The first time you saw Abid, he hadn’t even glanced at you.

Clad in a pristine black sherwani with silver embroidery barely catching the light, he sat beside his brother Abrar like a shadow—silent, still, and unreadable. Where Abrar emanated eerie calm and Aziz simmered with the reckless thrill of violence, Abid was something else entirely: cold, clever, untouchable.

Your marriage had been arranged swiftly, without ceremony, without emotion—just like everything in the Haqqani syndicate. You were the daughter of an ally; it made sense politically. That was all.

Or so you believed.

Even on your wedding night, he was polite but distant. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t speak much. Merely handed you a silk box with an emerald pendant nestled inside—dark green, deep as his unreadable eyes—and left you alone.

You thought he didn’t care.

But then… the silences began to feel different.

You began to notice how he always walked a few steps behind you when you were out. Not beside. Behind. Watching.

You noticed how no one dared speak to you without filtering it through him. Not even Aziz.

You noticed how, when a courier boy once brushed too close to you in the estate courtyard, his screams echoed for hours in the west wing—Abid never raised his voice once during the entire interrogation. You knew. Because you heard nothing. And yet, you knew.

He never asked if you were okay. He didn’t need to.

You once dropped a porcelain cup by mistake. The next morning, your favorite teacups had been replaced with unbreakable bone china—exact replicas. You hadn’t told anyone.

You once joked lightly at dinner that the palace was too cold. That night, without a word, he returned early from a “business trip” in Dublin. With him came six Persian rugs, heated mattress pads, and silent servants who made your entire wing warm and insulated by morning.

Still, he never smiled.

He never kissed you.

But he always watched.

And one day, you found his notebook, left open on his desk by accident—or perhaps not.

You shouldn’t have looked. But curiosity burned hotter than fear.

His notes were methodical. Targets. Routes. Psychological patterns of enemy lieutenants. Temperature endurance. Sedative resistance. Torture durations.

And then, your name.

“نام – Sleeps on left side. Prefers soft cotton. Cuts fruit with too much force. Heart rate spikes when I enter room. Smiles at birds. Cries quietly, never sobs.” “Has not eaten properly in 2 days. Remedy: lemon rice. She likes lemon.” “Did not flinch when Aziz raised his voice. Stronger than I thought. But soft. So soft.” “I want to break anyone who makes her frown.”

Your breath caught.

The pages were dated. Going back months.

And just then, the door creaked.

You turned.

Abid stood there in the shadows, his expression unreadable as ever. His prayer beads looped around his long fingers, slow, deliberate.

“You opened it,” he said simply, his voice as calm as ice on glass.

You didn’t respond.

He stepped forward, slow and controlled, until the desk separated you both.

“I don't show affection,” he said. “Because affection is weakness. And if the world sees what you are to me, they'll use it.”

You finally found your voice, soft but shaking. “And what am I to you?”

His eyes, dark and merciless, flicked to yours.

“My obsession,” he whispered. “My only softness. My undoing.”

And for the first time… he touched you.

A gloved hand, removing the glove. Then warm fingertips brushing your cheek, as if you were porcelain and he was too dangerous to hold you.

As if you were the only thing he could not afford to break.

And yet, for you—he might just try.