Author's POV.
Past.
Isra:11
Zorain:22
Zorain was seated in his room, immersed in his studies, the quiet hum of concentration surrounding him, until Isra appeared like a sudden breeze—her voice carrying a stream of endless chatter that disrupted his peace. Yet, he didn't tell her to stop; he never could. She was his weakness, his constant soft spot—his sweetness.
Her eyes wandered around his room until they landed on something—a wristwatch. Not just any wristwatch, but an exquisite, rare piece with a design that whispered of elegance and old money.
"Zozo, whose watch is this?" Isra asked, her small finger pointing toward the side table where it lay.
He followed her gaze and replied calmly, "It's mine."
"When did you buy it?" she asked, curiosity sparkling in her eyes.
"It was a gift from Mom and Dad," he answered without hesitation.
Her brows furrowed slightly. "But your Mom and Dad… they passed away when you were ten. So how could they give you a watch you can wear now?"
He leaned back, his voice dipping into the softness of memory. "Dad loved this watch. He wanted me to have it when I was older, so he bought it and gave it to me on my ninth birthday—told me to keep it safe for the future."
She made an 'O' shape with her lips in understanding. "Can I hold it? Please?" she pleaded, unleashing those dangerous puppy eyes he could never resist.
A faint smile curved his lips. "Yes, you can."
She picked it up with delicate fingers, marveling at its weight and craftsmanship… until it slipped from her grasp. The sound of glass shattering against the floor pierced the air.
Her eyes widened, shock and dread flooding her face. She looked at him—expression unreadable—and stammered, "S… sorry."
Her voice trembled as she stepped closer. "I'm really sorry, Zozo. I didn't mean to break it, I swear."
Zorain began walking toward her, and panic rose in her chest. Closing her eyes tightly, she braced herself, expecting the sting of a slap. But it never came.
Instead, a deep silence wrapped around her. She opened her eyes and found him standing there, watching her with an expression she couldn't quite decipher. Tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks.
"Sorry, Zozo… I… I swear to God, I didn't mean to—"
Before she could finish, he pulled her into his arms. His voice was low and steady, "I know, Isra. Don't cry, baby. It wasn't your fault. Shh…"
Her sobs slowed but small hiccups still broke through. "I thought… I thought you'd slap me."
He kissed the top of her head gently. "I could never raise my hand on my sweetness. It's just a watch—it broke, but it can be fixed again. Okay?"
She nodded against his chest, holding on a little tighter.
---
Present.
Isra sat on the edge of her bed, lost in the shadow of that old memory. Her gaze drifted to the mirror across the room, and she slowly walked toward it.
Her reflection stared back—a woman hardened by years, but right now her eyes were fixed on one thing: her cheek. The faint yet distinct red imprint of his fingers marked her skin like a cruel echo of the man who once promised he could never hurt her.
Isra's POV.
I stood before the mirror, my gaze fixed on the faint yet undeniable imprint of his fingers staining my cheek—a cruel reminder of his touch, not of affection, but of violence. My reflection blurred for a moment as an uninvited memory intruded… that day, years ago, when he swore he could never hurt me. The corner of my lips curved into a bitter, humourless chuckle. Really, Zorain? Was that your definition of a promise? You've always been terrible at keeping them.
First, you left my mother and father to die without lifting a finger to save them—at least in my eyes, that's how it will always be. And now… now you've slapped me, shattered not just the skin beneath your palm but something far deeper inside me. The boy who once vowed to protect me has become the man who chose to wound me.
Forgiveness? No. That word has no place here, not for you. Not ever.
You've crossed a line you can never return from, Zorain Raza. And if there is one truth I cling to now, it is this—whatever pain you've given me, I will return to you tenfold. Not in haste, but in precision. Not with mercy, but with the same coldness you've shown me.
You have wounded me.
And now, I will ruin you.
Author's POV.
Raza mansion.
The late afternoon sunlight filtered lazily through the sheer curtains, casting golden patterns on the marble floor of the living room where Kaif and Sofia sat opposite one another. Sofia had been speaking about trivial matters, but there was a certain deliberation in her tone—an almost calculated pause—before she finally shifted to the real subject that had been occupying her mind.
"Kaif, I want to say something," Sofia began, her voice calm yet carrying a certain weight.
"Hnn, kaho, I'm listening," Kaif replied, his eyes briefly flicking towards her before settling back into his usual composed demeanor.
"You know my friend, Zaina," Sofia continued, gauging his reaction.
"Hnn, what about her?" Kaif asked, though his tone hinted that he already had a suspicion about where this conversation was heading.
"Not about her… but about her granddaughter," Sofia clarified, and the subtle tightening of Kaif's jaw showed he had guessed correctly.
"Speak now," he urged, not being a man of roundabout words or needless suspense.
Sofia exhaled softly before delivering the point. "Zaina said that she really likes Zorain for her granddaughter, and I've met her. She's polite, humble, yet innocent—nothing like our Isra. Arrogant, with a bitter mouth."
Kaif's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, his protective instinct flaring. "Yeh sab toh theek hai, but never ever compare my granddaughter to anyone. Har kisi ke paas aisa confidence ya jo tumne kaha 'bitter mouth' nahi hota jo uske paas hai," he stated firmly, each word laced with unshakable pride.
"I didn't mean it in that way," Sofia countered quickly, sensing his disapproval. "It's just… Ibna—Zaina's granddaughter—is the complete opposite of her."
Kaif's tone softened only a fraction. "Agar wo theek hai Zorain ke liye, toh I don't have any problem. Aur waise bhi, tum uske faisle khud hi lena pasand karti ho."
"So… should I call them tomorrow?" Sofia asked, her voice betraying a trace of anticipation.
"Do whatever you want to," Kaif replied, the conversation seemingly closed from his side.
At that moment, Zorain entered the living room, his presence drawing both their eyes.
"Ohh, Zorain beta, come and sit with us. I want to say something important," Sofia called, gesturing for him to take the seat beside her.
When he sat down, she wasted no time in explaining everything—the proposal, Zaina's interest, and her vision for his future.
"So? What's your answer?" Sofia asked, watching his expression closely.
"Grandma, I don't wanna get married now," Zorain said plainly.
"Abhi nahi toh kab? Jab budhe ho jaoge? Ya tab bhi nahi?" Sofia retorted without missing a beat.
"Grand—" he began, but she cut him off.
"You've now, and I want to see your child before my death," Sofia said, adopting that familiar tone of elderly persuasion, equal parts emotional and manipulative.
Zorain gave a small sigh, then nodded. "Okay, as you wish."
A sweet smile spread across Sofia's face, triumphant yet tender. "They're coming tomorrow," she announced with finality.
Isra's POV.
It had been an entire week since I last stepped foot in that house, and honestly, I had no intention of going back so soon. But tomorrow, I had to attend college, and for that, I needed my books—which, unfortunately, were still lying in my room at the Raza mansion. So here I was, walking up the familiar driveway, my mind already rehearsing the quickest way to go in, get what I needed, and leave without unnecessary conversations.
As I pushed the heavy door open, I was greeted by the sight of Grandpa standing near the entrance, his phone pressed to his ear, speaking in that calm, authoritative tone he always used when handling business matters. The moment his eyes caught sight of me, they lit up in a way that made my chest feel oddly tight. He quickly ended the call and, with that warm grandfatherly smile, placed his arm around my shoulders, leading me toward the couch like nothing had changed.
"Meri pyaari bacchi kaisi hai?" he asked, his voice dripping with affection.
"I'm good, how about you?" I replied, forcing a small smile.
"I'm also fine, but… tumhe zara bhi yaad nahi aayi yahan ki?" he teased, a note of complaint hidden beneath the affection.
I chuckled lightly, shaking my head. "Aisa nahi hai, grandpa. It's just… mujhe time nahi mila. I'm sorry for that."
"It's okay, as long as you're back now," he said, clearly relieved to see me again.
"I actually just came to pick up my books and then I'll be leaving again," I explained, watching as his smile faltered ever so slightly.
"At least Zorain ki engagement tak ruk jao," he said casually.
For a moment, my entire body froze. Engagement? The word rang in my ears like a warning bell. "What? He's getting engaged?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
"Han," Grandpa replied, his tone calm, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. "Kuch din pehle Sofia ki friend aur uski family aayi thi rishta pakka karne. So ek hafte baad engagement hai."
"Ohh," I said flatly, my mind racing.
"Toh ruk rahi ho?" he asked hopefully.
"Nahi," I said, my lips curling into a faint smile that didn't reach my eyes, "lekin engagement mein toh zaroor aaungi… as mere khaas cousin ki engagement hai." My choice of words seemed to surprise him; after all, I had never spoken about Zorain with such feigned fondness before.
I stood up and made my way toward the staircase, but halfway there, I found myself turning in the opposite direction—towards his room. The door was slightly ajar, and there he was, sitting on the bed with his laptop balanced on his lap, completely engrossed in whatever work he was doing.
I stepped inside without knocking, my voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Kya baat hai, engagement kar rahe ho aur apni cousin ko bataya bhi nahi?"
He glanced up at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. "What are you doing here?"
"Arey, mai toh tumhe congratulate karne aayi thi," I replied, plastering on a fake smile.
"Kar liya. Ab jao," he said curtly, his attention already shifting back to the laptop.
I clicked my tongue in mock disapproval. "Lagta hai tumhari grandma ne tumhe manners nahi sikhaye. Batao, aise baat karte hain jab koi room mein aata hai?"
His patience was clearly wearing thin. "Isra, what do you want?"
I tilted my head, a sly smile tugging at my lips. "Filhaal toh kuch nahi… lekin mai tumse maagungi thodi na. Mai toh bas kahungi, aur tum de doge—jaise hamesha dete the, haina?" The words were laced with deliberate provocation, a reminder of the way he used to give in to my demands when we were younger.
"Go now," he ordered, his tone final.
"Fine, fine," I said breezily, turning on my heel and walking out of the room.
By the time I stepped back into the hallway, my mind was already alight with possibilities. Now, I knew exactly what I had to do.
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Words: 1940.