The rain outside roared like an endless prayer. Thunder cracked so violently it felt as though the sky itself might split apart.

Through the curtain of rain, headlights cut across the villa’s long driveway. Tires ground against wet gravel, echoing through the night. The car slowed, then stopped at the grand entrance.

“Sahib… the guests have arrived,” whispered the maid.

Her father nodded, adjusting his torso, pride swelling as if this night had been carved by fate.

The night was dark, thick with the kind of silence that carries secrets.

Liyana stood beside her father at the entrance, satin draped over her frame. Her presence was demanded, not requested. She had never cared for her father’s endless guests, but tonight… he had made it clear: “Your presence is mandatory.”

The bodyguard hurried through the storm, umbrella in hand, opening the sleek black car door.

One step down.

A thunderclap split the sky, shaking the windows. Her heart stuttered, as if heaven itself had sent a warning.

And then he emerged.

Zayd.

Tall. Composed. Rain sliding down the sharp lines of his black suit. His presence was suffocating, as though the storm itself had entered the villa. His mother followed silently, graceful—but the night belonged to him alone.

Her father’s chest swelled as he stepped forward, voice full of pride.

“As-salamu alaykum, Zayd. Welcome. It is an honor to host you tonight.”

“Wa alaykum as-salam, Uncle,” Zayd replied smoothly, bowing his head with a respectful grace that cloaked the storm in his eyes.

Her father turned slightly, gesturing toward her.

“And this… this is my daughter. Liyana.”

That was the moment.

Zayd’s eyes shifted. Locking onto hers.

It wasn’t a look. It was a chain. Dark, sharp, deliberate. His gaze pierced through her, unraveling every shield she thought she had. The hall blurred. The storm fell silent. Her father’s words dissolved into nothing.

Her chest tightened. Heat surged under her skin. The air refused to fill her lungs. She wanted to look away—she tried—but her gaze refused to obey. It clung to his, as though he had stolen command of her very breath.

Her pulse thundered. Her knees trembled. The silk at her wrists dampened with sweat.

Her body no longer felt like her own.

When her father repeated his name—“Zayd”—it landed like a seal pressed into her chest.

The chandelier above swayed. The floor tilted. Her vision bled to black.

She stumbled—collapsed forward.

But before the marble could embrace her, his arms did.

Strong. Inevitable.

Her father gasped, rushing forward. “Liyana!”

But Zayd did not flinch. He held her against him like she belonged there—firm and protective to her father’s eyes, but to her, it was a cage.

And then came the smirk.

Slow. Certain. Like a man who had just claimed victory in a game no one else realized had begun.

He shifted, lifting his gaze to her father. His expression changed in an instant—masking the storm, lowering his eyes quickly as though ashamed to even touch her. To everyone else, he appeared a perfect gentleman—polite, restrained, raised with honor.

Yet his grip on her only tightened.

Her father, blind to the storm beneath the mask, smiled with pride. “I will take her, Zayd.”

Zayd hesitated. His jaw clenched. His eyes darkened. He did not want to give up what had fallen into his arms.

But then… slowly, reluctantly, he released her, placing her gently into her father’s embrace. His gaze lowered again, humble, angelic.

To her father, he was flawless.

To Liyana, slipping into unconsciousness, the last thing she felt was not safety—it was the iron grip of a man who had just marked her as his.

Behind the mask of modesty, Zayd smirked.

He had already won.

Her eyes flew open.

For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. The ceiling above her spun, the chandelier swaying like a pendulum. Lightning cracked through the window, splitting the darkness, shadows slashing across the walls. The storm outside roared, as if the heavens themselves were restless. Her throat tightened. Until a sudden voice broke through the storm.

“Madam! You’re finally awake!”

Her head snapped toward the sound. A maid stood near the bed, her face glowing with relief, though the thunder shook the windows behind her. She pushed herself up on trembling arms, panic flaring

The maid hurried closer, wringing her hands. “ .Please, lie back down. The doctor is on his way—”

“No.” The word cut too quickly, too sharply. Liyana shook her head, strands of hair sticking to her damp forehead. Rain pounded harder against the glass, mirroring her pulse. “No doctor. I’m fine.”

Liyana tried to steady her breath, but the storm in her chest only grew wilder. The memory slammed back—His face, Him, that smirk.

Her lips parted, trembling. “Where is he?”

The maid blinked, confused. “He…?”

Liyana’s throat tightened. Her lashes lowered quickly, masking the panic in her eyes. “I mean… the guest.”

Oh,” the maid said, her tone lighter, though her eyes still lingered on Liyana’s pale face. “They are in the drawing room with sahib.”

The words made her heart clench. She pushed herself higher on the pillows, silk sliding across her skin, as the storm outside roared louder, as though mocking her weakness.

The maid shifted nervously, as if sensing her unease, when the door creaked open.

Her father entered, his expression taut with worry but softening the instant he saw her awake. In his hands, a steaming bowl of soup, the scent of herbs and warmth chasing faintly into the cold, storm-soaked air. Beside him walked a woman — graceful, poised, her features carrying the kind of elegance that commanded respect without effort.

“My love,” her father rushed to her side, setting the bowl carefully on the nightstand before gathering her into his arms. Relief cracked in his voice. “Alhamdulillah… you’re awake. How are you feeling now, Liyana?”

Her throat tightened. “I’m… I’m fine, Dad. Just tired.”

He exhaled deeply, as though her words lifted a weight from his chest. Then he turned, smiling warmly toward the woman. “She was so worried for you, beta. She insisted on seeing you herself. She is a doctor.”

The woman stepped closer, her perfume subtle but suffocating. Her eyes held a softness that didn’t match the sharpness buried deep within them. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she reached for Liyana’s wrist, her touch cold yet steady.

“You gave us quite a scare,” the woman murmured, her voice smooth, velvet-like. “But your pulse is strong. It was only a shock. Nothing to fear.”

Liyana swallowed hard, forcing her lips into a weak smile. But inside, her mind screamed. Zayd had no mother.

And yet, here she was. Claiming a place by her side, smiling like she belonged.

Her father chuckled, his hand brushing her hair gently as the thunder rolled outside. “See? Even she says you’re fine. Allah is merciful. He sends the right people at the right time.”

Liyana’s heart pounded against her ribs. Every word of comfort only tightened the invisible noose around her. Because this woman was not here out of kindness. She was not a doctor. She was his puppet.

And when the lightning flashed through the windows, for just a heartbeat, Liyana saw it — the faint curl at the corner of the woman’s lips. A smirk, and it confirms it's all his hunting game

The maid quietly lifted the soup, offering it to her father. “Sahib, should I help feed her?”

Her father smiled, shaking his head gently. “No, I will do it. She is my daughter.” He took the bowl, blowing on the steam, his love blinding him to everything else.

But Liyana barely tasted the comfort in the room. Because even here, surrounded by family, warmth, and care, she knew the storm had already stepped inside her walls.

Her father’s hand was warm on hers, steady, grounding. “Aiyana,” he said softly, his smile filled with years of affection she had always longed for. “Zayd is sitting downstairs alone. Should I call him up? Everyone else is here.”

Her heart stuttered. The name alone was enough to summon the memory of his breath against her skin, his grip that felt like iron shackles. Fear crawled up her spine, tightening her lungs. She wanted to shake her head, to beg her father not to—

But then her gaze met his.

Love. Pure, unfiltered love.

The kind of love she had craved her entire life, the kind of safety only her father had ever given her. And in that moment, the storm inside her bowed to that tenderness. She couldn’t refuse him. She wouldn’t break that fragile happiness in his eyes.

So she nodded.

Just once.

Forgetting, for the briefest heartbeat, that the man he spoke of was not salvation but storm.

Outside, thunder cracked, shaking the glass of the windows. Rain lashed harder, echoing the pounding in, and a knock rattled the door.

Soft. Polite. Measured.

“As-salamu alaikum,” a deep voice murmured through the wood.

Her breath hitched so violently she nearly choked. Every muscle in her body froze. She didn’t need to see him. She could feel him.

The storm had come upstairs.

Mr. Sultan turned as the door opened. Zayd stepped inside with his gaze lowered, shoulders dipped in perfect humility. His voice was soft, respectful.

“Wa alaikum assalam. Come , beta.”

Zayd bowed slightly, his words quiet. “How are you, Miss Aliyana?”

Her breath caught. That voice—smooth, velvet, dangerous. She looked at him, and for the world’s eyes, he was the picture of discipline. His eyes never lifted; his posture screamed respect. A gentleman.

But in her mind, the mask shattered.

Flashes burned through her mind….His gaze. The way it had swallowed her whole, sliding over her body not with admiration but with hunger, with certainty. He had looked at her like she was not a person but a vow, a promise carved into his very being.

His hands had caught her, iron and unrelenting, yet there was something frighteningly tender in the way he held heras though he’d crush anyone else who dared touch her, but her… her he would never let fall.

She remembered his breath, hot and steady against her trembling lips, his eyes dark with possession yet softened with something more dangerous than desire. Something that felt like… devotion.

“That’s mine,” he had whispered, his voice rough silk. “Only mine. Always.”

Her pulse had hammered beneath his fingers as one hand trailed slowly, deliberately, from the line of her jaw down the delicate column of her throat. He lingered there, feeling the frantic beat of her heart, before sliding lower—across her collarbone, grazing her shoulder, then down, claiming the curve of her waist with the weight of his palm.

Not a caress. A brand.

But even as fear scorched through her veins, there had been no mistaking the madness in his touch. His obsession was threaded with a twisted kind of lovedangerous, suffocating, but love all the same. As though he believed she had been created for him alone, and the world itself would shatter before he let her belong to another.

“Aliyana?”

Her father’s voice dragged her back, breaking through the storm in her head. His brows furrowed in concern. “Are you okay?”

She forced a trembling smile. “Y-yes, Father.”

Her palm rose to her forehead, swiping at the sweat that clung there despite the biting cold outside. But when her gaze flickered back toward Zayd—she froze.

He was watching her now. No lowered eyes. No mask. His stare locked onto hers, sharp and unblinking. And then it came—the slow curl of a smirk that hollowed her stomach. A look that said everything her father couldn’t see.

Obsession. Claim. Victory.

She wanted to look away, but her eyes betrayed her, trapped in his fire. She didn’t even notice when Miss Fariha murmured something softly to her father. Mr. Sultan rose immediately, nodding to Zayd.

“Excuse us for a moment, beta.” His hand stroked Aliyana’s hair before he and Miss Fariha slipped out.

The door closed.

The silence shifted.

The two maids remained, heads bowed low in rigid obedience, as if they weren’t even breathing. But they weren’t protection. They weren’t hers.

And Zayd knew it.

The smirk widened as he stepped closer. Each stride was measured, patient, inevitable. Aliyana panicked, tapping the mattress at her side instinctively seeking her father. But there was nothing there. No safety.

Only him.

Her chest rose and fell faster, eyes darting from the bowed maids to the door, searching for escape. She tried to push herself up, but before she could, he leaned forward.

His presence consumed her.

Cold breath ghosted across her cheek, his face inches from hers, his voice a low growl wrapped in velvet.

“So…” His lips curved, brushing against the air between them. “Finally, I caught you.”

Her pulse stilled.

“My runner wife.”

And in that instant, the storm outside went silent. The world froze.

Only his claim remained.

The night had not ended for her.

It had simply stretched into hours of silence and torment.

Liyana lay awake beneath the canopy of her bed, her eyes tracing the golden threads of fabric as if they could distract her from the memory that burned through her veins. My runner wife. The words echoed like chains, shackling her even as the storm outside slowly died.

By dawn, she had not slept a single moment. Every thought circled back to him — to the smirk, to the iron grip, to the way he had stood before her father with lowered eyes, playing the role of a humble guest when she knew the truth: he was a storm cloaked in silk.

How?

How had he found her so easily?

Eighteen months. That was all it had been since she fled. A year and a half of silence, of running, of burying herself beneath her father’s protection, believing the walls of the villa would keep the shadows out. And yet… Zayd had slipped through them. Not as an intruder, but as a welcomed son.

Her fingers tightened around the brush in her hand as she sat before the mirror. Her reflection stared back — pale, hollow-eyed, lips dry from fear. She set the brush down sharply. No disguise of silk or kohl could hide what she carried inside.

The storm had found her.

When she finally went downstairs, the villa was alive with the rhythm of morning. Maids moved through the hallways carrying trays of fruit and tea, their soft chatter blending with the clinking of dishes. To them, it was just another day. To her, it was the beginning of something she could not name.

At the foot of the staircase, her father rose at once. Sultan Ahmed, dignified and sharp even in age, crossed the room with a warmth that melted her fear, if only for a moment. He drew her into his arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Alhamdulillah,” he murmured, his voice deep with relief. “You look better today, my love.”

For a moment, her eyes closed. In his embrace, she felt warmth, safety — everything she had lost in the storm of the night before. For him, she forced herself to smile.

She wore a long flowing frock today, soft fabric brushing her ankles, her dupatta draped lightly across her shoulder. She hoped the gentle modesty of it would calm her father’s heart — and distract from the fear that still pulsed beneath her skin.

They sat together at the breakfast table, the sunlight spilling across polished wood, a tray of warm parathas and orange juice between them. For a moment, she thought perhaps the morning would pass quietly.

Until her father spoke.

“So,” Sultan said with a tender smile, pouring tea into her cup, “how do you find Zayd, Aliyana?”

The question struck her like a blade. Her hand froze on the glass of juice, and she turned slowly toward him. Her lips parted, but no words came. How could she tell him that Zayd was the storm she had run from? That his smile was a mask, his humility a lie?

She tried to swallow the rising panic, but her father’s warmth disarmed her. He looked at her not as a man speaking of business — but as a father speaking of hope.

Sultan smiled again, his voice softer, almost coaxing. “Aliyana, I chose Zayd for you. If you want to know him more, I can arrange meetings. There is no rush. But I want you to be happy.”

Her chest tightened, confusion swirling with dread. Chosen? For her?

She set her juice down carefully, her fingers trembling against the glass. Curiosity burned through her fear. She needed to understand. She needed answers.

“Dad…” she began slowly, her voice low, careful not to betray the storm in her chest. “How did you meet Zayd?”

Her father’s eyes softened further, pride radiating from his face. Trust. Absolute trust.

“He is my business partner,” Sultan said, his voice calm, certain. “For the last one year, he has stood beside me like a son.”

The words slammed into her like lightning.

She almost choked on her drink, coughing sharply. Juice burned down her throat as her hand flew to her chest.

“Aliyana!” Sultan’s voice was alarmed, his hand reaching for hers. “Careful, beta!”

“I’m fine,” she croaked, forcing her lips into a quick smile. Anything to calm him, anything to keep him from seeing the terror in her eyes.

But inside, her world shattered.

One year. He had been here for one year.

Inside her father’s walls.

Inside her life.

And she hadn’t known.

Desperation laced her voice as she said softly, lovingly — so he wouldn’t doubt her, so he wouldn’t see. “Please, Baba… continue. Tell me more.”

Her heart pounded as he did.

Because with every word her father spoke, she realized the truth.

Zayd hadn’t just found her.

He had planted himself into the very heart of her world — and her father’s trust was his sharpest weapon

Aliyana’s lips trembled as she set her glass down. Her chest rose and fell quickly, her voice breaking through the tension.

“Dad,” she whispered, her words sharp with desperation. “I just met you after so many years. It’s been barely a year that we’ve been living together again, and you’re already thinking about sending me away?”

The words struck Sultan like an arrow. For a heartbeat, silence lingered between them — only the soft clinking of cutlery from the kitchen carried through.

Then he laughed gently. Not the laughter of joy, but the fragile chuckle of a man who used humor to mask pain. His eyes, warm yet heavy, locked onto hers.

“No, beta,” he said softly, shaking his head. “I could never send you away. Don’t ever think that.”

He reached across the table, taking her hand in his. His touch was warm, grounding, but his next words trembled with the weight of his own fears.

“But… I don’t know how much life I have left. After your mother’s death, I learned something, Aliyana. Life is unpredictable. You never know when it will be stolen from you. That is why I want to see you in strong hands before Allah calls me.”

The mention of her mother made Aliyana’s throat tighten. A sigh escaped her lips, heavy and wounded. The wound of her mother’s loss had never healed; it was a scar that both of them carried.

Her mother — the woman who could silence an entire room with a single glance. She had been elegance and fire in one breath. Her steps were sharp, dangerous, commanding, yet so beautiful that Sultan Ahmed had once called her “the storm I chose to chase.”

He had fallen in love with her the moment he saw her. For five long years, he pursued her with relentless devotion, and at last she had agreed to marry him. Ten years they shared together — ten years of fire, of passion, of battles and peace. Until one day, she walked away, taking their daughter with her.

For sixteen years, Sultan searched. Across cities, across countries. Every shadow, every rumor, he followed. Yet he never found her. She was gone, untouchable, like smoke between his fingers.

And then — a year ago. Aliyana had come to him on her own. Standing in his doorway after all that time, her face carrying the fire of her mother but the innocence of the girl he had once held as a child. He had been in shock, unable to breathe. Anger, yes — for her mother’s betrayal, for the years stolen from him. But above all, joy. Joy that his daughter had returned, that Allah had given him a second chance.

It was hope. Hope to live again.

But just when he thought the storm had finally calmed, the call came. A voice on the other end, cold and merciless. His wife — his love, his storm, his enemy and his salvation — had died in a car accident.

Sultan had dropped the phone that day. His knees had hit the floor. The world had spun until he could no longer tell what was real. Even now, even as he sat across from his daughter, a part of him refused to believe it. How could a woman so alive, so fierce, so unstoppable — simply be gone?

His voice cracked as he whispered, “She left too soon, beta. Too soon. Sometimes… I still feel she will walk through the door. That her death was a lie.”

Aliyana’s eyes blurred with tears. Her father’s pain was a weight she couldn’t carry, yet she felt every ounce of it press against her chest. She had never seen him so vulnerable, never heard his voice break in such a way.

And in that moment, she understood why he trusted Zayd so blindly. Why he clung to the idea of “strong hands.”

It wasn’t business. It wasn’t pride.

It was fear.

Fear of losing her the way he had lost his wife.

But Aliyana knew the truth. The hands her father trusted were not strong.

They were chains.

And they were already closing around her.