𝕰nough of these games.

Little did he know, the games had only just begun. I slammed the door shut and popped the last of my anxiety pills. Thank God I had a small stash in my office purse. A stash that had very quickly run out.

Bored and frustrated, I turned to my phone, contemplating calling my sister. Since no one had bothered to give me the Wifi password, and I had limited data, FaceTime was not an option, which in hindsight was good for all of us. If they'd seen the bruises on my face, my whole family would have been at Mughal House, something that would just make things worse. My father was already livid with Taimoor's decision and the thought of him not being able to do anything was driving him crazy. Baba had only calmed down once I'd explained the situation the second time, over a very stressed out phone call, with a very calm Nazia helping out in the back. My mother on the other hand had been more practical. After her initial hysterics, she'd decided to call Bibi and give her an earful on her son and his actions. A show of support I'd greatly appreciated.

She's not my type.

Bullshit.

Despite my better efforts, his callous words felt like a bullet tearing into me without any mercy. I was the one who let my guard down so thoroughly that I felt the brutal, ugly bite of each one. God, I couldn't believe I'd fantasized about him. He wasn't some romantically tragic figure who needed saving in some silly fairy tale. He was the cold, cruel villain...the unfeeling monster, inside and out, who chased everyone away. This was sick and wrong, what he had done. But more than that, how I felt was sick and wrong. He had been right. I did have a bit of darkness within me. The delicious curl of vengeance. A hint of malice.

He was going to regret those words. I was going to make him regret those words. This imbalance of power wasn't going to be a one-way thing. Not for long. Taimoor was a beast, but he was also a man. And now I knew that he wasn't immune to me. Our little spat in the elevator and our wedding day had been a proof of that. His cruel words might hurt, but he did look at me differently.

He was affected by my presence, and I wasn't above using that.

༻✺༺

A sound pulled me up from my dream. Part by part, my body came back into existence under the covers. The sound, it turned out, was a tray. A stand had appeared from somewhere with a tray balanced there with a covered plate and a steaming mug.

It was morning.

I threw my legs over the bed and stood up. Sleeping for a small eternity made my knees less wobbly. Checking my phone, I shot a couple of messages to my parents and my sister, trying to calm their worries, still ignoring Zeenia's texts.

Stomach growling, I lifted the silver cover on the tray. The plate underneath was beautiful, with a thin gold line around the edges. And the food on top— Scrambled eggs like small clouds. A stack of tiny waffles. Silver-dollar sized, with a little dish of syrup on the tray, too.

Secondhand embarrassment heated my cheeks. Someone must have felt bad for me.

Hunger came first. Embarrassment later.

I'd need my strength if I were to survive the rest of this marriage. These weird, conflicting feelings I had about Taimoor could not stay with me forever. I tucked myself back into bed with the tray balanced on my lap, eating every bite of the food. It was the perfect amount, gone when I couldn't take another bite. Putting the tray back on the stand, I stretched.

Two nights ago I had stared in awe at the palatial estate at the end of a long gravel driveway. Two days later I still could not get over the magnificent view from my window.

Flanked by ancient weeping willows and set against the glittering backdrop of Rawal Lake, Mughal House looked like something the president might use on his weekends away from the President House. The series of windows on the far wall of my room displayed the sprawling acres of the Mughal House. Huge marble sculptures were scattered everywhere in the garden, amongst an impressive hedge maze.

The maze was much bigger than I would have thought initially. The exterior was square, but it had curves and lines and dead-ends decorated with statues or stone urns. The thick, hedges were well over six feet tall, separated by narrow pebble paths, and in the center, a three-tiered water fountain glowed. Even now, as a reluctant house guest, a part of me still longed to go on an adventure and investigate the maze, finding every corner and hiding into its crevices.

The slow creak of the door alerted me to her presence. "Oh, you're awake! Glad to see you looking so well, ma'am."

"Please just call me Daania."

"Ma'am," Mrs. Khan didn't budge, her emotions held firmly in place just like her hair bun. Damn it, it was worth a shot. "Are your rooms to your liking?"

I blushed under her kind gaze, feeling like a brat. For the past two days, I'd locked my door and thrown a tantrum. Her kindness to me was unwarranted. She didn't have to be nice to me but I appreciated the effort and the gesture. Taimoor's entry yesterday had proved that I had no real power here and that he could just barge in whenever he wanted. He was only pretending to let me have my space.

"They're lovely," no lie but my rooms, plural, were fantastic. My bedroom was large and beautifully furnished, done in shades of rose golds and creams with an elaborate four-poster bed and a divinely comfortable chaise. The connecting sitting room, a small addition to the overall suite, was decorated with love seats, a small couch, and a smattering of ornate tables.

"Very well ma'am. Is there anything you need?"

"Uh... what's the Wifi password?"

"Sir mentioned that you might need it. I'll have the staff bring it over to you. Is the room warm enough? If you need to change the temperature, close the drapes, or turn the lights on and off, everything is operated from this screen," Mrs. Khan instructed, her hands balancing the tray, pointing towards the wall near the door. "And if you're not near the door, you can just speak your command aloud and Alexa will execute it. The whole house is wired."

"Right."

She chuckled. "There is a video option on the touchpad so you can FaceTime with anyone in any room in the house. And there's a list of places where you can reach me," I shot her a panicked glance. "Don't worry, no one can spy on you. You have to accept the call for anyone to see you."

"Oh."

"Will that be all?"

"Yes, thank you."

As soon as the door shut behind her, the first thing I did was tack up a piece of black cloth I'd found in the closet over that contraption.

No, not a closet, a walk-in wardrobe. Set by the stylist and her two-person team a day ago.

Inside it, clothes for varying occasions hung in reds, creams, lilacs, blues, emeralds, whites, and blacks. Rows of silk, cashmere, and wool scarves and a dedicated column for accessories lined the shelves. There were matching jewelry, coats, sweaters, and shoes to go with each of the outfits. Soft ones, for inside the house, and a selection of heels, boots, and sandals for all of the events that I would have to attend. Hania and her team had come through. She'd come through winning.

I moved past the studded sitting chair perched in the corner, with an ornate mahogany table beside it, and let my fingers dance over the material, thinking about how to best approach Taimoor. How to play his game. How to make him uncertain.

Most of my wardrobe had been chosen and designed to be professionally elegant yet sexy, and enticing. From the suits and their cuts to the sheer tops, sweaters, and skinny jeans to gowns and slacks that I could wear in the house, down to the formals with low backs and string blouses. I knew I wasn't a knockout, I had a small chest, barely-there breasts, and wide hips. With narrow shoulders and a slight build, I looked much smaller and younger than my age. But Hania had assured me that she could work with my pear shape, making it seem irresistible. And she had delivered. The selection of lace and silk undergarments, of every possible shape and type, hidden in the drawers, were a dream come to life. She'd also promised to send over a selection of silk dresses over the course of the week, not batting a single eyelash when I'd requested the specific ones that I'd wanted.

I decided to open the first of the three nightdresses she'd sent over, the designer boxes stacked over in the corner, where she'd left them a day ago. The satin ribbon kept the cover on the box, and it fell away with a whisper when I untied the bow. The top of the box lifted away to reveal a layer of white tissue paper in a smooth, perfect line. It felt wrong to crinkle it but I shook my head and flipped the tissue paper back.

"Oh, God."

My skin flushed hot, then froze. The set was a deep burgundy, sweet and soft, with sleeves that went down to my wrists, the length just long enough to skim above my knees. So different from the two silk pajamas I owned. I twirled in it in front of the full-length mirror and pushed it back into place as soon as I could.

Embarrassing. Embarrassing, to feel nice like this, in a place like this, with a man like Taimoor.

The next dress was a plain white one made from finely spun silk accented by lace, barely covering my backside. I fingered the cloth in a state of awe.

The third piece was a little back number, with pale gold glitter sprinkled across the translucent material. Black sheer sleeves fell gracefully from an off-the-shoulder top with the shirt ending just below my buttocks. Slightly more conservative than the other two, but no less sexy.

This was insane. I still couldn't believe I'd done this. That I was going to do this. Taimoor would not see any of these dresses, but the thought of him reacting to this made me feel hot. Powerful. In control.

Similar to the color scheme of the bedroom, the bathroom was decorated with shades of cream, in dedicated patterns edged in rose gold. A soaking tub rested beneath another huge window. I hated myself more than a little for enjoying the oversized shower with a million settings and the conditioner with the most delicate scent and the hairdryer that was both powerful and quieter, which should have been impossible. Cinching the rope of my soft cotton robe, I started to look through the cabinets and drawers. Hair products and a wide selection of makeup, matched to my skin colour greeted me, stacked neatly on the shelves, everything new and still packaged.

As the unknown facilitator to my revenge plan, Hania deserved to be paid in gold.

It was afternoon by the time I got the courage to leave my room. No one had knocked on the door all day. They'd left me to dry my hair and lie on the bed in my jeans and new top, staring at the ceiling. The appeal didn't last very long, so I slipped on a pair of shoes and crept out into the silent hallway.

Every single footstep echoed off the walls before dying into ghostly silence. There was no sign of Taimoor, or Mrs. Khan, or Akbar. No sign of anyone and I had the oddest feeling of being inside a crypt.

I padded down the hall and down the stairs to the ground floor.

I'd never been inside a house so freaking warm. The whole place seemed to be centrally heated. This wing of the ground floor seemed to be the less public one, though I'd have to go snooping in order to confirm it. The door to the nearest room was open. It appeared to be a formal dining room, with a polished oak table the length of a landing strip. It was empty. So were the other rooms. A formal sitting room. The dreaded study. What looked like a miniature art gallery hung with priceless oil paintings from French and Italian masters, and a multitude of vases, on every corner. Seriously, what was with the vases?

I turned the corner. Unlike upstairs, where the hall was all windows on one side and doors on the other, this space was all doors. Someone was humming. I followed the sound past two more closed doors to an open one. Inside the threshold was a den. Brighter than the main hallways, with all the charcoal and gold. The space was all warm wood and leather furniture.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize, ma'am, I'm Akbar, Mr. Mughal's valet, and butler," did people still have butlers? His eyes shone as he guessed and answered my unspoken question. "The Mughal family is very old-fashioned."

"I see."

"Would you like a tour, ma'am?"

"I'd love one," but then I hesitated. "If you have the time, of course."

He did. According to Akbar, my now tour guide and the apparent family historian, this used to be the Mughal's summer house. Built by Taimoor's great grandfather, this was a love letter to his half-Greek, half- British wife, who'd been an avid reader of Greek mythology. Disconnected from the rest of the world and situated at a mere forty-five minutes' drive from the city, the estate was an extremely gothic but breathtaking proof of their love story and family legacy.

At first, a small cottage, it was later reconstructed into a ten-bedroom estate, with twelve bathrooms, and over fifteen thousand square feet on a five-acre lot by Taimoor's grandfather, who was the sole heir to the property. The landscaped rose gardens, a late addition by Taimoor's grandmother, and the meticulously maintained hedge maze, were a daunting work of art, inspired by Taimoor's grandmother's Italian heritage.

I blew out a breath. There were a lot of intercontinental marriages in this family, unlike my boring subcontinental ancestry. Taimoor's uncle had one upped his father and married an American heiress, while his two children were still unmarried. I knew he handled the North American branch of the company but both of his kids, a son, and a daughter, both worked in the Pacific branch, trying to expand the family business in the Southern Hemisphere. According to Akbar, Taimoor was solely in charge of Europe and Asia, the more lucrative markets, despite staunch opposition by the company board.

"Even when his father is the president and the chair?"

Akbar nodded. "Office politics, greed, hatred, there are a lot of factors in play here. He's the youngest to hold this position, ma'am."

I chewed on my lip, digesting that tidbit. We arrived at the library, and I almost squealed in excitement. I'd visited the room briefly before I'd stalked and eavesdropped on Taimoor and hadn't had the time to fully appreciate its splendor. The antique library was three stories tall, capped with a vaulted ceiling. Huge chandeliers sparkled overhead, glinting off the marble fireplace that yawned wide at one end of the room. A comfy-looking overstuffed sofa and chairs beckoned from a corner. And everywhere I looked, there were books. Stuffed into cases that scaled the walls or stacked in piles on enormous coffee tables.

My fingers itched to touch them all. But before I could fully immerse myself in that world, I was being led to look at the ballroom, the billiard room, an indoor theatre, and the heated Morrocan-styled swimming pool, designed and installed under Taimoor when he'd inherited the house three years ago. The whole house was a mosaic. Each owner had added a distinct feature, a little touch of their own personality to leave their legacy intact.

As we headed back to my rooms, Akbar pointed out the two different wings, the east wing, and the west wing.

True to his word, Taimoor had me designated in the east wing, where the sun fluttered in every morning with its warm rays. The west wing, his rooms, were off-limits to me.

Not that I'd wanted to go.

Never would I ever make that mistake.

༻✺༺

The clock struck eight and I gave myself a final look. Dressed up in a simple dark gray sleeveless gown that skimmed over my body like a waterfall, I looked like sin. The dress wasn't clingy, but the v-neck and the dangling earrings I'd paired with it made it look alluring. Coupled with glossy waves, mascara-enhanced eyelashes, concealer over my slightly less purple bruises, and a natural lip, I looked dangerous. Seductive.

The second dining room was down on the first floor, roughly underneath the hall with the east wing. It was a smaller dining room than the one on the ground floor and had the same elegance as the rest of the house—same high ceilings, same paneled walls—but was a space built for intimacy. Private and cutoff.

Gray chairs gathered near the fireplace on one wall, and a sideboard took up the other. A silver tray with a matching coffee server and a carafe for cream rested on the sideboard. It was airy and comfortable.

He was already there. Winter light streamed in from the window behind him, throwing all his features into sharp relief. My heart sped up at the sight of his scars. He was unbelievably beautiful in the firelight, and the dim light and the shadows on his cheekbones made my breath catch. He looked like the devil ready to drag me to hell.

Taimoor looked up, his lips ready to offer a sharp reprimand but he stopped, his gaze snagging on my outfit. Unlike his gaze last night, the heat of his focus almost singed my dress off. He had the nerve to stare at me like I was a delicacy put on this earth for his pleasure. He wore a bespoke dark grey suit, one of my favorite ones, filling it out beautifully, his hair tousled into an artful mess.

"You're late."

"You wanted me to join you for dinner, so I'm joining you for dinner."

His mouth pressed into a thin line but he didn't reply, gesturing for me to take a seat and ringing a small bell. Mrs. Khan came into the room with a young girl in tow, a serving trolley between them.

"Good evening, sir, ma'am."

"Good evening," I answered politely while Taimoor continued to glower at me. She shot a surprised smile my way and started to place the appetizers on the table.

"Bon Appétit," and the door creaked to a close.

My stomach growled appreciatively, taking in the servings in front of me. "Isn't this a bit too much?"

"Gives them something to do," he said, starting on the crackers.

He didn't seem like he was in a mood for any sort of conversation, so I smiled and dined, waving my hands at every turn. Taunting him with all that he could not have.

The absurdity of it—of even contemplating my desire for him—unsettled him. Threw him out of balance. Made him snap and growl throughout the first three courses like the uncivilized beast everyone took him for.

He finally broke composure when we moved towards the fourth course, Mrs. Khan nearly sprinting out of the room in her hurry to avoid his rapidly fraying temper.

"What do you want?"

I gave him a bland look, giving him an honest reply. "That's a very dangerous question."

"You're playing a very dangerous game."

"Think whatever you want. I'm just enjoying the meal," the muscle in his jaw ticked violently and I sent him a serene smile, tugging my lower lip in between my teeth and demurely lowering my eyelashes.

"You clearly have something on your mind. Speak."

"I want to go back to the office. I can't stay in this house any longer," he watched my fingers play with the fork in my hand, toying with the food.

"You're bored."

"I'm unproductive."

He leveled me with an icy look. "Zeenia needs your help for the birthday bash."

"Why do you care? You won't even be there."

"Says who?"

"Your history."

"Maybe I'll show up."

"Doubtful," I scoffed, watching his eyes glint dangerously. Switching topics, I settled back into my chair. "Akbar gave me the tour of the house. Your great-grandfather was quite a romantic."

"It doesn't run in the family," my lips twitched at his quick response and we silently watched the staff clear the table for dessert, waiting for them to leave. 

"Your grandfather would disagree."

"Not for the first time," Taimoor's face was a candlelit mask, the shadows deadly sharp. It was subtle. I expected his fury to be a massive display, with bared teeth and extended claws. With flipped furniture and broken glass.

But whatever wound I'd opened with my words was contained within him. Interesting.

"Look as fascinating as your family history is, this is not why I'm here."

"Aaah yes, you want to leave the estate."

"It's not as unreasonable as you're making it sound. Since you're so concerned about your image, having me suddenly disappear isn't a good look for you."

"You haven't suddenly disappeared, you've gone to Rome."

"I'd rather be there than here," I replied, unable to tear my gaze away from all the treats calling me so bewitchingly. Distracted and in awe, I added, "Why am I having the time of my life in Rome?"

"You're helping in the preparations for the conference," Taimoor looked away, and the loss of his eyes on mine caused a tumbling sensation.

"Of course," the one planned for next year.

"There's also the gala that will require your full attention."

"God forbid we don't have another event."

"Since I've answered your question, are you satisfied?" his tone caused the backs of my arms to pull tight with goosebumps.

"Not really, you still haven't agreed to let me out of here."

"And I'm not going to," his voice was deep, rough, and elegant all at once, his eyes capturing mine. A serrated blade wrapped in silk."Not until I'm convinced that your cousin is behind bars. I can't have him ruining my plans."

Ruining his plans. The nerve of this arrogant, pretentious, egotistical jerk.

Before I could unleash a torrent of my rage at him, he did the last thing I expected; he got up, threw his napkin on the table, turned on his heel, and fled.

༻✺༺

Vaulted ceilings of an unknown room, the polished darkness, and the gleaming wood paneling. Thick, dark rugs. Where was I?

"You've kept me waiting," I stumbled back a step from the incandescent shock and fury in that voice, my feet tripping in the dark. Why was it so dark?

"Who's there?"

"I've found you, you little tease."

"Ghazanafar," I said, my voice squashed in my throat as I struggled to find an exit. Why was the room moving? Where was the door?

So focused on the reek, on the garbled words leaving his smiling lips, I didn't see it coming. In a breath, he'd fallen over me, smacking my head into the wall beside the door. He grabbed me by the hair and he pushed me down, onto the floor. I was a heartbeat and nothing else. I was fear and loathing. Panic and anxiety mixed together.

"That wasn't very nice of you, was it Daania?"

His hands were suddenly everywhere, sliding down my sides to my thighs, pulling at my nightclothes hard enough that I heard numerous tears.

"Get off me," I pushed at his shoulders, putting all of my strength in those pushes. "Leave me alone!"

"It won't take long," he said, as though that were all the encouragement I'd need to submit. I'd never submit, but his body was draped so heavily over mine, and my fear held me trapped as his wandering hands made their way to my breast and between my legs. My knees clamped over his hand, and I groaned, teeth snapping as I tore at the other hand tugging down the bodice of my nightgown.

"Stop," I hissed. "Stop it right now. "

He just laughed, mumbling low words. "I'll make you feel so good. God, your skin is so soft."

Then his hand broke the confines of my knees, reaching my undergarments and brushing over them, and I screamed. I screamed, and all the frustration, all the fear, all my pent-up power made its way into my hands.

"Daania," I heard someone say, over and over while I frantically pulled down my tattered clothes, and then I collided into a hard pillar. Not a pillar but a male. Strong hands gripped my upper arms."Daania, wake up!"

"Fuck," I said bile coating the word, my throat. My palms dug into my eyes, my chest on fire. I was nothing but... hollow. A chasm, one that seemed to grow wider making a home within my chest.

My head swam, and I coughed, my stomach threatening to evict dinner onto the gleaming stone floor. "How are you here?" I all but screeched, my hands fisting my hair. The room I was in, its never-ending stone and concrete ceiling, closing in on me.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to, yet I knew I wouldn't—couldn't.

Ignoring the desire, the ache that lived and breathed like a second entity inside me whenever he was near, was akin to dragging a knife over slippery flesh, hoping the blade didn't slip or slice. But it was not this pain that drew me in now. It was something much more primal. His height. His broad shoulders. The full-sleeved shirt that hugged his muscles, his low-slung pajamas. How very masculine he was. Heat flushed through me as I remembered wrapping my hands around his biceps. How strong he was. How much stronger than me. How much bigger.

"Are you all right?" he studied me intently.

I nodded, forcing myself to focus. "I'm fine."

"I heard you scream, so I came to check if you were okay. I didn't mean to barge in."

I registered his words but got up and moved towards the jug of water placed on the table near the window. My hands shook as I grabbed the glass full of water and counted till a hundred in my head. Damn him for locking me up. There were no more anxiety pills in my bag, and I was too proud to ask him for them. Nazia hadn't bothered to send the rest when she'd packed my stuff and I'd forgotten to remind her about it.

He blinked in confusion. "Do I need to call the doctor?"

The same doctor who'd checked me for a nonexistent FIR? I watched him, catching glimpses of something akin to pain in his eyes, but those few times I'd caught them, they were there one instant and gone the next. I shook my head. Anything I imagined I'd seen was probably my mind playing tricks on me.

I whirled around, moving towards the edge of the bed. "No need. We don't want to ruin your chances of impressing the board."

He looked me over, taking his time. I donned close-fitting black silk pajamas, with a complicated string of hooks at the front of the sleeveless shirt, that was a little lower than I'd usually wear. Not that I had much cleavage to show, but I cleared my throat again and adjusted the shirt when I saw his gaze settle there, acutely aware of my state of dress. He grabbed the throw on the chaise and draped it over my shoulders.

I felt myself flush again, sweat breaking out over my forehead this time.

His gaze hadn't been sexual. Obviously, the attraction was still there but his eyes moved with clinical precision, checking to see if the shaking had stopped. If the shivering had subsided. I closed my eyes again, and a stray tear rolled down my cheek. Another swiftly followed, and I turned my face away, catching sight of myself in the small wall mirror. I was pale and weak, my hair was a tangled mess, cheeks stained with tears. It looked like a miserable sight, and it hit me unexpectedly.

He was seeing me at my worst.

My reflection was nothing like the cool confident woman who'd unsettled him over dinner.

"Relax," I didn't want to relax. He tucked the blanket around me. "You're safe."

I pulled myself free from him with a jerk.

This side of him, this almost caring side, was throwing me off guard, and I couldn't let that happen with him. I couldn't let myself believe him. And I couldn't let myself take comfort from him.

"I'm not safe. Not with you," panic blurred the edges of my vision. "You'd sacrifice me the moment you saw fit. You, my parents, Ghazanfar! Everyone who's ever come into my life has been ready to sacrifice me. Some for their pride or their reputation, others for their honor. They'd chose themselves over me, always. I will always be second to their ambitions. So no, I am not safe with you. I don't think I've ever been safe in my life."

"Daania," he leaned over me, trying to examine my eyes, trying to breach the distance. I studied him as he looked at me, his expression strange and hard to read. And that's then I saw it. Subtle but there.

He was struggling with something.

Jaw clamped tight, I glared at him. His struggle meant nothing to me. I turned away, anger and despair vibrating off me in heated waves. "Get out."

The Latin translation: "In fire, we found home."

You're a genius @qanootshahid14

༻✺༺

What do we think? Do we understand Daania and her form of revenge? And how do you think Ghazanfar's actions will come into play here? Do you agree with what she's said? Is safety only physical?

Thoughts, comments, feedback etc?

Next chapter comes out on Saturday (I know it's long, I'll try to speed it up with the updates) In the meantime, lots of love 🖤

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