Boardroom Tension
The conference room was silent except for the clicking of a fountain pen against the polished mahogany table. Ayan Siddique sat at the head, his black suit immaculate, his gaze sharper than the edge of the glass table before him.
The directors shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his silence. Papers rustled. A few cleared their throats, but no one dared to speak first.
Finally, one of the senior managers found his courage. "Mr. Siddique, the proposed merger with H&S Group—"
Ayan leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. His voice, low and even, cut through the man's words like steel.
"Do I look like I have time to discuss failures?"
The man froze, his face paling.
Ayan dropped the pen on the table, the sound echoing through the room. "We don't merge with incompetence. We consume them—or we make sure they don't exist in the market at all."
A few executives exchanged glances. No one dared to oppose.
Ayan's eyes scanned the room, cold and deliberate. "If any of you think this company runs on pity and compromise, walk out now. I don't run Siddique Enterprises for weak men with excuses."
His words carried no emotion, only command.
When no one moved, a ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Good. Now get out of my sight and bring me results the next time, not excuses."
The directors scrambled to gather their files. The door shut behind them one by one, leaving only Ayan in the room.
He loosened his tie slightly, his eyes drifting to the city skyline beyond the glass walls. The world outside sparkled with ambition, but his gaze remained cold, detached.
For Ayan Siddique, victories were numbers, not emotions.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The Household That Silenced Her
The Shaikh mansion was buzzing with the usual evening chatter—clinking teacups, the grandmother's sharp instructions, and her father's heavy voice dominating the room.
YN sat quietly in a corner, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her gaze fixed on the carpet. The warm glow of the chandelier did nothing to ease the heaviness in her chest. She knew this rhythm too well.
Across the room, her younger brother lounged on the sofa, a plate of sweets in front of him. Their mother's hand affectionately ruffled his hair as she urged him, "Eat more, beta. You've worked so hard in school today."
YN's lips parted, almost as if she might say something—anything—but she stopped herself. Words were dangerous here. One word, one sound, and she would be met with scorn.
Her father's voice boomed suddenly. "Girls are never truly ours. They're just guests in this house, burdens we prepare to send away. She"—his gaze briefly flickered to YN—"is someone else's responsibility. Not mine."
The words landed like stones, but YN did not flinch. She had heard them since birth. A trophy of failure, that's what she was to him—not in studies, not in art, but in existence. He had wanted a son. He had wanted strength. Instead, he had received her.
The grandmother adjusted her dupatta and clicked her tongue. "Keep her silent, always. A girl with too many words brings shame. Better she learns to lower her head now than later."
YN bowed her head lower, staring at her hands. Her silence was her only shield, the only way to survive in this house that never wanted her.
Her brother glanced at her from across the room, his brows furrowing. He didn't like it—never had. Sometimes he slipped her sweets when no one was watching, sometimes he whispered, "I'm sorry, didi," though he was too young and powerless to change anything.
Tonight was no different. He shifted uncomfortably, watching his sister shrink further into herself while his parents' smiles glowed only for him.
And YN—she sat, silent as ever. Not because she had nothing to say, but because every word she had ever tried to speak had been strangled by the people who should have protected her.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
No one in the Shaikh household knew that silence could one day speak louder than a thousand storms. YN, who had been raised like a shadow—unwanted, unseen, unheard—sat in her corner, believing this was her fate. To her parents, she was nothing more than a burden. To her grandmother, she was a shame wrapped in silence. To herself, she was survival in human form.
But destiny had a plan.
Far away, in another world of glass towers and cold power, lived a man who saw life only in numbers, not in emotions. Ayan Siddique, ruthless and unyielding, a man who trusted no one, who had taught himself that attachments were weaknesses. His heart was an empire of ice, and he believed no warmth could ever seep into it.
And yet—
Who knew there was a person who could change his entire perspective of seeing the world?
Who knew that the girl who had never spoken a word could someday shatter the silence inside his heart?
She did not know about the storm waiting for her.
He did not know about the fire she carried quietly within her silence.
But destiny knew.
The strings were already being pulled, invisible yet unbreakable. Their paths were about to collide in a way neither of them expected.
The world called it chance.
Fate called it inevitability.
One thing was certain—
Their lives were about to take a turn so sharp, so consuming, that nothing would ever be the same again.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
:-
"She never uttered a word, yet he heard her louder than the world—because her silence belonged only to him, the only truth he could never escape."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
His parents arrange few girls for him most likely for date
The Bold One
The Siddique living room was decorated with subtle grandeur, and Ayan sat opposite a young woman dressed in crimson. She leaned forward, her smile unshaken by his icy demeanor.
"So, Mr. Siddique," she said, locking eyes with him without hesitation. "You don't seem like the type to waste time. Let's be clear—what exactly do you expect in a wife?"
Ayan's jaw tightened. He studied her, his face unreadable. She was bold—too bold. Not disrespectful, but intrusive. He didn't like anyone trying to peel into his layers.
"Expectations," he said flatly, "are reserved for people who care. I don't."
The woman blinked, surprised by his bluntness, but quickly recovered. "That's fine. I like a challenge."
His lips curved, not in amusement, but in warning. "I don't."
Silence fell. His parents shifted awkwardly, trying to mask their discomfort. The girl's confidence faltered under his cold, unwavering gaze.
For Ayan, the meeting was over before it even began.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The False One
The next girl arrived dressed modestly, her smile soft and practiced. She spoke sweetly, complimenting the house, praising his parents, her words flowing like honey.
"It must be so tiring for you, handling such a big empire all alone," she said, her eyes darting toward him every few seconds. "But I think behind your stern face, you're actually very caring, aren't you?"
Ayan raised a brow. "Is that what you've been told to say?"
She froze for a second but quickly forced a laugh. "No, no, of course not. I just… feel it."
He leaned back, his gaze sharp enough to slice through her rehearsed charm. "You've spent less than five minutes in this room and claim to feel who I am? Either you're lying to impress me… or you think I'm naïve enough to believe you."
The girl's smile stiffened. She lowered her eyes, realizing he had seen through her façade in seconds.
"I dislike pretenders," he said simply, standing up as a clear sign the meeting was over.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The Arrogant One
The third girl walked in with the air of someone who believed the world owed her attention. Dressed in designer silk, she didn't bow her head respectfully to his parents. Instead, she walked straight toward Ayan and sat down without invitation.
"I don't think we need to drag this meeting for too long," she said, confidence dripping from her tone. "You know my father holds fifteen percent of Siddique Enterprises. So, in a way, we're already connected. It's only natural that you'll choose me."
Ayan's eyes narrowed. He didn't speak immediately, letting the weight of silence stretch until even her confidence flickered. Finally, he leaned forward, his voice calm but edged with steel.
"You seem mistaken."
She smirked. "About what?"
"That fifteen percent your father owns?" His voice dropped, cold and deliberate. "I can buy it back tomorrow. With or without his consent."
Her smirk faded.
"And as for you," he continued, his tone deadly calm, "don't ever assume that sitting in front of me guarantees you anything. Confidence is power—overconfidence is suicide."
The room went still. His parents looked away, uncomfortable, but Ayan's gaze remained locked on her until she finally looked down, her arrogance shrinking into silence.
The meeting ended the way all others had—with Ayan's rejection.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The First Collision
The marble floors of the hotel lobby echoed with hurried footsteps, the morning rush a blur of voices and polished shoes. YN Shaikh stepped aside, her eyes lowered as always, clutching a small packet in her hands. She never walked too fast—her silence made her appear almost invisible in the crowd.
But not invisible enough.
A sharp graze cut across her skin as someone brushed past her. She flinched but didn't make a sound. Her eyes darted up for a split second.
A man stood before her, tall, dressed in black, his suit sharp as his expression. A gleaming wristwatch with a steel clasp—his hand accessory—had caught her, leaving a fine slice across her skin.
Their eyes locked.
For one suspended second, the world seemed to quiet around them. His gaze was intense, cold, studying her face as if searching for something. Her lips parted as if she might speak—but she quickly looked down, her lashes falling like a curtain. Without a word, she turned, trying to slip away.
But her dupatta betrayed her. The delicate fabric snagged against his watch.
She froze. He tugged it free with one swift movement, his brows knitting in irritation. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath, cursing softly in frustration as he glanced at the time. He was late. Without another glance at her, he strode away, his long strides swallowing the distance.
YN clutched the torn end of her dupatta in her fist, her gaze falling on the faint line of blood seeping from the cut on her hand. The sting was nothing compared to the familiar ache inside—pain she was long accustomed to bearing in silence. She tightened her grip on the fabric, lowering her eyes as people bustled past her, uncaring.
Across the lobby, Ayan Siddique was already deep in conversation with his client. His voice was calm, commanding, masking his impatience. Yet, midway through their exchange, the client's eyes dropped to his sleeve.
"Mr. Siddique," the man said, puzzled, "is that blood?"
Ayan glanced down. A thin streak stained the edge of his crisp white cuff. For a split second, her face—the girl with the lowered gaze, the torn dupatta—flashed across his mind.
But his reply was instant, smooth, detached. "Just a scratch," he said dismissively, adjusting his cuff as if brushing away the thought itself.
And just like that, he buried the image of her—
or at least, he thought he did.