Ruthless Ties

Chapter 1: Zoya

Zoya Malik woke to the pale morning light barely filtering through the cracked and grimy window, a thin line of silver that did nothing to chase away the perpetual gloom of her frigid room. The cold was a constant, biting presence that seeped into her bones, settling deep and unforgiving. It was as if the very walls conspired against her, peeling and crumbling, offering no comfort—only the stark reality of her isolation. The room was not a home; it was a punishment. A cell for a sin she had never committed.

Her bed was nothing more than a worn, threadbare rug that lay sprawled across the icy floor. The nights were long, filled with the ache of unforgiving stone digging into her back, yet she never complained. Complaints were a luxury she couldn't afford. Not when they would only be met with more scorn. So, she endured—quietly, as she had learned to do for years. Her step-sisters' rooms, with their plush blankets and soft pillows, stood in stark contrast to hers, flaunting the comfort she was forever denied.

With a sigh so soft it barely stirred the air, Zoya pushed herself upright, wincing as the movement pulled at the knots in her stiff muscles. She had to get up before her father did—before his cold, contemptuous eyes could fall on her. She knew his routine by heart; he would be by the window soon, staring out at the snow-dusted peaks of Hunza as if they were the cause of all his pain. He never saw her as a person, only as the unwanted reminder of a tragedy he couldn't let go.

"You should never have been born," he would say, his voice low and edged with venom. "You took your mother from me, and you'll never be anything but a curse."

Zoya swallowed down the familiar sting of his words, letting them settle like stones in the pit of her stomach. She had heard them so many times they had become part of the air she breathed, but that didn't make them hurt any less. She had learned to bury her pain, to hide it behind a mask of quiet resilience, because showing it would only make things worse.

Her stepmother, Nazia, was no different. If anything, her hatred was more insidious, masked behind a facade of false kindness that fooled no one. There was no warmth in Nazia's eyes, no softness in her tone—only the relentless coldness that mirrored the frozen house. The only thing that ever softened was her gaze towards her own daughters, Samira and Saira.

A sudden, sharp knock broke the stillness.

"Why are you still in bed, you lazy thing?" Samira's voice was like ice, slicing through the morning chill. She stood in the doorway, her shadow long and menacing.

Zoya's heart gave a painful twist, but she kept her gaze fixed on the faded floorboards, her expression carefully blank. Silence was her armor, her only defense against the cruelty that lurked in every corner of the house.

Samira's eyes glittered with malicious delight as she stepped forward, her lips curling into a sneer. "Look at you," she said, disdain dripping from every word. "Do you think anyone cares what you do? You're pathetic, Zoya. A waste of space."

Next to her, Saira giggled, the sound high-pitched and grating. Together, they were a cruel, united front, feeding off each other's malice. But Zoya remained silent, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. She knew that was what they wanted—to see her break, to confirm that she was as worthless as they always said. Instead, she wrapped her faded shawl—the only thing she had left of her mother—around her shoulders, drawing what little comfort she could from its fraying edges.

It was the one small rebellion she allowed herself: her smile. She knew it angered them, knew that they couldn't understand why she still clung to that fragile expression of hope. So she kept it, a thin, defiant curve of her lips that they could never take away.

She moved through the house like a ghost, cleaning the spaces where she was unwelcome, careful to leave no trace of her presence. Only the rooms that mattered—her father's spotless sitting room and her step-sisters' lavish bedrooms—were kept pristine. Her own corner was left deliberately untouched, a silent testament to her invisibility.

Finally, when her chores were done, she slipped out of the house, the air outside crisp and stinging against her cheeks. The snow crunched beneath her worn shoes, and the cold bit at her exposed skin, but she welcomed it. The library was waiting—a sanctuary of warmth and quiet where no one could reach her, and where the bitter cold of her family's disdain was replaced by the soft rustle of pages turning. 

The library was old and cramped, but to Zoya, it was a palace. The smell of aged paper and the hushed stillness of the aisles were a comfort she couldn't find anywhere else. It was here, amidst dusty shelves and forgotten stories, that she found her escape. Her job was simple, cataloging the books and helping the few visitors who wandered in, but it was hers, and it gave her a sliver of independence. She had no formal education past the eighth grade. Her parents couldn't afford to send her to school. But she didn't let that stop her. She taught herself, devouring the old textbooks left behind by her step-sisters.

Fifty rupees a day. A pittance, but it was enough for Zoya. Enough to tuck away into a secret hiding spot, away from prying eyes and greedy hands. Once, in a moment of naive hope, she had tried to give the money to her father, desperate for his approval, no matter how small.

"I don't want your blood money," he had spat, his face twisted with disgust. "Keep it. It's tainted, just like you."

The words had cut deep, but Zoya hadn't cried. She couldn't. She had no more tears left for a man who would never see her as anything more than a shadow of a loss he couldn't accept.

One evening, Nazia had caught her counting the few rupees she had saved, her eyes narrowing. "You should give it to me," she had said, her voice low and urgent. "Your sisters need it more than you ever will."

Zoya had hesitated, her fingers tightening around the coins. But before she could speak, Farooq's booming voice echoed down the hallway, a command as sharp as a slap.

"Nazia!"

Nazia had frozen, then quickly masked her disappointment with a brittle smile, retreating to her place by Farooq's side. "I told you," he said coldly. "No one in this house is to touch a single penny from her."

So Zoya kept what she earned, hiding it away in corners they would never think to look. She gave most of it to the Khushhal Basti orphanage—a place where her presence was welcomed, where her meager donations brought genuine smiles. It was a small defiance, a way to prove to herself that she was more than the burden they claimed she was. She was someone who could give, even if she had so little to offer.

In that moment, she was not the unwanted daughter, the cursed child. She was Zoya—strong, giving, and free, if only for a fleeting second.