Jessica lay curled on a rusted metal bed, her ankles shackled by thick iron chains. The chain was long enough to let her drag herself to the tiny, foul-smelling washroom, but not a step beyond that. She hadn't seen daylight in days. The room had no windows—only a narrow square of ventilation high above, covered in a metal grill. Dust clung to the edges, and there was never any breeze. Just hot, sticky air.
A single yellow bulb hung from the ceiling. It flickered and buzzed like it was tired too. The walls were dull gray, stained in places—God knows what from. It smelled like bleach, sweat, and something metallic. Like blood.
Jessica's lips were dry. Her curly hair was tangled, matted against her pale face. Her clothes were filthy. Her ribs showed clearly now—she had gotten thinner in just a few days. All they gave her was a single meal a day—if they felt like it.
She sat up slowly, her arms shaking from weakness. That's when the metal door creaked open.
Two people walked in. A tall man with a scarred face, shirt half open and smelling like cigarettes. And a cold-faced woman, dressed like a nurse but with a mouth like a devil.
The woman tossed a file onto Jessica's bed. "Hungry, bitch?" she said, smirking.
Jessica stared at the tray the man held. A tiny piece of dry bread, a spoon of rice, and a plastic cup of water. Her stomach twisted at the sight—not because it was enough, but because she was that hungry.
"Eat," the man said. "But only after you sign."
Jessica picked up the file with trembling hands. The heading said:
Consent for Hymenoplasty Procedure.
Her heart stopped. She blinked. Read it again.
"No. I won't sign this. You can't make me—"The man slammed the tray on the floor, spilling everything. "The f**k you just said?" he growled, stepping close.
The woman crossed her arms and leaned in. "This ain't a f**king hotel, princess. You don't eat till we say. You don't leave till you're fixed."
Jessica shook her head. "I'm not broken," she whispered, almost choking.
That's when the woman slapped her hard across the face. Jessica fell sideways onto the bed, a sharp cry escaping her lips. Her cheek stung, already starting to swell.
"F**king stubborn piece of trash," the woman spat. "Girls like you need to be taught."
The man yanked Jessica up by her hair, pulling her face close to his. His breath was disgusting. "Sign the damn paper," he hissed, "or I'll make sure no one ever sees that pretty face again."
Jessica whimpered, "I just want to go home…"
"Home?" The woman laughed cruelly. "You ain't got one anymore, sweetheart. This is your home now. And if you don't play along, you'll rot in this room till your bones show."
Jessica sobbed, clutching her stomach. She hadn't eaten well in these four days. Time felt warped in this hellhole. Her lips quivered as she looked at the form again. She couldn't do it. But she also couldn't survive much longer like this.
Her eyes drifted to the cold bread lying on the dirty floor. "I won't," she said again.
The man grabbed the paper and pushed it to her chest. "Fine. Then starve. Let's see how brave you are by tomorrow night."
The door slammed shut behind them. The bulb buzzed louder. The heat grew thicker.
And Jessica lay there in the dark corner.
She stared up at the vent.
No wind.
No way out.
Only silence… and her fading strength.
Just past Jessica's holding room, down a narrow corridor lined with rusted metal doors, the place opened into a larger section of the building—they called it "The Prep Block." A few broken chairs, plastic sheets, and medical tools lay scattered around like leftovers from a butcher's table. The walls were yellowing with age and dirt, and the only light came from long tube lights that flickered overhead.
Raziya, the woman who slapped Jessica, stormed in. "F**king headache, that girl," she snapped, tossing her gloves onto a plastic table.
Tariq followed, stretching his arms, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. "Like she's royalty or something," he muttered. "Cried like a baby over a slap. And still won't sign."
In the far corner, Usama Syed sat on a cracked leather chair, legs crossed, arms resting over the armrests. His eyes—hidden behind thick glasses—listened them silently.
"She's not breaking," Raziya continued, voice louder now. "Three f**king days and she still refuses to sign the hymenoplasty consent. Acting like someone's gonna save her. She doesn't even eat without drama. Stares at the wall like she's a damn ghost."
Usama slowly turned his face toward her. He adjusted his glasses with one finger, then finally spoke, "She'll break."
Tariq leaned against the wall, taking a drag. "Yeah? When? We're wasting time. If she don't sign, we can't operate. And we can't ship her without that fake purity sh*t. Mamba wants it clean."
Usama gave a cold chuckle. "You think I came here to listen to your whining?" He leaned forward now. "This girl? She's fire. Fire always looks strong—until it runs out of air."
Raziya rolled her eyes. "You wanna try? Be my guest. I'm done playing nurse."
Usama stood up. Straightened his shirt. "I'll pay her a visit tomorrow. You two just make sure she stays alive until then. No bruises on the face. And no broken bones. She's a product, not your punching bag."
Raziya huffed. "She spits attitude like she's still someone. You sure she's worth the trouble?"
He looked at her through his foggy glasses. "All my girls are worth something. Even the loud ones." He walked toward the hallway, then added with a smirk,
"And trust me... once I talk to her, she won't stay loud for long."
Tariq snorted. "Sick f**k."
....
The room was quiet—cold, still, and dim.
Ibrahim tossed in his bed, the thin towel wrapped around his waist shifting slightly as he turned. The sheets were half crumpled beneath him, his bare chest rising and falling in the soft darkness. The air conditioner's low hum had faded after he blindly found the remote under his pillow and clicked it off. Silence followed, except for the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.
The room was dim, nearly swallowed in darkness. Thick curtains drawn over the windows blocked any light from creeping in. He was just in a towel. After reaching the guesthouse, he hadn't even bothered to dress. A long shower—and straight to bed.
He'd slept well. Deep, heavy sleep—like his body had finally given in after weeks of tension. And why wouldn't he? A night like that, with Ava, left a man wrecked—in the best possible way. But now… he was missing her again.
She should have been here. In this bed. In his arms. His mind wandered back to the night before. The leather seat. The faint smell of her skin. The way her breath caught when his hands moved up her thighs. How she gasped his name like it was the only thing holding her together. Soft moans that turned into broken cries. And those eyes—when they rolled back, when she couldn't hold on anymore. He could still see it. Every moment.
He'd never truly thought she would agree to his demand, not after all their history. But the way she had surrendered, the way her body had opened to him... The thought alone was enough to make his dick hard. A low groan escaped him as he felt himself growing hard, the towel doing nothing to hide it.
Fuck...
He gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the throbbing need, but the more he resisted, the worse it got. Right now, all he could think about was her lips—soft and warm—wrapped around him. The way she'd look up at him with those pleading eyes while taking him deep.
Ibrahim shook his head hard, dragging a hand through his messy hair.
"Calm the hell down. You just had her last night." He reached for the bottle on the nightstand and took a long swig of cold water—hoping it would cool down the fire.
Then came a soft knock.
"Sir," a male servant's polite voice came through, "Mr. Elara has arrived."
"What the fuck is Elara doing here?" Ibrahim muttered under his breath, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Without opening the door, he raised his voice, "Tell him to wait in the lounge."
"Yes, sir."
Elara sat stiffly on the edge of the couch, arms folded, foot tapping. His glare was enough to kill a man twice. The second he heard footsteps, his gaze shot up—and there he was.
Ibrahim walked in, wearing grey sweatpants and a plain white T-shirt. Hair a mess. He smirked as he sank into the seat opposite him, "Well, well… today my dear brother-in-law decided to bless me with his presence? What's the occasion? No one died, right?"
Elara didn't respond to the jab. Just stared at him like he was a roach on the wall. "Why aren't you living in your mansion?"
Ibrahim leaned back, his arm resting on the sofa's backrest, cool as ever. "Because Ava's not there. And without her, that mansion looks more like a graveyard. What am I supposed to do there alone? She said she wants ten days with you, so fine. I'll go back when she agrees to live with me again."
"Oh please. Since when do you care if a house feels empty?" Elara scoffed, "What did you eat before manipulating her into this sudden change? Huh? She didn't even want to see your face, Ibrahim. And now suddenly she's agreeing to live with you again?"
He leaned forward now, voice rising, anger spilling out, "What magic did you use, huh? Did you cry? Did you beg? Or did you just play your usual mind games and twist her until she said yes? Because the Ava I know would never go back to someone who—"
Ibrahim laughed. A deep laugh that echoed in the room like it was mocking everything Elara stood for.
"I didn't need to manipulate her, Elara. She's not stupid. She knows who I am. She came back to me because she wanted to. That must burn your soul a little, right? We fight, we scream, she throws things at me — that's marriage. But in the end, she'll always come back to me. You know why? Because she loves me. And maybe that fact keeps you awake at night. You're angry because she told you she's starting over with me. You hate me, I get it. But calm down, Officer Elara. Save your anger for criminals."
He continued, "This rage suits you though. All that brotherly protectiveness. Cute. But guess what?" He grinned. "She's not yours to protect anymore. She's mine. Legally, emotionally, physically—all of it. Deal with it."
Elara clenched his fists, the veins on his arms visible now. His jaw worked like he was holding back a punch, "If you ever dare to take advantage of my sister physically…" His eyes locked with Ibrahim's, "...it'll be your last fucking day on this earth. I'll bury you so deep even your sins won't remember your name."
Ibrahim's smile grew wider—mocking, taunting. He wanted to snap back. He could talk about how Ava hadn't just let him touch her—she had wanted it. But everything between a husband and wife is meant to be shared. Some memories were just theirs.
Then Elara broke the silence again,
"I didn't come here just to tell you this."
"Oh? You bringing me sweets too?" Ibrahim raised one brow. "Where are they? Hope it's not dry ones, I like mine soaked in syrup."
"Don't ever expect that kind of greeting from me." Elara looked Ibrahim dead in the eye, "I'd rather walk into this place with an arrest warrant than a box of sweets. And believe me—I'd enjoy it a hell of a lot more."
Ibrahim muttered "Dickhead" under his breath as he looked away.
Elara's head jerked slightly. "What did you just say?"
But Ibrahim didn't answer. He just gave him a flat look as if to say you really don't want to know what I just said out loud.
"Whatever. I'm telling you clearly," Elara pointed a finger at him, "you're not taking Ava back to that mansion. I don't care what romantic fantasies you've built in that house. She's not stepping a foot in there again."
Ibrahim's smirk was gone. "What the hell are you saying?"
"I don't want anyone from your precious family taunting Ava for running away from you. Not your mother. Not your brother. No one. She already lived through enough. You two can live alone. That's your choice where you want to go—buy another house, go to your fancy penthouses, I don't care. But Ava is not stepping foot in that mansion again."
Ibrahim's expression shifted, "No one will say a word to her," he said slowly, trying to hold back the sudden rise of frustration in his chest. "You think I'll let anyone dare taunt her in front of me? That house is hers as much as mine. And she won't be—"
"I don't believe you," Elara interrupted, "Not after everything. Before Ava ran away, all sympathy was with her. They knew you married her forcefully. But now?" He took a bitter breath. "Since she came back. Now they'll twist it. They'll act like you were the victim and she was the one who left without a word. Your mother will think she doesn't deserve you. They'll welcome her with fake smiles and hidden claws. You think Ava won't feel that shift the moment she steps back into that house? Won't it make her uncomfortable?"
And suddenly, Ibrahim was quiet. He looked genuinely lost. "My mom isn't like that…" he murmured. "She loves Ava."
Elara rolled his eyes hard, grabbing his bike keys from the table. "I don't have time to listen to fairy tales about your mother. When you're ready to move into a new house, come pick up Ava. Until then, this thing—" he gestured between them, "—this stays between us."
He turned, storming toward the door without another word. And Ibrahim's eyes followed him, burning with anger, "What the hell does he think he is? Just because he's Ava's brother, he thinks he can rule her life? Rule my life?"
Meanwhile, outside, Elara jammed his key into the bike and muttered as it roared to life, "If murder was legal, I know who my first kill would be."
He hit the accelerator hard and vanished down the road.