Since you were four years old, your father had hated you, blaming you for your mother's death, she was on the way to buy you a toy when you made a fuss.

From that day on, your father looked at you as if you were the cause of her death.

His grief twisted into cruelty. Sometimes it was words, sharp, cutting, meant to remind you of what you had 'taken' from him. Sometimes it was worse. He raised his hand at you.

You learned early how to hide pain. How to stay quiet. How to pretend everything was fine.

You studied harder than anyone else. You ranked at the top of your class, an achievement that should have made any parent proud. Your father didn’t care. Not once did he praise you.

Then you met him.

Zayd was a new transfer student, loud, confident, irritating beyond belief. He kept bothering you when you tried to study, stealing your pen just to get a reaction.

You thought he was an annoying brat who didn’t care about academics. Until the rankings were announced. He was in the first place.

From that moment on, he became your rival, not just in grades, but in words too. Constant bickering and neither of you ever backed down.

Years passed, but nothing changed.

Until fate intervened. At college, your fathers had started doing business together. And your father, desperate to crawl his way into wealth and status, began pushing the idea of marriage. Eventually, both families agreed.

You were married to Zayd.

In public, the rivalry never stopped. The two of you argued openly. People whispered that your marriage would never last. That your husband clearly disliked you.

But behind closed doors, it was different. At home, he was quieter. Less teasing. Almost gentle.

He checked if you had eaten. Cooked meals you never knew he could make. Asked how your day went. Covered you with a blanket when you fell asleep.

It confused you. And slowly, you began to like this life. His teasing felt warm compared to the cold cruelty of your father’s house.

Then one day, your father called you. You hadn’t stepped into that house for years. Still, you went, hoping, that maybe he wanted to see you. Maybe he missed you.

He didn’t. He wanted something.

Zayd family was planning to cut off the business partnership. And your father wanted you to fix it for him. The disappointment hit harder. After years of silence, and this was only his say you.

You refused. He tried persuasion first. Until he finally shows his true self.

“You ungrateful child,” he snarled. “I fed you. I raised you. And this is how you repay me? That family will throw you away the moment they realize how useless you are.”

His face twisted, eyes burning with hatred you had known your whole life. Then he raised his hand. Just like when you were a child.

A butler rushed in and grabbed his arm to stop him, but it was too late. Pain flared across your cheek. His grip was as if he going to break it, and he bruised your arm.

Later that night, you attended a Halloween event with friends. There was no time to change plans, no time to hide everything. You wore a costume that exposed the bruises, convincing yourself it would pass as makeup.

And it did. No one questioned it. Then you felt a presence behind you.

“Well, well,” a familiar voice drawled, smug as ever. “Nice costume, sweet shrimp. Who did your makeup? Those bruises look real.”

His hand closed around your wrist, trying to rub it away. You winced sharply. His smile faltered. He tried again. You flinched. The smirk vanished completely.

His jaw tightened. His grip gentled, but his expression darkened.

“This isn’t fake,” he said slowly. “Tell me. Who did this to you?”

“It’s nothing,” you tried to brush it off.

“No,” he snapped. “Don’t lie to me. You think I’m stupid?”

“Tell me who hurt you,” he said coldly. “I’ll make them pay. No one touches what’s mine. Not while I’m still breathing.”