Her head tilted slightly as she murmured something, soft and fragile, almost like a plea. Ayan's brows arched. Without thinking, he bent down, lowering his ear near her lips. Her faint breath fanned against his skin, warm compared to the icy air of the room.
And then—there it was. Words. Not loud, not clear, but words nonetheless. His lips curved, a dangerous amusement gleaming in his eyes.
"So… you do have a tongue," he whispered, almost to himself. "Not mute, not broken. You've been hiding it all along. Why?"
He lingered there, too close, too sharp, studying the delicate rise and fall of her chest as though the secret of her silence was written on her skin.
Yn stirred, sensing him. Her lashes fluttered open, and the first thing she saw was him—his face inches from hers, his breath brushing her cheek. She froze instantly, her body going rigid, fear shooting down her spine.
Ayan's smirk deepened, his voice dropping low, dangerously mocking.
"Scared already, huh?"
She didn't answer, didn't move, her wide eyes locked on his. He tilted his head, watching every flinch, every shallow breath she took.
"If one whisper in your sleep makes you tremble like this," he drawled, brushing a knuckle lightly against his jaw where her slap still burned as memory, "then what will you do when I decide to make you speak while awake? Hm?"
Her throat tightened, but still no words came out.
Ayan leaned back finally, straightening, his eyes never leaving her. He almost looked pleased, as if her silence was a game only he had the right to play.
"Remember this," he said, his tone laced with warning, "your silence is not your shield. It's my weapon."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The dining hall glowed under the golden chandelier. Ayan sat on the main chair like it was his rightful throne, his posture broad and commanding, damp strands of hair still clinging to his forehead from the earlier workout.
Yn sat silently behind him, exactly where he had ordered her to. When the maids began to place dishes on the table, Ayan lifted a hand, stopping them with nothing more than a gesture. His sharp eyes slid toward Yn.
"Come here," he ordered, voice firm, leaving no room for disobedience. "You'll serve me."
Her feet felt heavy, but she stood, walking around the table. Quietly, with trembling hands, she picked up the serving spoon and placed food onto his plate. He didn't thank her, only leaned back, watching her every move as though testing how far she'd bend.
When she returned to her seat, she didn't touch a single dish. She just sat there, hands folded in her lap, eyes lowered.
Ayan's fork clinked against his plate as he looked at her empty one. A humorless chuckle escaped him before he taunted, "What's this now? Some new drama? Sitting like a saint won't change your fate."
She stayed still.
His jaw tightened, his voice cutting sharper. "Stop being so dramatic." He shoved a piece of food into his mouth, chewed slowly, then looked at her again. "Fine. You won't serve yourself? Then I'll feed you."
He slammed the fork down loudly enough to make her flinch. "Do you hear me?" His voice rose, thunder cracking across the room. "I said I'll feed you!"
Yn's hands shook. Quickly, almost frantically, she reached for the nearest dish, serving herself with trembling spoons. She lowered her head and began eating in small, hurried bites, afraid to provoke him further.
Ayan leaned back in his chair, smirking darkly at her compliance. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and said in a low, mocking tone, "Good girl. Finally learned to listen when I raise my voice."
He watched her chew with rigid, mechanical movements, like she was swallowing stones instead of food. After a pause, he added cruelly, "Remember, you eat because I allow you to. Without me, you'd starve even in a room full of food."
His words echoed, sinking into her chest like cold iron.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The bedroom was dim, only the bedside lamp casting a soft glow across the walls. Ayan entered first, tossing his phone carelessly onto the nightstand. Yn followed silently, her footsteps hesitant, almost soundless.
Without sparing her a glance, Ayan threw a pillow onto the sofa and flung a folded blanket after it. His voice was sharp, detached:
"From now on, you'll sleep there. On the sofa. That's where you belong."
He loosened his wristwatch, setting it down with a heavy clink. Turning toward her, his tone dropped lower, carrying a subtle threat:
"And listen carefully… only if you behave. If not, you know the alternative." He leaned slightly, his eyes narrowing. "The garden is always waiting for you."
Yn's fingers clenched the edge of her dupatta, but she didn't respond. Her silence wasn't defiance—it was exhaustion.
He scoffed, almost amused at her mute obedience. "Good. At least you understand your limits."
With that, he pulled off his shirt, revealing the tension in his muscles before slipping under his own blanket on the king-sized bed. Within minutes, his breaths evened out, sleep overtaking him as if nothing in the world troubled him.
Yn sat on the sofa, the thin blanket clutched in her hands. She laid down eventually, staring at the ceiling. Sleep didn't come.
Her mind was screaming, heart heavy. "What the hell did my parents put me into… how can they expect me to live like this?" The thought burned her chest, but her eyes remained dry—too drained to shed tears.
She turned to her side, pulling the blanket tighter, feeling its weight but no warmth. Every sound of his steady breathing across the room reminded her she was trapped in a life she hadn't chosen.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The morning light seeped faintly through the curtains, spilling across the wide room. Ayan stirred awake, stretching slightly before his eyes settled on the sight before him.
Yn was curled on the couch just beside his bed, her dupatta half-slipped, her hand resting limply near her face. Her breathing was soft, fragile, the blanket barely clinging to her frame.
Ayan dragged his hand over his face, exhaling slowly, then ran his fingers through his hair with frustration. His jaw tightened.
"What the hell am I doing… keeping her here like this," he muttered under his breath, voice laced with annoyance, as if speaking to himself.
But then his gaze shifted, drawn by memory. Almost unconsciously, his fingers brushed his own cheek—the very place where her slap had landed days ago. Though the mark was gone, the sting remained etched into his pride. His lips curved into a cold, humorless smirk.
"Tch. That one mistake… she'll regret it all her life."
His eyes lingered on her one last time, unreadable, before he grabbed his crisp white shirt from the chair. With precise, practiced motions, he slid his arms into it, buttoning each one as though sealing away every stray thought.
The sharp thud of the wardrobe door echoed as he shut it with force, startling Yn. Her eyes fluttered open instantly—trained by fear to wake at the slightest noise. She sat up quickly, pulling the blanket off as if guilty for even sleeping.
Her gaze stayed lowered, fixed on the floor, while Ayan adjusted his cufflinks.
"Still wearing yesterday's clothes?" His tone dripped with mockery, though he didn't even look at her. "Figures. Some people can never rise above their worth."
She pressed her lips into a thin line, saying nothing—just standing, brushing off the wrinkles from her dress with trembling hands.
He strode to the door, hand on the knob, but paused deliberately. Then, with sudden force, he yanked the door open and slammed it shut behind him—the impact reverberating through the room, rattling the picture frames on the wall.
Yn flinched at the sound, her heart racing, but she remained frozen in place. The echo of his footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving her in silence.
She exhaled slowly, clutching her dupatta tighter around herself. There was no escape. No voice. Only obedience.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The Breakfast Table
The morning sunlight filtered through the high glass windows, stretching pale patterns across the long sandal wood dining table. The clinking of silverware was the only sound—his parents sat across, rigid and silent, eyes glued to their plates, as though even breathing too loudly might disturb the fragile air in the room.
Y/N stood quietly behind Ayan, placing warm parathas one by one onto his plate. Her movements were careful, rehearsed—like a shadow trained never to draw attention.
As she leaned forward to set down a small bowl of pickle, a strand of her hair slipped free, brushing against her cheek. Ayan's sharp eyes caught it instantly. His jaw tightened.
In one swift, impatient movement, he reached up, pinched the strand between his fingers, and flicked it away.
"Tie your hair properly," he hissed, voice low yet slicing through the silence of the hall. "You're not some queen here."
His mother's fingers stiffened around her teacup. His father shifted slightly but said nothing—both kept their eyes averted, as though the scene was invisible.
Y/N's throat bobbed, but she said nothing. With trembling hands, she quickly tied her hair back, the rubber band tugging harshly against her scalp. Yet the sting of his words burned deeper than the pull of the band.
Ayan leaned back in his chair, smirk curling at the corner of his lips. He let his gaze linger on his parents, enjoying the tension straining their faces.
Then, almost lazily, he chuckled.
"You wanted me to 'settle in,' didn't you?" His tone dripped with mockery. "Well—look. Isn't this perfect? Everything exactly how I want it. Everything under my control."
He tilted his head toward Y/N, his smirk widening as his eyes glittered with cruel satisfaction.
"Right, Y/N?"
She froze for a moment, caught in the spotlight of his taunt. Her wide, clueless eyes lifted to meet his for only a second before dropping again. The silence of her submission was his answer.
Ayan gave a satisfied hum, leaning back comfortably as though the morning had just been made complete.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The morning sun filtered weakly into the marble-floored living room, painting long shadows across the vast space. Ayan Siddique strode in fresh from his workout, his black joggers smeared deliberately with patches of mud from the garden. Sweat clung to his broad shoulders, dampening the strands of hair falling onto his forehead. The sharp lines of his muscles glimmered under the light, but his expression carried nothing but calculated arrogance.
He dropped onto the sofa with careless ease, stretching his legs wide, one arm sprawled across the backrest. He looked every bit like a king surveying his domain.
"Y/N," his voice rang out—sharp, commanding.
Her soft steps echoed a moment later. She appeared at the edge of the hall, dupatta pulled tightly across her front, head lowered. Her face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin, colorless line.
"Clean this," he ordered, lifting his leg just slightly to point toward his muddied shoes. His tone was flat, almost bored, but there was a cruel glint in his eyes.
Her steps faltered, but she didn't argue—she never did. Slowly, she walked toward him, every movement measured as if one wrong gesture would spark fire. Kneeling beside his shoes, she reached for the cleaning tray placed nearby.
Ayan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes locked on her bent form. There was a smugness in the curve of his lips, a cruel satisfaction in watching her lower herself at his feet.
She picked up a cloth, her slender fingers trembling slightly, and bent down to wipe the mud. The earthy smell rose as she pressed the cloth against the sole. Each stroke seemed heavier than the last, as though she were wiping away pieces of herself.
"Good…" Ayan muttered, his voice dripping with mockery. A short chuckle escaped him as he tilted his head, studying her. "Finally, you look where you belong."
Her hands paused for the briefest second before continuing. She didn't speak. Didn't defend. Her silence was her shield.
"Pathetic," he added, his tone sharper now. "No words, no fight… Do you know what that makes you? A shadow. Nothing but air in someone else's house."
She lowered her head further, her hand steady even as her chest tightened.
"You think silence makes you strong?" he scoffed, shifting back against the sofa, his voice echoing with disdain. "It doesn't. It makes you invisible. Easy to crush." He tapped his shoe lightly against the floor, making her hands move faster as if fearing he'd lose patience.
The sound of cloth against leather filled the heavy air between them.
"Look at you," he taunted again, his voice dropping lower, more mocking. "Obeying every word like it's your duty. Is this all your parents raised you for? To kneel and serve?"
Her knuckles whitened around the cloth, but she didn't flinch, didn't lift her gaze. She only continued.
Ayan's smirk deepened at her lack of reaction, though something in her stillness gnawed at him. He leaned closer, his voice a cold whisper:
"Not even a single word to save your pride? Or maybe you never had any to begin with."
Still nothing.
The silence stretched until he finally leaned back, crossing his arms again. His voice turned flat, dismissive:
"Get used to it, Y/N. This is just the beginning."
Her hands finished wiping the last of the mud, folding the cloth neatly though her fingers trembled. She set it aside gently, bowed her head once more, and stood with quiet grace. Not a single sound left her lips.
And as she turned to step back, Ayan's eyes followed her—dark, unreadable. For all his cruel words, the silence she carried pressed louder in his chest than any scream ever could.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Later that day, the Siddique mansion sat in its heavy silence, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioner and the ticking of the grand clock on the wall. Ayan lounged on the velvet sofa in the center of the lounge, his posture lazy yet commanding—legs stretched, one arm thrown across the backrest, his gaze locked on his phone.
Two servants hovered at a polite distance, their heads slightly bowed, awaiting his next order.
Without looking up, his voice cut through the quiet.
"Bring me water."
Y/N appeared from the corner almost instantly, her presence small, almost ghostlike. Her dupatta trailed softly as she walked, her steps light as though she were afraid of the very sound of them. She held the glass of water with both hands, careful, her eyes fixed on the floor.
She placed it gently on the glass table beside him, not daring to look at his face.
But Ayan didn't even glance at her. With a calculated flick of his wrist, he sent the glass tumbling.
Crash!
The sound of shattering glass echoed through the lounge, water spreading quickly across the polished marble. The servants stiffened, their eyes flicking nervously between their master and the silent girl now frozen beside the mess.
Ayan leaned back, sipping his coffee slowly, his eyes never leaving his phone.
"Can't even serve water properly?" His voice was sharp, dripping with disdain. "Pathetic."
Her lips parted instinctively, as if to explain—but no sound came. Not a single word. She pressed her lips together, swallowing back the urge to defend herself.
Silently, she knelt, the hem of her dress brushing the wet marble. The shards glittered under the chandelier's light like tiny daggers. She picked them up one by one, her bandaged hand trembling as the edges bit into her skin. Drops of water soaked into her sleeves, and with each movement, the sting worsened.
Yet she didn't flinch. Didn't complain.
The servants exchanged uneasy glances, but neither dared move to help.
Ayan finally lifted his gaze from the screen, his dark eyes watching her every motion. He rested his elbow on the armrest, his jaw tilted slightly as a slow smirk curved his lips.
He took a deliberate sip of his coffee, voice low, laced with mockery.
"Look at you… crawling on the floor for broken glass. Perfect picture of obedience."
Her silence screamed louder than any protest, but still, she gathered every shard, each scrape against her palm adding to the quiet ache she carried.
Ayan's eyes gleamed with a dangerous satisfaction, feeding on her wordless submission, yet somewhere deep inside, that silence struck a note he couldn't name.