Zoya's eyes narrowed as the man sat across from her, his expression unreadable. She had demanded he continue, but there was something about the way he paused—so deliberate, as though savoring the moment before speaking—that set her on edge. She could feel the tension creeping through the room, thickening the air between them, as if he were playing a game she didn't fully understand.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled in front of him like an old storyteller preparing to drop a heavy truth. His gaze never left hers, a knowing glint in his eyes.
"Let's continue," he said, his voice smooth but laced with something darker, something that lingered in the silence. "But remember, this isn't a story about someone like you. It's about someone else entirely. A woman, much like yourself, trapped in a world of her own making."
Zoya's breath caught in her throat. There it was again, that feeling, like he knew more about her than she did. She swallowed hard, fighting to steady her racing heart. Was he talking about her, or someone else? The words felt too personal, too raw. She had never wanted to ask, but now, in this quiet, haunting moment, a part of her needed to know. Who was this woman he spoke of?
She said nothing, her eyes locked on his. He hadn't given her much to work with—just cryptic words wrapped in riddles. But the truth felt close, just within reach, as if the whole room were pressing against her, suffocating her with its unknown.
He spoke again, his voice slow, deliberate, like a storyteller recounting an ancient myth.
"Azan," he began, "believed he could control everything—everyone, including Zoya. He thought that if he could get her pregnant, she would have no choice but to stay by his side, bound to him forever. He never considered that Zoya might not want to have his child. And she didn't. She hated the very idea of being tied to him like that."
Zoya's stomach twisted as the man's words hit her like a sudden punch to the gut. She had never wanted Azan's child. Never. And yet, here she was, pregnant, bound by a choice she hadn't made. A shiver ran down her spine at the thought, and her fingers tightened into fists at her sides. The memory of Azan's possessiveness, his belief that he could control everything, flooded her mind. She hated how right he was about this.
The man leaned forward, his eyes sharp, focused on her reaction. "Zoya's pregnancy, in Azan's eyes, was a victory. A way to tie her down. But for Zoya, it was a prison. The last thing she wanted was to carry his child, to have her life completely controlled by him."
His words were like daggers, each one twisting deeper into the wound Azan had left on her heart. Zoya's breath hitched, and she pressed her palms to her thighs, trying to steady herself. The man knew too much. It was like he had been inside her head, rifling through her darkest thoughts, her deepest fears.
"And so," the man continued, his tone heavy with purpose, "when Zoya realized what had happened, she made a decision—a decision that would change everything."
Zoya's heart pounded in her chest. She could feel the weight of the man's words pressing down on her. The decision. She had made it, hadn't she? The one that had set everything in motion. She had poisoned Azan, not to kill him, but to make him believe he was infertile. To make him think the child inside her wasn't his. The thought still filled her with disgust, the lengths she had gone to, the lies she had woven. But it had been the only way. The only way to stop him from owning her, from trapping her forever.
"Azan didn't believe it at first. How could he?" the man went on, his voice cool, detached. "He was a man of pride, a man who thought himself invincible. But after multiple tests, after the lies she wove so carefully, Azan was forced to accept it. He believed the reports. Believed that he was infertile. And that, in his mind, should have been the end of it. He was no longer bound by the pregnancy—he was free to do as he pleased."
Zoya's fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into the palms of her hands. The memory of that day came rushing back. The fear, the guilt, the relief. She had never wanted to deceive him like that, but what other choice had she had? If making him believe he couldn't have children was the only way to get away from him, then so be it. She had paid the price.
"But it wasn't over," the man's voice darkened, dragging her from her thoughts. "Azan, despite all his pride, wasn't finished. The wedding day—the day Zoya and Ryan were supposed to be married—was the final straw. Azan arrived too late. They were already wed, and Azan's rage was like a storm, a fury that could not be contained. He couldn't accept that Zoya had escaped him. He couldn't accept that she had chosen Ryan."
Zoya's stomach twisted again, the memory flooding her mind. She had felt Azan's fury the moment he stormed into the ceremony, the realization crashing into him like a wave. But worse than the rage had been the realization that Azan's pride would lead him to do something reckless, something dangerous.
"As the chaos unfolded, Zoya's father was caught in the crossfire," the man continued. "Someone had already called the cops, but Azan, in his desperation to keep control, didn't care. A mysterious figure emerged, intent on killing her father. And in an unexpected turn, Azan threw himself in front of the bullet meant for Zoya's father."
Zoya gasped, the words freezing her in place. She had never wanted Azan to die. Never wanted him to sacrifice himself for anyone, least of all for her father. And yet, in that moment, Azan had done something no one expected. He had thrown himself into the line of fire, his pride and obsession with her pushing him into a decision that ultimately cost him.
"Azan didn't die," the man continued, his voice softening now. "But in that moment, he lost something. His pride. His belief that he could control everything. That was when Zoya realized that despite all his power, despite everything he had done to her, Azan was just as vulnerable as anyone else."
Zoya sat frozen, her mind spinning. She had never wanted Azan's sacrifice. Never asked for it. But hearing the man speak of it now, describing it in such a way, made her feel something she hadn't expected: a twisted sense of pity. Azan, for all his faults, had been human after all. His pride had led him to ruin.
"Zoya," the man's voice dropped lower, his words laced with an eerie finality, "knew what had to come next. Azan was wounded, broken in some way, but he wasn't done with her. He wouldn't let go. He would never let go. But for Zoya, the battle wasn't over. She had already made her choice. And Azan's sacrifice, his pride, wouldn't stop her from escaping."
Zoya could feel the weight of his words pressing down on her, a cold shiver racing up her spine. What was this man trying to tell her? Was this just another part of his twisted game? He had described Azan's actions as though they were some grand, tragic tale. But to her, it was more than that. It was a reminder of how far things had gone. How much pain she had endured, and how much she had lost.
"And that's part of the story that is over," the man's voice dropped to a near whisper, his eyes never leaving hers. "But from now on, things are going to get far worse."
The words lingered in the air like a dark omen, settling over her. She wanted to scream, to demand answers, but she couldn't. The man had told her everything she needed to know for now. She was trapped in a web of lies and manipulation, unable to break free.
With one last, lingering glance, the man stood and left the room. Zoya sat alone, the weight of his words pressing down on her like a heavy stone. What was to come next? She didn't know. But she could feel it, just on the horizon, creeping closer. The darkness had only just begun.