"Tonight, you will stay in the garden."
Ayan's voice was final, sharp as the edge of a blade. He didn't raise it, didn't need to. It carried the weight of a decree.
YN's fingers clenched the fabric of her dupatta, but she didn't argue, didn't beg. She simply lowered her head and walked out of the mansion's grand doors, her steps echoing in the hollow silence. The night air was cool against her skin, the marble pathway unforgiving beneath her feet. She found a quiet corner in the garden, sitting among the shadows, her body still as stone.
Above, on the top floor, Ayan stood on the balcony, hands resting on the railing. His eyes followed her small, silent figure as it disappeared into the dark greenery. His bandaged hand flexed unconsciously, the faint trace of her warmth lingering beneath the cotton. The memory of her careful touch, hesitant yet steady, replayed in his mind, unsettling him in ways he couldn't admit.
He looked down at the white bandage, his jaw tightening. Why does it still feel like her hand is here?
Turning to leave, his gaze landed on the shattered glass pieces still scattered across the floor where his fist had struck earlier. For a moment, he stilled, then a cold smirk tugged at his lips.
"Whoever dares to rise against me…" his voice was low, dangerous, meant only for himself, "…will regret their whole life."
The smirk widened, but his eyes betrayed something deeper—an unfamiliar flicker he didn't want to name. Because in truth, he wasn't fated to crush her completely. Destiny had written another story.
Without knowing it, the girl sitting silently in his garden—the girl who had never been allowed to speak—would one day become the voice of all the words he had buried inside himself.
The storm had only just begun.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Without knowing it, the girl sitting silently in his garden—the girl who had never been allowed to speak—would one day find her voice through him.
He would be her voice, not she his.
He would try every possible way to bend her, to break her, to make her live under his shadow and his control. But destiny had a crueler plan for him—he was not going to be her cage, he was going to become the very shoulder she had always craved. The shoulder to lean on when her silence grew too heavy, the shield when the world reminded her she was unwanted, the hand that would hold her steady when her own family had only pushed her down.
He believed he was writing her story in chains, but in truth, he was being written into hers as the strength she had been denied since birth.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The sun had barely risen when Ayan's parents arrived at the mansion. The garden glistened with dew, the roses heavy with drops of water that looked almost like tears.
There, in the corner, YN sat on the cold stone bench, her dupatta wrapped loosely around her shoulders. She hadn't moved since last night—her posture stiff, her eyes vacant. To any outsider, it might have looked as though she was simply enjoying the crisp morning air, but the truth was far more brutal.
She had become numb from the night's cold, yet it was nothing compared to the storm raging inside her. One night had turned her life upside down, in ways she never thought possible.
His parents paused for a moment, watching her fragile figure. Thinking she must have come for fresh air, they didn't disturb her and instead walked into the mansion.
Inside, the atmosphere was strikingly different. Ayan sat casually in the living room, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. He was dressed in his workout clothes—black joggers and a sleeveless vest clinging to his sculpted frame. Beads of sweat clung to his skin, glimmering under the morning light as they traced the defined ridges of his muscles. His damp hair, tousled from his early workout, fell across his forehead, only adding to the raw, commanding aura that surrounded him.
He took a slow sip of coffee, unfazed, as his parents began talking. They mentioned YN, their words carrying a hint of concern, though careful not to sound accusatory.
It was Ayan who cut through their murmurs, his tone sharp and unapologetic. "I made her sit there since last night."
The cup clinked softly as he placed it back on the table, his expression unreadable—neither guilt nor regret in his eyes, only cold control.
His parents froze, exchanging a glance. They knew better than to challenge him in this mood. One wrong word, and the tension would only spiral. So they stayed silent, swallowing their protests.
When they eventually prepared to leave, they stopped by the doorway, their gazes falling once again on YN's still form in the garden. She hadn't moved an inch. Her dupatta swayed gently with the morning breeze, but her body remained motionless, her silence louder than screams.
A helplessness flickered between his parents' eyes. They wanted to reach out, to say something, but the unspoken weight of their son's dominance kept them rooted. With heavy hearts, they turned away, leaving the mansion, the image of YN burned into their minds.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The clink of his coffee cup echoed faintly as Ayan set it down, his eyes narrowing at the garden outside. He spoke without looking up, his voice cold, casual, yet commanding:
"Call her in."
The maid, startled, gave a small nod and hurried out.
In the garden, YN's numb fingers traced the edges of her dupatta, her body heavy with exhaustion. The maid approached carefully. "Madam… sir is calling you."
YN's chest rose and fell once, slowly. Her face betrayed nothing, but her knuckles tightened around the fabric as she stood. Without a word, she followed the maid back into the mansion.
The moment she stepped in, her eyes instinctively dropped to the floor. Ayan was standing by the staircase, a figure of control in his dark workout clothes, damp hair sticking to his forehead. With a slight tilt of his chin, he gestured for her to follow.
Neither of them spoke as they ascended the stairs, the silence heavy and suffocating. The path was familiar—each step toward the room replaying flashes of last night's chaos. Her heart beat slower, not faster, as if her body had accepted defeat long before.
They entered the same room where everything had begun. The faint scent of antiseptic still lingered in the air from when she had treated his hand. Shards of glass from the broken table edge still lay scattered across the floor, glinting faintly in the dim light.
Ayan sat down in the large leather chair, his posture regal, almost like a king surveying his throne room. He leaned back, one arm resting lazily on the armrest, his gaze fixed on her with a sharp detachment.
"Pick them up," he ordered, his voice low but carrying the weight of steel.
Her eyes flickered to the jagged glass on the floor. For a brief second, her lashes trembled, then lowered again. She stepped forward, kneeling on the cold marble, her fingers slowly reaching for the first shard.
The sharp edge bit into her skin as she picked it up, leaving a faint red line on her fingertip, but she didn't flinch. Piece after piece, she gathered them, careful not to drop any, her silence as steady as ever.
Ayan's eyes followed every movement, his jaw tight. Her obedience, her lack of resistance—it wasn't victory. It was something heavier, something that unsettled him.
"Careful," he said suddenly, voice laced with mockery. "Wouldn't want to scar those delicate hands. What would your family say then?"
She paused, her breath catching for the briefest second, but she didn't answer, didn't even glance his way. She resumed picking up the pieces, as if his words hadn't touched her at all.
The silence stretched. Only the faint clinking of glass echoed in the room.
Ayan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, watching her closely. Why doesn't she react? Why doesn't she break?
When the last shard was collected, YN placed them carefully on the corner of the table, her head still bowed. She didn't move, didn't wait for permission to leave—she simply stood still, as though her existence itself was waiting on his next command.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Ayan took his time in the shower, letting the water slide down his toned body, washing away the sweat and dust of his morning workout. He wasn't just cleaning himself—he was making her wait. Testing her patience. Testing how far her silence could stretch.
When he finally stepped out, steam clinging to his skin, his damp hair falling messily across his forehead, he caught sight of her still in the same corner, exactly where he had ordered her to stay.
Her body was stiff, her bandaged hand resting in her lap, her face pale but emotionless. She didn't look at him, didn't even blink more than necessary—like a statue carved out of obedience.
A slow smirk curved on his lips. "Good," he muttered under his breath, running a towel lazily across his shoulders. "You're learning."
Deliberately, he walked past her, water droplets still glistening down his chest, leaving faint traces on the floor. He poured himself another coffee, sat back on the chair like a king back on his throne, and let his gaze settle on her.
Minutes turned into hours. He made phone calls. He went through files. He scrolled through messages. He acted as if she wasn't even there—yet never once released her from that silent command.
Finally, he leaned back, eyes narrowing at her trembling frame. "Still there?" he asked, voice laced with mock amusement. "Or have you fainted already?"
When she shifted slightly to prove she was still conscious, he chuckled darkly. "Good girl. Stay right there. When I'm done… maybe I'll decide if you deserve to breathe inside these walls—or out in the cold again."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The moment Ayan stepped out of the room for work, silence swallowed the space. The ticking of the clock on the wall became louder, almost mocking her heavy eyelids.
She had fought the sleep all night in the garden, the cold stabbing into her bones, and now the exhaustion weighed her down like chains. She tried to keep her eyes open—he had ordered her to stay awake, to sit where he left her—but her body betrayed her.
Her head leaned against the wall, her bandaged hand slipping slightly from her lap. Within minutes, she drifted into a restless sleep, her breathing uneven, like she was afraid even in her dreams.
The faintest sound of the door clicking open again stirred the air, but she didn't wake.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
When Ayan returned, his eyes instantly caught her—head tilted to the side, hair falling loosely over her face, lips slightly parted as she slept against the wall. The papers of her existence were already signed, yet she sat there like an unclaimed prisoner.
For a fleeting second, something stirred inside him—a temptation to walk forward, brush that stray strand away, shake her awake gently. But the thought died as quickly as it came. His jaw tightened.
Instead, he reached for the AC remote. His lips curled into a faint smirk as he pressed the button, lowering the temperature until the air grew sharp and icy. Her body trembled, shoulders curling in against the chill, yet she didn't wake.
Ayan leaned back against the table, folding his arms across his chest, his eyes fixed on her.
"Look at you… already breaking rules I didn't even make yet. I told you to sit here, not to sleep. Weakness… it suits you, doesn't it? You think closing your eyes will shut me out? No, girl. Not in this life."
He tilted his head, studying the way her fingers twitched in sleep, as if she were still fighting an invisible war.
"The more you shiver, the more you remind me you're under my roof, under my name, and soon… under my control. Don't mistake my silence for mercy. If I wake you now, you'll curse my existence. If I don't…"—he exhaled a sharp breath—"you'll still curse me in your dreams."*
But even as he said it, he didn't move to wake her. His eyes lingered, cold and restless, while the air around her grew sharper with every passing second.