From Aliya to Hafiz

Fourteen.

Hafiz.

I leaned against her door for a long time, emotions all over the place.

'Who can I lash out at?'

The way she said that...her expression...it was as if...

As if...

As if she had no fucking say in the matter.

Seriously were all the females in this damn country such white lotuses? They sure could put on an act. Looking at it logically, she had the most to gain in this whole damn situation.

She got to leave this hot and shit—stuffy country.

She got to live in luxury, having enough money to live the rest of her life in comfort.

Now that I looked at it, she was no different from all those women who came to clubs, looking for a rich man to latch on to like bloodsucking parasites.

I wonder if she could give her body up for riches. It's sort of annoying how hard she's trying to appear modest and chaste. If I could have her...

Say what I wanted, but there was no denying I was attracted to her; heavily so.

I wanted to fuck her.

And then break her.

And then throw her away.

All of a sudden, I felt eager to marry her. I could do whatever I wanted to her then, openly; honourably.

I chuckled at that.

There was nothing honourable about what I wanted to do to her.

"Why are you standing there and grinning like a possessed person?"

I met Father's eyes filled with bewilderment and slight worry. At what, I didn't even want to ponder about.

"I'm more sane than any damn person in this house," I snorted.

"Don't take that tone with me," he warned.

"Or what? You're going to hit me? Like that day? I might have let it slide once, but there is CCTV footage as evidence. Do it, and I'll report you to the authorities for abuse," I smirked. "How does 'Shocking! Tycoon Hakimi is actually a tyrant, beats son half to death' sound for a headline?"

His eye twitched in annoyance, fingers moving to pinch the bridge of his nose in what appeared to be exasperation.

I almost laughed, this was a side of him I had never seen before. I talked a big game, but I didn't have the guts to actually report him. I wasn't stupid, damage to him was synonymous with damage to me.

'Young Hakimi is a punching bag, says a lot about his lack of morals.'

I couldn't wash myself white even if I bleached myself with chemicals.

"You can try it if you want to be labelled a pretty wuss, or a wussy," he jested but the humour was lost on me. His words triggered something in me, something I had been suppressing and ignoring for years.

I heard a snap in my head and before I realised, my fist was flying towards his face. There was a ringing in my ears, a fire in my chest, something clawing its way up my throat.

A panic attack.

It seemed many scenes flashed by my eyes, it felt like I was shrinking, losing my body mass, suspiciously like I was drowning. Or maybe floating.

The sharp sting of flesh meeting flash brought me back to my senses. My eyes focused on my fist held within a large warm palm.

"What do you think you're do—"