Author's POV.
Isra sat cross-legged in the balcony of her room, a thick novel resting in her hands, her eyes gliding over the printed words with rare tranquility. After days of storms, she was—for reasons unknown, even to herself—feeling oddly at peace. Maybe it was the book. Maybe it was the solitude. Or maybe it was just one of those fragile hours where the world stopped gnawing at her nerves. She had skipped breakfast, still unsettled after the previous night's fiasco at the dining table, yet her mood carried a lightness, as though she had managed to peel herself away from her bitterness for a fleeting while. Reading always did that to her. It was her one reliable escape.
By nightfall, the mansion had quieted down into its usual cold vastness. Zorain returned from his office, the day having carved exhaustion deep into his body. His schedule had been packed—back-to-back meetings, endless decisions, faces that blurred together. All he wanted was a moment's silence, a chance to breathe. But the instant he stepped into the living room, Isra came into view.
And with her, unbidden and merciless, that dream flashed in his mind. Her moans, her body beneath him, the way his subconscious had painted her—too vivid, too haunting. He clenched his jaw and forced it away, shoving the filth from his head. He would not, could not, let it linger.
Isra sat on the couch, legs tucked under her as she devoured a cartoon with the intensity of a child, the flickering light of the television dancing across her face. She was so absorbed that she didn't even glance at him, didn't even register his arrival. Zorain lowered himself onto the opposite couch, deliberately leaving distance between them. He knew her—proximity with him was the last thing she desired.
The volume of the TV was mercilessly loud, piercing into his temple like a drill. His patience, already frayed by the day, snapped thin.
"Isra," he said, his voice steady but heavy with fatigue, "lower the volume. I've got a headache."
She didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. Either she hadn't heard—or she was ignoring him with that sharp defiance she wore like armor.
"I'm asking you nicely," Zorain repeated, this time his voice deeper, his tone pressing into the silence between them. Still, no reaction.
His jaw flexed, irritation hardening his features. "This is the last time I'm saying it." His voice dropped lower, cold, dangerous. A warning.
And yet—silence.
With a sudden snap of resolve, Zorain rose from his seat, strode to the television, and switched off the main power. The screen went black instantly, the sound cut off mid-laugh.
Isra's head whipped toward him, her eyes blazing with fire.
"Can't you let me breathe peacefully, Zorain?" she burst, her words sharp as blades, her voice dripping venom.
"I asked you politely," he shot back, his tone level but cold as ice.
"Why would I listen? Bastard." The word flew from her lips like venom, deliberate and sharp enough to sting.
Zorain's eyes narrowed, his voice dropping a note darker. "Mind your fucking language, Isra."
She laughed—a short, bitter, mocking laugh, her gaze taunting him. "Or what?" she sneered. "What will you do, hm? Slap me? Beat me? Or maybe"—her voice twisted with scorn—"maybe you'll lock me in a room like some prisoner?"
The silence that followed was suffocating. Zorain's expression hardened, his patience burning away. "Do not cross your lines, Isra," he warned, his voice low, his control visibly strained. "I've tolerated your tongue enough, but I won't anymore."
Her fury flared hotter. She grabbed the remote from the couch and hurled it onto the marble floor with a force that shattered it into pieces, plastic fragments scattering across the silence like broken glass.
Without another word, she stormed away, her footsteps echoing sharply as she disappeared up the stairs, leaving behind the ruin of her tantrum—and the thick, choking tension of their collision.
Zorain stood rooted for a moment, his fists clenched at his sides, his eyes fixed on the broken remote. The mansion was silent again, but it was not peace. It was the silence of two storms, circling each other, both waiting for the next strike.
Isra's POV.
What the actual fuck does he think of himself? Some God's gift to mankind? Some untouchable deity who can drag me wherever the hell he pleases? If this was his fucking house, then I wouldn't have even stepped inside without tearing it apart brick by brick. But no—he was the one who pulled me here. FORCEFULLY. Like I'm some goddamn puppet to string along. Bastard.
God, where the fuck am I stuck? Which kind of living nightmare is this?
I stomped down the staircase, muttering curses under my breath, my heels hitting the marble like bullets. My chest was burning with rage, every nerve in my body screaming to explode. I swear, if he shows me his stone-cold fucking face right now, I'll claw his smug expression into shreds.
But then—something warm, wet, unsettling trickled down from my nose.
"What the—?" My hand shot up, brushing under my nostrils. Blood. Thick. Red. Dripping.
My stomach dropped. "No, no, no, not now. Please. God, not fucking now. I can't—fuck, I can't do this."
My pulse spiked, pounding in my ears like war drums. My vision blurred, the walls swaying around me, tilting, bending. It felt like my soul was crawling out of my body, like every ounce of strength was being sucked out. My head spun so violently it felt like I was being tossed inside a tornado.
Panic clawed through me as I tried to steady myself, gripping the railing with trembling fingers. I turned, desperate to go back downstairs, to at least not collapse on these goddamn steps—but the universe had other plans.
In the blink of a second, everything turned pitch-black.
The sound of my heartbeat roared in my ears one last time before silence swallowed me whole.
And then—I fell.
Zorain's POV.
I watched her walking figure, her back rigid, shoulders stiff, no doubt cursing me under her breath like she always did. She was stubborn—too damn stubborn for her own good. But even in that sharpness, even in that venom she spat at me every fucking day, she was still lodged inside my chest. My sweetness. My Isra. The same girl I once carried on my shoulders, the same one I used to tuck into bed.
But then—she stopped. Just froze mid-step, her body hesitating for a second. I frowned, my eyes narrowing on her slender frame. Something felt off.
She turned around suddenly, now facing me. And what I saw—it fucking shocked the hell out of me.
Her face… her nose. Blood was slipping out, dripping, painting her lips red. Her eyes were unfocused, her balance collapsing like she had no control over her body. And before I could think, before I could even move—she crumbled.
She fell.
"ISRA!"
I bolted forward, my chest pounding, my legs carrying me faster than I thought possible. By the time I reached her, she was sprawled across the first stair, her body motionless, her face pale as marble, blood still sliding from her nose. She looked lifeless—God, fucking lifeless—and that sight ripped something out of me.
"Isra, open your eyes!" I pleaded, my voice cracking as I patted her cheek. Nothing. No fucking response. Her lashes didn't even flutter.
Panic shot through me like electricity. Without a second thought, I scooped her up in my arms, holding her limp body against my chest as if shielding her from death itself. I didn't waste a second. I ran out of the mansion, yelling for the driver.
"Drive! Drive to the goddamn hospital, now!"
The car screeched forward, and I sat in the backseat with her head against my chest, my sleeve pressed under her nose, wiping away the blood that wouldn't fucking stop. My shirt was ruined, crimson staining the fabric, but I didn't give a fuck. All that mattered was her.
"Stay with me, sweetness… please," I whispered, my throat burning. I could handle her anger, her cruel words, her icy glares that tore me apart every single day. But this? Watching her like this? It was unbearable. I had already lost my parents, and hers too. I couldn't—I fucking couldn't—lose her.
Thirty endless minutes later, we reached the hospital. I carried her inside, shouting at the staff until they rushed to me with a stretcher. The doctor pulled her from my arms and disappeared into the emergency ward, leaving me standing there, blood on my hands, emptiness in my chest.
Time crawled like a slow torture. My mind kept replaying the way she collapsed, the sound of her body hitting those stairs. I clenched my fists, pacing like a madman until the doctor finally returned.
I rushed forward. "Is she okay?" My voice shook with desperation. My chest tight, waiting for him to tear my world apart or hand me some tiny bit of hope.
"For now, no—but she'll be okay," he said calmly. "You brought her in at the right time."
Relief and dread crashed into me at once. "What happened to her?"
The doctor tilted his head, studied me for a moment, then asked, "She used to intake drugs, right?"
I clenched my jaw. "Yeah."
"That's why," he explained. "Her body is reacting because she hasn't consumed it. Withdrawal. It can do this to the system, especially if it's been consistent."
My throat went dry. "Will she be okay?"
"Yes. No worries. She needs rest and careful attention. Her condition is sensitive, her body is fragile after the damage. But she'll regain consciousness in a few hours."
I swallowed hard, pressing a hand against my face. "Now what?"
"Take care of her. Carefully. Every small thing matters now. Her body can't tolerate much." He gave me a firm nod and excused himself.
I just stood there, staring at the floor, my chest heavy with something I couldn't fucking bear. My fists clenched, my breath ragged.
"Goddd, what did you do to yourself, Isra?" I muttered, my voice trembling with helplessness. "Agar takleef deni thi toh mujhe de deti… lekin ye sab?"
I ran a hand through my hair, my teeth grinding together. This was torture. Watching her like this, breaking in front of me, while I stood powerless. She could hate me all she wanted, curse me till her throat bled—I could take all of it. But this? Her own destruction? It was a slow poison killing me with her.
Author's POV.
Morning crept in slowly, soft sunlight streaming through the curtains of the hospital's VIP suite. The quiet hum of machines filled the room where Isra lay unconscious, her face pale against the white pillow, her body fragile beneath the weight of the blanket. Zorain had made sure she was shifted here—because for him, nothing less than the best could ever touch her, even if she loathed him for breathing the same air.
Outside the room, Zorain sat like a statue, his eyes bloodshot, dark circles underlining the toll of a sleepless night. He hadn't closed his eyes even for a second—not because he couldn't, but because he didn't want to. His entire being waited for the moment she would stir, the moment she would open those hateful eyes, even if it was only to spit venom at him again. He craved her words, her voice—no matter how sharp or cruel. Silence from her was far worse than her hatred.
At 10:45 a.m., the doctor emerged from her room. Zorain stood immediately, his tall frame tense, his hands clenching at his sides.
"She has regained consciousness," the doctor said gently. "You can meet her if you want. But don't let her talk much. Her body isn't strong enough."
Zorain didn't waste a second. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
There she was. His Isra. Eyes closed, her breathing steady, but Zorain knew her too well. She wasn't asleep. She was pretending, as if keeping her eyes shut could shield her from him. Maybe she already guessed he would come, and the idea of facing him was unbearable enough to make her feign unconsciousness.
But he went to her anyway. He dragged the chair closer to her bed and sat down. Without hesitation, his large hands reached for hers—delicate, small, trembling faintly under his touch. He enclosed her right hand in both of his, his thumb brushing over her cold knuckles.
"Isra," he said quietly, his voice stripped of its usual cold authority, stripped of the steel and the secrets he always carried. Now it was raw, pleading, almost fragile. "I know you're awake. Just don't talk. But at least… look at me."
It was something new—this tone of his. Something she had never heard before. And she didn't know why, but she listened. Slowly, her lashes fluttered, and her eyes opened, dull but sharp, and locked into his. She didn't speak. She just stared.
"Is it hurting somewhere?" Zorain asked softly, but she gave no reply.
"You'll be alright. Okay? I promise you, you'll get better. I know you hate hospitals—I'll get you discharged as soon as I can. Hmm?" His voice carried a gentleness that almost startled even him. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed the top of it softly, lingering there for a moment like it was something sacred.
Isra's lips finally parted, her voice cracked but still dripping with poison. "Why are you being so nice? You should be happy I'll die too."
The words struck like a knife. For a moment, Zorain's heart clenched so hard it felt as though someone had ripped it out of his chest and crushed it in their fist. He swallowed down the pain, forcing himself to remain calm.
"You'll never understand," he whispered. Not an argument, not an explanation—just truth left hanging in the air.
Her eyes sharpened further, venom returning like fire to her veins. "Yeah. I'll never understand your fucking game. Is that what you're trying to say?"
Every word from her was poison, but he drank it willingly, like a sinner begging for punishment. He let her hatred carve into him and didn't flinch.
"Rest, My sweetness," he said gently, his voice breaking on the endearment.
Her eyes burned with fury at the word. "Don't call me that. I'm not your anything. And cut the fucking money from my parents' account—you don't need to waste yours on me."
Her rejection, her coldness, it was killing him piece by piece. He wanted to scream the truth, rip open his chest and show her the reality she refused to believe. But he didn't. He couldn't. Because he knew—if she ever found out, she might end up hating him even more than she did now.
So he stayed silent, his lips pressed to her hand one last time, letting her anger drown him.
Inside, his heart whispered the words his mouth couldn't. You'll never stop being mine, Isra. Even if you curse me till your last breath.
Zorain's POV.
I walked out of the room, my head heavy with thoughts I didn't want but couldn't fucking shake off. Her face—fragile, pale, furious yet breaking—kept flashing before my eyes like a cruel fucking loop. She was so damn delicate right now, every wall she threw up was nothing but paper-thin, and yet she wouldn't let me near. How the fuck was I supposed to take care of her when she flinched at the thought of me breathing in the same room? But I fucking would. Whether she wanted it or not. That much was carved into me like goddamn scripture.
I pulled out my phone, typing a quick message to my PA, telling him I wouldn't be stepping foot in the office today. Work could go to hell—I had bigger shit to deal with. My thumb barely hit send when the screen lit up with an incoming call.
"Hello?" My voice was clipped, sharp.
The voice on the other end made my jaw clench, irritation clawing its way through my already frayed nerves.
"Yeah, I'm fucking coming," I snapped before they could continue. "What the hell happened now?"
Because of course something had to happen. Of fucking course. The world didn't know how to pause, didn't give a shit that I was already drowning in chaos. And all I could think was—how the hell was I supposed to fix everything at once when the one thing I wanted to fix, the one person I wanted to fucking protect, wouldn't even look at me without venom in her eyes?
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~Eshie🦋
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Words: 2843.