Laced in Your Ruin

Chapter [II]

Qays' POV

Life—a simple four-letter word, one that can be read in the blink of an eye. But living it? That's a different story. It's easy to misunderstand me, to think I'm someone teetering on the edge, ready to spiral. But that's not who I am. I'm not suicidal, not in the way you think. It's just that I've seen this world for what it is. The masks people wear, their hollow smiles, the way they cloak their true selves with lies. Beneath it all, there's nothing but cruelty, deception, and vanity.

They call it the real world, but all I see is a theater of shallow performances, where everyone plays their part. You might call it "living," but I call it existing—like a puppet whose strings are pulled by forces greater than themselves. Money, power, status—all tools used to manipulate and control. People are no different from the puppets they are. It's all about appearances. That's all that matters. And I've come to accept it. I don't need anyone. I don't need their validation, their approval, or their fake sympathy.

Money—it rules everything. Every interaction, every relationship. People pretend to be kind, pretend to care about you, but they don't. They care about what you can offer. And the only thing I've got to offer is my parents' wealth, their name. That's the only thing they want. That's the only reason they're kind to me. That's the only reason they tolerate my existence. They think I don't notice. But I do. I see everything. I've always seen everything.

My parents? They're no different from the rest of them. They've been too busy building their empire to care about me. From the moment I was born, I was an inconvenience. I was given away to a nanny because my mother had a meeting in Las Vegas—a meeting that, apparently, was more important than being there for the birth of her own child. My father? He was too preoccupied with his business dealings to even show up. Not that it mattered. I wasn't some precious child to them. I was just another part of their business plan. They visited me once a month, a fleeting visit that lasted only a few hours. And every time, they'd show up with smiles, pretending everything was fine. But I knew better.

I wasn't their priority. They had no interest in me as a person. All they wanted was to ensure their empire was safe. I wasn't even a real part of their lives; I was a footnote, a convenient prop. It was clear from the very beginning. They loved their business, their wealth, their status. I was just an accessory to that. So I stopped caring about them. Their affection meant nothing to me. The hollow gestures they gave me were nothing more than a formality, a way to ease their guilt. And I wasn't fooled.

I learned early on that love and affection were illusions. They were just ways to keep people in line, to make them feel like they mattered. But when it comes down to it, no one truly cares. Not in the way they claim. They only care about what you can give them. It's a sad truth, but it's the truth all the same. And so, I learned to live without expecting love. I became self-sufficient. Alone. Detached from the world and its empty promises.

I live in a penthouse now, alone. I don't need anyone. I don't want anyone. I do everything myself—every household chore, every meal. Mrs. Smith visits once a week to clean, but she's the only one I allow any semblance of civility from. She used to be my nanny, and in some ways, I suppose I tolerate her out of habit. But she's never been more than a servant. She's never been a friend. And that's how I like it. People complicate things. They expect things from you. They want things. I have no time for it.

At college, the students are no different. They come, they go. None of them matter. The guys? They don't even try to approach me. They know better. But the girls? They throw themselves at me—laughable, really. They think I'm some fool, some object to be used. They throw their affection at me, all for what? My money. My looks. They think I'm too blinded by my own arrogance to see through their pathetic attempts at flattery. But they're wrong. I see everything. I see their intentions long before they even think about speaking to me.

I don't need them. I don't need anyone. I don't need their approval or their false affection. I've been living this way for so long that it's second nature to me. But even so, I can't help but notice when something shifts. Something different. Something that doesn't fit into the pattern I've grown accustomed to. It's the 14th of January, and my parents are celebrating their anniversary in Las Vegas, likely throwing some lavish party for themselves and their rich, fake friends. The invitation arrived in the mail, but I don't even bother to open it. It's just another reminder that I'm nothing but a side note in their life. Another reminder that I'm not wanted.

I hate my name. I hate that people know me as Ibrahim. It's just another part of the facade. It's a name that ties me to a life I didn't choose. A life I don't care about. I'd rather be anyone else, anyone but the person people expect me to be. I'm not Qays. I'm not some lovesick fool, some romantic who gets lost in his feelings. I've seen what love does to people. It makes them weak. It makes them vulnerable. I don't have time for it. I don't need it.

So, I go through the motions. I get dressed in my usual black attire—black shirt, black jeans. It's all I need. Black. Cold. Like the way I feel. I go to the kitchen and make breakfast, something simple: an omelette with toast and strong coffee. Nothing extravagant. I don't need extravagance. I just need what's necessary. Everything else is irrelevant.

I head to college, to Saint Warriors. It's one of the best colleges in Delhi, a place where people dream of studying. It's an honor to be here, to have been accepted. But to me? It's just a place to get my degree, to move on with my life. It's just another stop along the way. I don't care about the accolades, the praise. I don't care about the people who idolize this place. To me, it's all meaningless.

As I walk through the crowd of students, I can't help but feel a sense of disdain. They're all the same. They're all just another part of the system. They're here to play the game, to get ahead, to follow the rules set by people like my parents. But I don't play the game. I've never played it. I've always been above it.

And then I hear a voice. It cuts through the noise like a blade. It's sharp, confident, full of fire. I turn, and I see her. The girl.

She stands out in the crowd, not because of her looks—though they're striking—but because of the fire in her eyes. She's not like the others. She's different. She's ready to fight. Not for herself, but for her friend. For someone she cares about. She's not playing the game. She doesn't care about the rules. And that... that's what catches my attention.

She's not afraid to challenge the so-called college crush, the guy everyone else fawns over. She's not interested in the social hierarchy, the fake smiles, the empty gestures. She's here for something real, something raw. She doesn't care about the approval of others. She's not playing by the rules, and that makes her dangerous. But it also makes her intriguing.

I watch her, my gaze following her every move. She moves through the crowd with purpose, her confidence radiating off her. She doesn't flinch, doesn't hesitate. She's a force to be reckoned with. And for the first time in a long while, I find myself interested.

She's not like the others. She's not a puppet. And I can't help but wonder: What would it take to break her? What would it take to make her submit, to make her bend to the game?

But then again, maybe I'm not interested in breaking her. Maybe I'm just interested in seeing how far she's willing to go to keep that fire alive. How long she can resist the pull of the world around her.

I don't know yet. But I will. I'll watch her. I'll wait. And when the time comes, we'll see what happens.