Isra's POV.
"God, yes—you can do this, Isra. You can." I paced the length of my room like a caged animal, repeating the mantra until my teeth ached. The principal's demand had been blunt and ugly: Bring a family member or your solo act gets canned. A family member. As if I didn't already have enough strings tied around my throat.
The clock blinked 10:00 p.m. The hallway was quiet enough to hear the mansion's old pipes sigh. My hand hovered over his door for a full minute. I would rather gouge my own eyes out than march into Zorain's room and ask a favor. But I wanted to dance—really dance—without someone sucking the life out of the stage. So I swallowed my pride and knocked.
"Come in," his voice replied, deep and flat as ever.
He was there, sitting on the edge of his bed with papers and a laptop strewn across the quilt—business as usual. The light skated off the screen and cut his face into angles. I tried to ignore the way my stomach flipped; focus, Isra. Mission: ask, get a yes, leave.
"How may I help you?" he asked before I'd even stepped fully inside—an automatic, measured tone that always sat in my chest like a knuckle.
My mouth dried. "Umm… I—" I stalled, stupidly tongue-tied. Of all people to get rattled in front of, it had to be him.
"Say it." One-word permission.
"My principal told me I have to bring someone from family, or he'll cancel my dance." I pushed the words out, flat. He stared at me, like he was studying some foreign animal. Of course he knew why I was there. He knew everything I hated him for and still somehow remained the only option.
"So?" he said, casual as a blade.
"So? It's simple." I straightened my spine. I'd practiced this speech a dozen times in the mirror—strut, demand, don't beg. "You have to attend my annual day. At any cost. I don't care if you're busy—be there when the function starts."
"When is it?" he asked, already riffling through pages, eyes disengaged.
"After tomorrow. The event opens for parents and guests at four." My voice didn't tremble; I made sure of that. I was not the girl who broke. Not tonight.
"I'm busy the whole day, but I'll be free only after ten." He said it like the schedule of gods.
"Did I ask what you're doing that day?" I snapped, heat spiking through me. "No, right. You're my guardian—Mr. Raza—so fulfill your damn duties." I felt my throat tighten; the words tasted metallic but they cut. I should have left it there. I should have walked out triumphant.
But something reckless in me wanted to know. "What will you do that day?" I added, absurdly.
"Meetings. Then a date with Ibna in the evening. So until ten, I'm tied up." He said it like it was a pinprick in an otherwise clean map of his life.
A date. Of course. The world loved to remind me of the perfect little life he was supposed to lead with someone else. He had obligations to everyone but me. The thought burned a hot, salty streak of jealousy through my ribs.
"I don't give a single fuck about your date, Zorain." The words came out sharper than I planned. "I want you there. If that bald—" I almost smiled at the meanness—"principal refuses me, it will cost you."
"I'll think about it." He said, that infuriatingly composed reply he always gave—neither yes nor no—folded in a civil veneer. It was the worst answer in the world. Promise nothing and watch me implode.
"You can cancel your date." I said, blunt, unladylike. I wasn't above leverage when the stakes were mine.
"I can't," he said. "It's our first date. She asked me with so much hope; Dadi knows about it. If I cancel, she'll be angry. I can't do that."
A dead little cave of anger opened under my sternum. Being sensible for the fiancée, being dutiful for grandmother—fine. But what about me? What about the one night I had carved out for myself, the one thing I wanted that wasn't for anyone else? I felt invisible and feral all at once.
"What about me, huh?" I said. "You're my guardian before you're anybody's fiancé. You owe me that. Come, or—"
"Or what?" he asked, eyebrow arching like a dare. The cad.
"Otherwise I won't hesitate to pluck out her eyes and chop them into mini pieces." The words escaped like acid—loud, ridiculous, terrifying. I felt my own blood rush after I said them. It was a ridiculous threat. Classic Isra: overdramatic, theatrical, utterly fatalistic when cornered.
"And you know me, Zorain. I do what I say." I didn't wait for his reaction. I walked out the way I'd come—head high, fury burning in my veins—because if I stayed for his calm, I'd beg. And I would rather set the stage on fire than beg.
Outside his door the corridor swallowed me in silence. The house hummed as if nothing had happened. But I left him with my words hanging between us like a live wire. He would decide. He always did. He always made me hurt before he gave me anything that mattered.
And I… I hate him for it. But I need him more than I hate him.
Zorain's POV.
Why the fuck does she always have to explode like a ticking bomb in my face? Every damn time. Can't she talk like a normal person—nicely, politely—at least when she needs something from me? No, of course not. That girl doesn't know the meaning of "gentle." She's all claws, teeth, and venom. Mannerless. Reckless. Infuriating.
And yet… fuck, she's still too fine. Too damn fine.
But as much as she hisses and spits, I know one thing—if she wants me there tomorrow, then I'll be there. Even if I have to cancel a billion-dollar deal, even if my empire shakes for a moment, I'll go. Because when it comes to her, my "no" doesn't last.
___
The next morning.
Rare peace. A soft silence I hardly ever got in this madhouse of responsibilities. I sat at the long dining table, my mood uncharacteristically light. I'm not the kind of man who hides it when I feel good; I don't sulk behind masks. But the truth is, I rarely do feel good. Most days, the weight of my world keeps me restless, irritable, caged. Today wasn't one of those days.
Breakfast was already laid out—fruit salad, fresh juice, pancakes, sandwiches. And I knew immediately who was responsible for this particular menu. Every dish screamed Isra. That brat probably barked orders at the staff, and they bent over backwards for her. Typical.
Speak of the devil, and the devil storms in.
She breezed into the room like a hurricane running late, phone in one hand, tossing herself onto the chair opposite me. Without a word, she started inhaling food like her damn train was about to depart. My jaw clenched—every bite was rushed, sloppy, careless. Then, as expected, she started choking, coughing like her lungs had given up.
I pushed the juice glass toward her, leaning over, and patted her back with my palm. "Eat slowly, Isra." My voice was colder than intended, laced with the anger that surged watching her act like a reckless child.
But then—she said it.
"Sorry."
I blinked. She actually fucking said sorry. To me.
I must've misheard. But no—she glanced at me, realizing the slip, and quickly patched herself up, her walls snapping back into place. "I'm getting late, so let me eat. Don't disturb me."
I chuckled, the sound surprising even myself, and leaned back into my chair. This girl. One second she's fire, the next she lets a crack of something soft slip through, and then she bolts it shut again.
She didn't like my laughter. Her glare shot across the table like daggers. "Stop laughing and eat yours. Don't forget to come tomorrow. And cancel your date, because I need you with me." Her words were muffled with bread stuffed in her mouth, but I caught every syllable.
"Okay," I said, my tone softer than usual. "I'll be there for you." And I meant it. For her, I'd always show up. And for one insane second, I let myself believe maybe—just maybe—her walls were starting to crack.
But I wasn't about to let her off easy. "But I won't cancel my date. I'll arrange it before four. Or…" I tilted my head, testing her patience. "Should I take Ibna with me? For your performance?"
The glare she gave me then—fuck me—it was enough to kill me a hundred times over. She chewed the food in her mouth, swallowed, then stood, planting herself right in front of me like a furious little queen.
"You. Are. Not. Going. On. A. Date. With. Her. And. Especially. Not. Bringing. Her. With. You. For. My. Performance. I. Just. Need. YOU."
Every word slammed into me, sharp and fiery, but that last "You"—fuck, that one hit deeper. Louder. It was jealousy, raw and unmasked.
I should've been pissed. Instead, I found myself smirking. She looked angry enough to set me on fire, but goddamn—she was cute like this. To anyone else, she'd look like a brat, a spoiled bitch with no filter. But to me? She was a storm I couldn't look away from.
I nodded once, conceding, and she snatched her phone off the table, spinning to leave. I stopped her with one more line.
"First finish your breakfast, Isra," I said, my voice softening instinctively. She was still a child inside—a furious, damaged, stubborn child who needed someone to handle her with both steel and silk.
"I'm done," she muttered without looking back, and stalked off.
Angry sweetness. My angry sweetness.
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Sorry guys.
I know last chapter and this one is very short and too i didn't upload from some days because I was busy but also that you're not supporting. So, it's a request to support so that I'll get motivate and will update soon.
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