YN's House
The Shaikh living room was filled with murmurs of approval and excitement. Her mother set a tray of tea on the table while her father adjusted his spectacles with a proud smile.
"We've found a good match for you," her father announced, his tone final, not inviting any opinion. "He's from a respected family, wealthy, and most importantly—ready to take responsibility for you."
YN's lips parted. For the first time in years, she wanted to speak. I don't—
But her mother's sharp glance silenced her before the words could form. "Don't argue, YN. Girls don't get to choose. This is for your own good."
Her grandmother chimed in with a disapproving cluck. "Amanat hai, not zimmedari. Be grateful they even want you."
YN lowered her gaze, her fists curling tightly into the folds of her dupatta. The words sat heavy on her tongue, unspoken, swallowed like every other time.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Ayan's House
Meanwhile, at the Siddique mansion, the atmosphere was colder, heavier, laced with tension instead of excitement.
His father sat across from him, brows furrowed. "Ayan, you're not a boy anymore. This family needs its future secured. Generations don't run themselves."
His mother tried to soften the blow. "We're not asking you to fall in love, beta. Just marry… for stability. For the family name. For the heir who will carry it forward."
Ayan leaned back in his chair, his expression sharp as stone. "If this empire needs me to marry in order to survive, then it was never strong enough in the first place."
His father's eyes hardened. "Don't be arrogant, Ayan. One man cannot shoulder everything forever."
"I can," Ayan's voice cut like steel, low but unshakable. "And I will. I don't need a wife, and I don't need an heir to prove my worth."
His mother's hands trembled slightly as she placed her teacup down. "You'll regret this stubbornness. Life isn't meant to be lived alone."
He met her eyes briefly, cold and detached. "Better alone than chained to something I don't believe in."
The room fell silent, the weight of his words leaving his parents helpless. Ayan turned away, already dismissing the argument in his mind. To him, the matter was closed.
What neither he nor YN knew was that fate had already drafted its own plans—plans that would bind their lives in ways no argument could undo.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
At Ayan's Office
The glass doors of Siddique Enterprises opened to a hush of power. Employees moved briskly, their eyes downcast, the air tight with discipline—Ayan Siddique's discipline.
Inside his corner office, Ayan sat at his massive desk, reviewing files with his usual icy focus when his phone buzzed. He didn't even glance at the caller ID before answering.
His mother's voice spilled through, warm but firm. "Ayan, I'm sending someone to see you. Just meet her once. If you like her, fine. If not, I'll keep treasure hunting until we find someone. I won't stop."
Ayan pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. "Ammi…" His tone carried warning, but she continued.
"No arguments. At least pretend to care. She's already on her way."
Before he could respond, the line went dead.
He dropped the phone back onto his desk with a muted thud, jaw tight. His patience was already wearing thin—and it only got worse when his office doors swung open.
Alina strode in like she owned the place. Dressed to draw attention, confidence dripping from her every step, she didn't even knock. She leaned against his desk, her perfume filling the room, her eyes glittering with arrogance.
"Well, Mr. Siddique," she purred, leaning closer. "I thought you might appreciate a… personal introduction."
Ayan didn't look up from his papers. "Move."
Her smile widened as if taking it as a challenge. She leaned further, her hand brushing his sleeve. "Why be so cold? You know this match makes sense. My father holds fifteen percent of your company. We're already tied together."
That did it.
Ayan raised his head, his gaze like ice. He pressed the intercom. "Security."
Within seconds, two guards entered. Employees in the hallway had already slowed their steps, peeking through the glass walls at the scene unfolding.
Ayan's voice was calm, dangerously calm. "Escort Ms. Alina out. And make sure she never steps into this office again. If she does, you'll both be out of jobs before the day ends."
Alina's face burned crimson. "You can't humiliate me like this—"
"I just did." His tone cut her to pieces. "This is an office, not a circus. Remember that."
Her heels clicked furiously as the guards dragged her out. The watching employees quickly looked away, pretending to work, but the whispers spread like wildfire.
From the far corner of the hall, YN Shaikh had seen everything. She stood frozen, clutching the strap of her purse so tightly her knuckles turned white. The arrogance, the humiliation, the cold power—it all terrified her. She pressed herself against the wall, as if trying to disappear.
Moments later, the same security brought her inside.
Ayan didn't even acknowledge her. He simply gestured toward the chair across from his desk without lifting his eyes from the document he was signing. YN obeyed quietly, sitting down with her gaze fixed on the edge of the desk, too afraid to look up.
The faint scar on her hand—the one his watch had given her—caught the corner of his eye when she shifted slightly. His eyes lingered for a fraction of a second, but when she noticed, she quickly covered it with her other hand, hiding it away as if ashamed.
He said nothing.
He treated her like air, his attention buried back in his work. Calls came in, files were signed, orders were given in his cold, authoritative tone. The room filled only with the scratch of his pen and the clipped rhythm of his voice on the phone.
YN didn't move. Not once. Her back was stiff, her eyes locked on the desk before her, hands pressed into her lap. The minutes stretched, then an hour passed. She remained silent, still as stone, invisible in his world.
And yet—despite his pretense of indifference, Ayan Siddique hadn't forgotten she was there. Not for a second.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
After few hrs
Inside Ayan's Office
The room had grown heavier with silence as the hours dragged on. The steady ticking of the clock on the far wall almost mocked the stillness inside. Papers shifted crisply under Ayan's hands, his pen scratching against them with ruthless precision, his phone buzzing occasionally with calls he handled in his usual clipped tone.
Across the desk, Y/N sat stiff, clutching the strap of her purse so tightly her knuckles had gone pale. Her eyes hadn't moved from the polished wood of the desk; it was safer than daring to look at the man before her. The faint sting of the scar on her hand burned under the weight of his unseen gaze. Every now and then, her fingers instinctively went to cover it, hiding it as though it betrayed her weakness.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, his voice broke the silence. Cold. Low. Measured.
"Don't you have anything to say?"
Her body betrayed her before her mind could respond—her hand shifted weakly, almost of its own accord, shaking as it formed a small no.
His eyes narrowed. He leaned back in his chair, studying her like one might study an object that didn't belong in their space. "Don't you have a tongue to speak?"
Her lips pressed into a thin line. She didn't answer, didn't look up. The room's air thickened, and the shadows seemed to lean closer.
"Is your neck broken?" His tone carried a razor edge, almost mocking, almost daring.
Slowly, like a child caught in something, she shook her head. No.
His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking. "Then lift it up."
The command sliced through the room. Her heart thundered painfully in her chest as if it might burst out. She hesitated, but obedience pulled her chin up.
Her eyes—shaken, tired, but strong in their own way—met his. For a second, the silence between them turned into a battlefield. She did not flinch, though every nerve inside screamed at her to. She just… looked.
That stubborn stillness only seemed to fuel his cold fury. His fist slammed down against the desk, the sharp crack echoing like a whip across the room. Papers jumped from the impact, his glass of water trembled.
The sound made her shoulders jolt, but her eyes didn't fall. They stayed locked on his, wide but unreadable.
For a fleeting second, something unreadable flickered in his gaze too—like he hadn't expected her to withstand it. But it vanished as quickly as it came, swallowed back into the hard shell of Ayan Siddique.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The Office Storm
The room was suffocating with tension. The clock hands crawled forward, the only reminder that time was passing. Y/N hadn't moved an inch—her back straight, her gaze fixed on the desk, her hands clasped together so tightly they trembled.
Ayan sat across from her, his patience thinning into nothing. He was a man used to control, used to reactions, used to people breaking under the weight of his presence. But this girl? She sat there like a carved statue. Silent. Untouchable in her quietness.
His voice lashed out suddenly.
"Are you mute, or just insolent?"
She didn't move.
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
"Do you even know who you're sitting in front of? People beg for my attention, and you—" he gave a short, humorless laugh, "—you sit here as if you're carved out of stone."
Still, nothing.
He tapped his pen hard against the desk, each strike louder than the last.
"Speak. Something. Anything. Or is silence the only trick you know?"
Her lips pressed tighter together, as though she was swallowing words she didn't dare let out.
His frustration grew, spilling out in colder words.
"Do you think this is a charity? That I have hours to waste watching you play the role of a ghost?!"
"Are you proud of yourself, sitting there like you're some tragic heroine?"
"Or maybe you enjoy being looked down on. Is that it? Is silence your only form of rebellion?"
His tone turned sharper, more mocking.
"Pathetic. A girl who can't even lift her chin without permission. Do you know how useless that makes you in the real world?"
The staff outside passing by his cabin slowed, startled by his raised voice. Some exchanged glances nervously but quickly looked away. They all knew Ayan Siddique's temper—and none dared intervene.
Inside, Y/N sat still. Her body stiff, her heartbeat erratic, but her face remained composed. She listened. Like she always did. Like she was taught to. Every word entered her ears but she didn't protest, didn't cry, didn't defend.
And her silence was like pouring oil on fire.
"You think ignoring me makes you stronger?" He scoffed harshly. "No. It makes you forgettable."
"People like you don't survive. You exist in the background, shadows without names. Do you even want to exist, or is breathing enough?"
When she still didn't move, he stood abruptly, his chair screeching back. His palms pressed flat against the desk as he leaned toward her, his shadow stretching over her small frame.
"Say. Something." His voice was almost a growl. "Anything. Prove you're not just… air."
But her eyes stayed down, her lips sealed. Her silence was iron.
Ayan's jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful. He dragged in a breath, his control snapping.
"Get out."
The words were cold, final, laced with dismissal.
She rose instantly, almost relieved at the command. No hesitation, no argument. She gathered her purse, bowed her head slightly, and walked toward the door.
As the glass door shut softly behind her, Ayan stood there, staring at the empty chair she left behind. His fist tightened at his side. For a man who conquered boardrooms and shattered competitors, he'd never felt this kind of defeat—infuriated not by her words, but by the fact she hadn't given him a single one.