earlier. A wicked little smile tugged at her lips. Fine then. If sleep wouldn't come, at least sugar would.
She padded downstairs, her bare legs catching the dim light. The mansion was dark, quiet, intimidating in its stillness. She opened the fridge, grabbed the tub, and fixed herself a big bowl. Soon she was sprawled comfortably on the couch, happily eating mouthfuls of cold strawberry sweetness.
And then—her spoon froze mid-air.
The front door opened. And there he was.
Her eyes widened in horror. Zorain stepped inside, shirt soaked in blood. His shoulder was torn open, crimson spreading thick and violent across the fabric. His left hand also bore scratches, faint but raw. He looked like a man who had walked through hell itself, yet his face carried that maddening calm, as if bleeding to death was just another Tuesday for him.
"Zorain…" Isra whispered, but the whisper quickly turned into a rush of panic as she bolted up from the couch. The bowl of ice cream clattered on the table, forgotten. She ran to him—her feet faster than her mind could process—and when she reached him, her face gave her away.
Fear. Raw worry. Helpless care. All of it. For him.
And after so fucking long, he saw those emotions directed at him.
"How the hell did this happen? And who the fuck did it?" Her voice trembled, not from weakness, but from rage and concern twined together.
"Nothing," Zorain muttered, brushing it off like it was trivial, like he wasn't bleeding right in front of her. His voice was rough but steady. "Why didn't you sleep till now?"
"I asked you something, Zorain. Tell me." She pressed, her voice sharp, her "bitchy" personality momentarily abandoned.
"Lemme sit first?" His tone was weary.
"Yeah," Isra said quickly, stepping aside.
They both sank into the couch. Isra snapped at a nearby maid, ordering her to bring the first aid kit. Within minutes, it was in her hands. The maid disappeared, leaving only them in the suffocating silence of the living room.
Zorain tugged at his blood-soaked shirt, grimacing slightly as he peeled it off. His torso came into view, all muscle and scars—a body carved by violence, dominance, survival. He tried to reach for the cotton himself, his good hand fumbling, his injured shoulder restricting him. His left hand wasn't strong enough either, still grazed and cut.
"Lemme do this," Isra said, her voice quieter now, eyes still refusing to meet his.
"I'll do it. Mujhe aadat hai," Zorain replied, his tone edged with stubborn rudeness.
Her head snapped up, eyes flashing fire. "Don't sound so fucking rude, okay? Tum bhi mere saath zabardasti karte ho. Samjhe?" She hissed, snatching the cotton from his hand before he could protest.
Zorain didn't fight her. He simply leaned back, silent, eyes fixed on her face. And in that moment, he saw her stripped of the walls she loved to build. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, her expression soft, focused. She was careful—painfully careful—as she pressed the cotton around his wound, trying not to hurt him.
She didn't even realize how much her touch betrayed her.
She looked beautiful like this. Fragile. Innocent. Like an angel trapped in a devil's body.
And yet—Zorain knew the truth. She was the devil. His devil.
And he'd bleed a thousand times over if it meant keeping her close like this.
Zorain's POV.
Fuck. She was looking devastatingly beautiful. Every little thing she did while tending to my wound only made me want to bleed a thousand times more just to watch those expressions. That fear in her eyes when she first saw me—panic, care, worry, all tangled together—Christ, it lit something inside me I hadn't felt in years. I lost my baby a long time ago. I lost the right to be cared for, to be someone's concern. But her… she betrayed herself every now and then. Beneath that cold, venomous exterior, she let it slip. Just a flicker. And fuck, I lived for that flicker.
My gaze trailed lower, down her frame. She was in that ridiculous panda night suit. I almost laughed, almost. The silk shirt, the shorts, the cutesy animal prints—so childlike, so soft, so fucking contradictory to the devil I knew she was. But it was her. Cute enough to make anyone's heart melt, hot enough to make my cock hard. Her neckline was low, her cleavage teasing me with every move. I sometimes wonder—does she do it intentionally? Does she enjoy torturing me like this, making me want to ruin her innocence, drag her to the filth she pretends not to crave? Or is she really just this careless, this oblivious to how she tempts me?
She looked at me, caught me watching her. Then—typical Isra—looked away, pretending not to care, pretending my eyes didn't set her skin on fire. She pressed the cotton against my wound again, her hands so small, so delicate, but firm with that stubbornness she carries like a fucking crown. Then, like the brat she was, she crossed one leg over the other, her bare thigh brushing the hem of her shorts.
God. She was so fucking small in front of me. Fragile. I was a big man compared to her, all height and muscle and rage, and yet her mouth—her filthy, fearless mouth—was never less than a weapon sharp enough to cut me.
A few strands of her hair slipped down, brushing against her cheek, falling over her lips. It irritated her—she blew at it, shook her head slightly. Before I could stop myself, I leaned forward and tucked it behind her ear. My fingers lingered for half a second longer than they should have, brushing her soft skin.
Her eyes shot to mine, fire blazing in them. "Don't touch me."
I smirked, low and dark. "You don't do it either, and maybe I'll stop too."
Her glare could've burned me alive, and fuck, I would've let it.
"I'm just doing this because you also helped me when I was in the hospital," she snapped. That tone—sharp, defensive, cutting.
And that sentence… that one fucking sentence.
Oh, it made me lose it.
Anger coiled hot in my chest, not because she said it, but because of why. She was reducing this—reducing us—to a fucking debt. A transaction. Like the only reason she was here, touching me, caring for me, was because of some past obligation. Not because she gave a fuck. Not because somewhere in that twisted little heart of hers, she wanted to.
I clenched my jaw, my fists tightening. A dangerous calm washed over me, the kind that always came right before I snapped.
I wanted to grab her, throw her on this couch, and bend her over until she forgot every fucking word she just said. I wanted to make her scream my name until her throat was raw, fuck her until her legs shook and the only thing she remembered was me. Only me. Not hospitals. Not debts. Not obligations.
Just me. Her enemy. Her curse. Her fucking ruin.
Because that's what she was to me too.
My ruin.
________________________________________
Words: 3850.