The Unexpected Encounter
Ayan was standing outside a café, his phone pressed to his ear as he scrolled through emails with his free hand. His sharp suit, his presence—everything about him screamed control.
A familiar voice interrupted him.
"Ayan!"
He turned. A young woman, one of those socialites who lingered around him whenever the opportunity arose, walked up with an easy smile. She slipped into his space without hesitation, brushing a hand against his arm as though she belonged there.
He didn't push her away. In fact, he allowed it—leaning slightly closer, letting her laugh echo in the air. His gaze, however, wasn't really on her. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a figure.
Y/N.
She was walking along the same street, her dupatta tucked neatly at her side, her posture as quiet and contained as ever. She wasn't expecting to see him—her steps faltered for half a second before she adjusted and kept walking.
Ayan smirked inwardly, letting the girl's fingers linger on his sleeve. Good, he thought. Let's see how long you can keep up that mask. Let's see what silence looks like when you're burning inside.
But Y/N… didn't stop.
She didn't falter.
Her eyes brushed past him for the briefest moment, expression flat, unreadable. Then she looked away. Walked right past him and the girl, her pace steady, her face calm. No flicker of jealousy. No hint of pain. No sign that his little play had affected her at all.
To her, he and that girl were nothing but air.
Ayan's smirk froze. The girl beside him laughed at something meaningless, tugging at his sleeve, but he didn't hear her. His jaw clenched as his eyes followed Y/N's retreating figure.
For the first time, it wasn't her silence that unsettled him.
It was her indifference.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The Warning
The glass of whiskey clinked against the table as Ayan set it down with more force than necessary. His penthouse was dimly lit, the skyline stretching endlessly outside the glass wall. He sat on the edge of the couch, shoulders tense, his face carved with frustration.
Zaid :-
Zaid lounged comfortably opposite him, legs crossed, one arm slung lazily over the chair. Unlike everyone else in Ayan's world, Zaid wasn't afraid of his moods. He watched his cousin pace like a caged wolf and smirked slightly.
"Something's eating you alive," Zaid drawled, twirling his glass. "And don't bother denying it. I know that face."
Ayan scoffed, running a hand through his hair.
"She's… nothing. Just a silent statue, standing there like the world doesn't matter. Doesn't react. Doesn't break. It's infuriating."
Zaid raised a brow. "Infuriating? Or fascinating?"
Ayan shot him a glare. "Don't start."
Zaid leaned forward, his smirk fading into something sharper, his voice dropping low.
"Listen, cousin. Try to be intimate with her. Push her. See what happens. If she goes further, she's playing with you. Then fine—she'll learn quickly what it means to play with Ayan Siddique."
Ayan's jaw tightened.
"But…" Zaid's tone turned colder, more deliberate, "if she doesn't? If she doesn't take a single step closer, doesn't give in, doesn't react? Then you, my dear cousin, are in big trouble."
Ayan frowned. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Zaid leaned back, his eyes glinting with an edge of mischief and truth.
"Because if she doesn't move forward… it means she doesn't care. Not about you. Not about your name. Not about your wealth. Not even about your existence. And trust me—" he let out a short laugh, shaking his head, "—that's worse than hate. That's worse than love. That's you being invisible."
Ayan clenched his fists, his chest tight with something unnameable.
Zaid finished his drink and stood, tossing his final words over his shoulder as he headed toward the balcony.
"And let's be honest, Ayan—it's more fun to play if the opponent is tough. Don't you think?"
The sound of the city filled the silence that followed, but in Ayan's mind, only Zaid's words echoed—cutting sharper than any insult.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The Slap!
The house was too quiet that night. The kind of silence that pressed down on the chest.
Ayan had told his mother he wanted to see Y/N—alone. His mother, unaware of the storm brewing inside him, sent Y/N into his private lounge without question.
The room was dim, the only light a faint golden lamp in the corner. Ayan sat on the edge of the sofa, shadows cutting across his sharp features. His tie hung loose, the top button of his shirt undone, but there was nothing casual about the way his eyes followed her when she stepped in.
Y/N stood still for a moment, her hands clenched into fists at her side. She was already done—done with games, done with his moods, done with this suffocating cycle. If tonight was the end of everything, then so be it.
"Sit," Ayan said, his voice low but carrying the weight of command.
She didn't move. That only made him rise to his feet, his presence dark and consuming as he closed the distance between them. The faint scent of his cologne, the sharpness in his breathing—it all made the air feel heavier.
Without warning, he leaned in, his hand brushing her arm as he tried to tilt her face up, lips dangerously close. She turned her head sharply away. His jaw flexed.
"Stop pretending you're unaffected," he muttered, his tone thick with frustration, before pressing forward again—trying to force the closeness she refused to give.
And then—
SLAP!
The sound echoed through the room, louder than thunder in the silence. Ayan staggered a step back, his cheek stinging, a red imprint of her hand blooming on his skin. His hand shook as he reached up, fingertips brushing the heat on his face.
Y/N's chest rose and fell rapidly, but her eyes… her eyes didn't waver. If this was the price for her freedom, if this act made him reject her, then she had done the right thing. She would endure whatever came next.
Ayan's gaze locked on hers, cold and sharp as shards of ice. Something snapped inside him. With a guttural growl, he spun and slammed his fist into the glass wall beside her. The sound of shattering glass filled the room, fragments raining down onto the floor like deadly stars.
Blood smeared across his knuckles, dripping down onto the pristine carpet. His breath came ragged, fury twisting his features, but Y/N didn't flinch. She stood still, overwhelmed, almost hollow—accepting this moment as the possible end of it all.
He ripped his hand back, droplets of blood trailing as he stormed toward the door. With one violent motion, he slammed it shut behind him.
THUD!
The impact was so forceful the lamp on the side table rattled, a glass of water toppled, and the echo carried through the corridors.
Y/N stood frozen for a moment, her ears ringing in the silence that followed. Only when the sound of his footsteps disappeared did she finally let out the breath she had been holding since the moment she entered.
Her knees trembled, but her face held no tears. Just the hollow calm of someone who had survived another storm.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The Forced Word
Y/N descended the stairs slowly, her hand brushing the railing for support. Her face was pale but unreadable, the shadow of the slap she had given him still lingering in her mind. The silence of the mansion pressed in from all sides.
Ayan was already there. Sitting on the main couch in the grand hall, posture sharp, his injured hand casually resting against his thigh as if the blood staining his knuckles didn't matter. His eyes followed her like a predator's—cold, unblinking.
She turned towards the exit, her feet carrying her with quiet determination. She just wanted to leave, to breathe.
But his voice cut through the air, low and merciless:
"Take one more step, and you'll regret your existence."
She froze. The authority in his tone was absolute, leaving no space for rebellion. Her throat tightened, but she didn't turn around.
Ayan leaned back slightly, pulling his phone out with his uninjured hand. His eyes never left her figure as he pressed the dial button.
The sound of ringing filled the silence. Y/N's chest tightened.
"Hello?" her father's voice came from the other end.
Ayan's lips curled into the faintest, cruel smirk. He hit speaker and spoke with chilling clarity:
"Uncle… tell Y/N she'll be my wife before the sun rises again—no arguments, no delays."
On the other side, Y/N's father almost jumped from his seat, his voice cracking with disbelief.
"Wh–What? Right now?!"
Y/N's breath hitched. For a moment, it felt as if the ground had vanished beneath her feet, as if the world itself had slipped away.
Her heart pounded in her ears. She stared at Ayan—his ice-cold eyes, his unwavering tone. The walls felt like they were closing in, her lungs refusing to draw air.
This was it. The very thing she had dreaded—the decision stripped from her hands, her life being spoken about as if she wasn't even there.
And Ayan… he sat there in power, his bloodied hand resting like a silent warning, his command binding everyone in its grasp.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The air was thick with silence when the families arrived half an hour later. YN was still frozen in the same position, standing near the staircase like a statue carved out of fear. Her eyes fixed on the floor, she didn't dare to look up.
Her mother's sharp glare was enough to pierce her soul. "Stop creating drama, girl. Go with the flow," she hissed, voice laced with irritation, as if her daughter was nothing but an obstacle.
Like a puppet tugged by invisible strings, YN walked with them, her steps slow, reluctant.
One of the guards entered, carrying freshly printed papers in his hands—the marriage contract. He placed them on the table with precision. Ayan sat there already, his expression unreadable, a faint trace of blood dried along his knuckles. He picked up the pen with his injured right hand—his dominant hand—and signed the document with ruthless ease.
His mother's eyes caught the angry red marks across his hand. "Ayan, what happened to your hand?" she asked softly, concern slipping through.
Ayan's lips curved into the faintest smirk, his voice casual but layered with hidden venom. "Some wounds… are caused when someone dares to push beyond their limits. But I don't mind. It only makes the lesson more permanent."
The indirect weight of his words fell heavy on YN, though no one else understood.
Ayan's father didn't even say anything he is just watching this all being unfolding in front of him as anything he was willing to say was opposite to his son's will and it would only worsen the situation.
Ayan slid the contract across the table toward her, his cold gaze locked on her trembling figure. "Go on," he said, tone sharp, taunting, "add your name beside mine. After all, even statues need an identity."
Her mother snatched the pen, shoved it into YN's hand. "Sign it."
Her father's voice followed, colder than ice. "Do not waste our time. Sign it, Y/N."
Her hand shook as though the pen weighed more than her entire body, but with no strength left to resist, she pressed it to the paper. Her name appeared beside his, the ink smearing slightly from her trembling.
The elders nodded, as if a business deal had just been finalized. Her grandmother muttered a quick blessing, emotionless, and they all began to leave.
When the last footsteps faded, the vast living room was silent again, holding only the two of them. Ayan leaned back against the couch, watching her with narrowed eyes.
He snapped his fingers once. A maid rushed in. "Bring the first aid kit." His gaze flicked to YN, sharp as a blade. "And give it to her."
The box was placed on the table. YN didn't move.
Ayan's tone dropped into a command. "An obedient wife treats her husband's wounds, doesn't she?"
She hesitated, then slowly stood, her fingers clutching her dupatta. She walked toward him, silently praying this would end quickly.
But as she reached for his hand, he stopped her, his voice low but laced with steel. "Not here."
He tilted his head toward the floor at his feet.
For a moment, she froze, shame and fear swirling inside her. His eyes never wavered.
With no choice, YN lowered herself to her knees, the cold marble seeping into her bones. She carefully took his injured hand into hers, her touch feather-light, and began treating the wound. Her trembling hands dabbed antiseptic onto his split knuckles, each sting of the liquid making him hiss softly, though he never took his eyes off her face.
Her lips pressed together in a firm line, her eyes refusing to meet his.
Ayan smirked faintly, breaking the silence. "You're learning quickly. Quiet, obedient… maybe you were made for this role after all."
Her hands stilled for a fraction of a second, but she resumed, determined not to react.
When she was done bandaging his hand, she set the first aid kit aside, her head still bowed.
He leaned down slightly, his voice brushing her ear like a cold wind. "Get used to kneeling, Y/N. This was only the beginning."
She swallowed hard, her nails digging into her own palms out of sight. Inside, she was screaming, but outside, she remained the silent statue she had been trained to be.