𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 [18+]

- 42 -

Two days.

Forty-eight hours.

I don't even know how many minutes or seconds that is. All I know is that time drags like a slow, agonising death in this room.

I've stopped screaming. I stopped pounding on the door, begging anyone to just listen to me. No one is coming to save me.

The only visitors I get are the maids, slipping in and out with trays of untouched food, their eyes averted like they're afraid I might reach out and infect them with whatever disease my father thinks I carry.

Disobedience. Rebellion. Love.

What a joke.

I stare up at the ceiling, sprawled on my bed, my limbs heavy. I haven't stepped outside this room in two days. It's been two fucking days since I've felt the sun on my skin, I haven't heard anything beyond the soft murmurs outside my door, the whispers of a house pretending I don't exist.

The bruises on my face have darkened, spreading over my cheek like ink, a constant, throbbing reminder of what happened downstairs.

My father hit me.

And now he's making sure I understand what happens when I disobey.

My stomach is empty, my throat dry, but I refuse to touch the food they bring me. I don't want to owe them anything. Not even a single bite.

The lock turns.

The sound jolts through me like an electric shock, and I shoot up in bed, my heart hammering in my ribs. The door creaks open, and my mother steps in.

She looks... tired. More than usual. There are dark circles under her eyes, her mouth is pressed into a thin, grim line. She closes the door softly behind her, stepping forward, hands wringing in front of her.

"Zara," she breathes, like she's relieved just to see me.

I don't move. Don't say a word. I just stare out the window, waiting.

She swallows, hesitating. "Your father—" She stops, and shakes her head. "He's made some decisions."

A chill sweeps over me. "What kind of decisions?"

Mom sighs like this is just as hard for her as it is for me. "He's withdrawn you from your university."

I stop breathing.

She keeps going. "He's sold your apartment in New York. You'll be attending the local university here and staying with us from now on."

A sharp ringing fills my ears. Why didn't he just kill me already?

I grip the sheets beneath me, my fingers digging into the fabric as nausea grips my stomach. "What?"

"I—I tried to talk to him, sweetheart. I did." Her voice wavers, like she believes she did something to stop this. "But he won't budge. He thinks this is what's best for you."