Chapter 23
---
Time has only one job—to pass.
Whether good or bad, it always moves forward.
But time is never the same for everyone.
For some, it becomes a soothing balm.
For some, it's a test.
For some, it's a memory.
And for a few… time seems to stop forever at a single moment.
---
The wooden cottage stood hidden deep in the forest, surrounded by tall trees. From the outside, it looked beautiful, but inside, it was even more enchanting. The snow had covered the bare branches of the trees, giving them a life-like charm once more. The earth, too, was blanketed in white, and the sight gave peace to the eyes.
But oblivious to it all, he sat inside, near the window, lost. His gaze was fixed on the photograph he held. His eyes devoured the girl's features—her eyes, her lips—as his trembling fingers traced over them again and again, almost desperately.
The window was open, letting in the cold wind and snowflakes, chilling the room. Finally, he rose, shut it, and sat back down, resuming his obsession. The coffee on the table had long grown cold, but he didn't care.
For him, time had stopped at that one moment—
The moment Emma had rejected him.
Broken, he had escaped here, cutting himself off from the world. No phone calls. No messages. Nothing. Just him and her photograph.
He still wore the same t-shirt and trousers from the day before. His only routine was staring at Emma's picture—the one where she was laughing uncontrollably with her hand on his arm. The sparkle in her eyes, the curve of her lips… her warmth. It all felt so real that he could almost touch it.
"Which memory should I erase from my heart?
Every thought I have… leads back to you."
Each time he looked at her laughter in the picture, his heart calmed. But then the memory of her rejection returned, shattering him all over again. Then he would stare at the photo once more, torturing himself in a vicious loop.
Yes. That was the truth—he was tormenting himself.
---
It had been a month since Emma had started living with John in the penthouse. But in that time, she had made up her mind: she would annoy him so much that he'd eventually beg to be rid of her.
She came to the office late on purpose. She deliberately messed up his work. She made terrible coffee and then pulled innocent faces as if she knew nothing. And when she wasn't working, she was off to clubs.
Today was no different—she had ruined yet another office task. One look at John's face told her she was in trouble. So, the moment they returned, she ran straight to her room without even eating.
But now her stomach growled like a trapped mouse. She peeked at the clock—3 AM. Peering out carefully, she saw the lounge dark and silent. Good.
Licking her dry lips, she tiptoed toward the kitchen, using only her phone's flashlight instead of turning on the lights. Once inside, she raised her fist in the air in silent victory. "Yes!"
She opened the fridge—empty. Nothing that could calm the fire in her stomach. Just as she bent down in disappointment, the kitchen lights flicked on.
She froze. She didn't even need to turn around to know who it was. That strong fragrance of his cologne always gave him away.
Gathering courage, she straightened and turned. There he stood in a black t-shirt and trousers, arms crossed over his chest, staring at her.
Even in his simplest look, the man was dangerously handsome. Her poor heart stumbled so much it felt like it had installed wheels—zooming uncontrollably whenever John appeared. She quickly hit the brakes on her runaway feelings before she crashed completely.
But his piercing blue eyes—cold as always—told her he was furious.
She decided to leave quickly. But he stepped into her path.
"What is this? Standing here like a statue?" she muttered, glaring at him. As if glaring would make him move. (Oh, her innocent thinking!)
"I need to go out," she said, careful not to look directly into those eyes. She was afraid she'd drown in them.
Instead of moving aside, John grabbed her wrist and dragged her to the counter. "Make me something to eat first."
Emma shot him a deadly glare. "I don't know how to cook. If you're hungry, make it yourself."
She tried to escape, but he caught her wrist again.
"Then fine," he leaned in close, his voice dangerously low. "I'll just eat you instead."
Her breath hitched. Her brain almost short-circuited. Why did her senses abandon her whenever he was near?
"You can't eat me—I'm too small, and you're a giant," she blurted, even showing the size difference with her fingers.
He raised a brow. She panicked. "I mean… help me cook something, at least!"
A faint smile tugged at his lips before he masked it quickly. (Smile? Him? No, she must have imagined it.)
He released her wrist, pulled chicken from the freezer, and handed her onions. Emma's face fell.
She glared at the onion like it was her mortal enemy. "Cut yourself, or I'll chop you into pieces."
John smirked. "It won't cut itself. You have to do it."
Sighing dramatically, she began chopping. Tears streamed from her eyes, her nose scrunched, and she looked utterly miserable. John pressed his lips together, barely holding back laughter. Quietly, he slipped out his phone and snapped a picture before she could notice.
"Give it to me. Now pour oil in the pan," he ordered.
Within half an hour, the two had managed to cook something resembling food. Emma proudly named it "Pizza Bread."
After eating, she rose to leave, but John stopped her. He turned his chair to face her, leaning in until his hand cupped her face. Her heart thundered in her chest.
"I'm letting you go tonight. But next time… I'll really eat you."
She stammered, "Trust me… I won't taste good at all!"
He laughed—an actual laugh, loud and warm. Emma froze, stunned. Could anyone look this beautiful while laughing? No wonder he rarely did it; otherwise, no one would be able to look away.
"I've already tasted you," he teased, brushing his finger over her lips. "And believe me… you're delicious."
Her face flushed crimson. She bolted out of the kitchen like lightning.
John, left behind, smiled again. Since the day this girl entered his life, he had rediscovered what it meant to smile.
---
---
After the wedding procession, the Walima ceremony was also held at the hotel where it had been decided. Contrary to expectations, Daji remained silent, and even Dayan had attended the Walima. After that, life seemed to move at a single degree.
Ever since the day Aahil had treated her with cold indifference, she had become afraid of him. Yet, she still did all his work herself. Even though there were servants in the house, what could she do—she was madly in love. However, she only did it in his absence.
Even now, after he left, she entered the room and took deep breaths, letting his lingering fragrance seep into her soul. It felt as though her heart had finally found peace.
She first tidied up the bed. She was fixing the sheet when Sakina Bua entered.
"Bibi, Dayan sahib has woken up, and now he's crying and calling for you," she informed. Hoor nodded at her words.
"Sakina Bua…!!" She was about to leave when Hoor called her. The old woman stopped and looked at her questioningly.
"Yes, Bibi… yes?"
Hoor came closer, gently taking her hand into her own. Sakina Bua looked at her with surprise.
"You are in my mother's place. And a mother calls her daughter betiya (child), not Bibi."
At her words, tears welled up in Sakina Bua's eyes. Who had ever given her such respect before? In the household where she previously worked, they would insult her despite her age.
She watched Hoor head toward Dayan's room, then wiped her eyes with her dupatta, praying sincerely for Hoor's happiness, and walked back toward the kitchen.
---
"Who is this naughty child crying in my prince's room?" Hoor entered the room to find Dayan sitting on the bed, eyes squeezed shut, mouth wide open, crying at full volume.
At her voice, he quickly wiped his eyes and smiled, raising his tiny arms. Hoor stepped forward and lifted him into her arms. The moment he was in her lap, Dayan kissed her cheek and then hid his face in her shoulder. He was such a shy child.
Hoor laughed at his gesture and kissed his cheek in return, but Dayan made a face.
After bathing him, she handed him over to Sakina Bua in the kitchen and returned to Aahil's room. But seeing Aahil there, she froze in the doorway. He was staring at her coldly. He had returned for a file he had forgotten at home.
"Close the door and come here…" His cold tone sent a shiver down her spine.
"What did I just say…?" When she remained frozen at the door, he roared. She flinched and, instead of coming toward him, tried to leave. Perhaps sensing her intention, he grabbed her, shut the door himself, and pressed her against it.
"Who gave you permission to come into my room? And why are you trying to get close to Dayan?" His face was lowered toward hers, his voice icy.
His grip on her arms was tight, frightening her.
"Answer me… What did I ask?" His coldness nearly stopped her heartbeat.
"I… I am your wife…" She barely managed to say it.
"Oh please… keep this drama for someone else," he dismissed her with disdain. He had no idea how deeply his words had cut her.
---
I have much patience…
But that doesn't mean…
I should always be tested to the limit.
---
"If you think this is a drama, I can't help it. But what I can do, I will…" She started firmly, but despite her efforts, a tear slipped down her cheek at the end.
He had intended to say more, but seeing her tear, he pressed his lips together. Without another word, he opened the door and pushed her out of the room himself.
As soon as she left, he sat by the door, holding his head in his hands.
What made him so restless was the thought: when his own people—those he had grown up with from childhood to youth—had not stood by him, why had Hoor? Surely, she had some hidden motive.
He saw everything through the lens of suspicion.
And that lens of suspicion had been placed on his eyes by his own family.
---
She had come to meet Derek. The sound of her heels echoed in the hospital corridor. In her red dress with light makeup, she looked like a delicate doll as always. Entering the room, she found the doctor and nurse exercising Derek's leg—raising and lowering it gently. The doctor, a woman, spoke kindly to him, and Derek answered politely. Something felt wrong.
Olivia didn't know why, but she didn't like it. She cleared her throat to draw their attention. The doctor smiled at her, said goodbye to Derek, and walked out.
"They're recovering very fast. Seems like they're in a hurry to leave us," the doctor said with a smile directed at Derek. Olivia forced a smile back, though in her heart she wanted to scratch that smile off her face.
As the doctor was leaving, Olivia subtly extended her foot. The doctor lost her balance and fell. Olivia burst into laughter but quickly covered it up, rushing to help her up with fake concern.
"Are you alright?" she asked, pretending to be worried.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine…" The doctor, embarrassed by her fall, smiled and left the room.
As soon as she left, Olivia shook her head in annoyance and looked at Derek, who was watching her with interest.
"What? Why are you looking at me like that?"
"How else should I look?" He narrowed his eyes teasingly. Olivia burst into laughter and playfully hit him with her bag. He groaned theatrically, as though auditioning for an Oscar.
"Want a drink?" Derek asked. Olivia stared in disbelief. He, offering something edible? Shocking.
Derek grabbed a bottle, opened the cap, slipped some Mentos inside, and sealed it again before handing it to her. Olivia didn't notice. Had she seen it, she could have saved herself.
She took the bottle, fearing he might snatch it back. But the moment she opened it, the soda exploded like a fountain, drenching her clothes and ruining her makeup.
Now she understood why he offered.
She glared at him, but Derek was clearly enjoying her state. Without hesitation, she emptied the remaining bottle on him in return.
Both were now drenched in Pepsi. They stared at each other silently—until the next moment, their laughter filled the room.
---
It was Saturday, so she had come to work. These days, there was always more crowd, so extra workers had been hired, and she was among them.
"Emma, take this tray of glasses to that table," her colleague instructed, pointing toward a group of five or six drunken men practically falling over each other, still demanding more alcohol. Emma felt disgusted, but work was work.
She placed the tray on their table and was about to leave when one of the men grabbed her wrist and pulled her onto his lap. The others laughed crudely as she panicked.
Now that vile man was trying to force himself on her. The corner where they sat was isolated, and with loud, blaring music, no one noticed.
Emma's head spun when the man pressed his lips to her neck. She quickly rammed her elbow into his chin, loosening his grip, and used the moment to free herself. He glared at her murderously.
"You little—" he cursed, furious.
Emma didn't care. She punched him hard in the mouth, splitting his lip and nose. He bent forward in pain. His friends tried to catch her, but Emma fought back fiercely. Alone, yet stronger than the drunken men, she was holding her ground.
But then the man she had punched jabbed a syringe into her arm. Her head swam, her vision blurred, and soon everything went hazy. The men grabbed her and dragged her toward one of the private rooms in the club.
"I'll deal with her first… that b*tch dared hit me," the man growled. In the room, he locked the door, unbuttoned his shirt, and leaned over her. Just then, the sound of someone's cries of pain echoed outside, followed by pounding on the door.
Panicking, the man looked at the door, then back at Emma, whose body was succumbing to the drug. Ignoring the knocking, his intentions turned vile again as he bent over her.
The door burst open, and someone grabbed his neck from behind, slamming a knee into his stomach—once, twice. It was madness.
John had been on his way to meet Derek at the hospital when an unknown number called. He thought it might be D, so his grip tightened on the steering wheel. Ever since Derek's accident, there had been no calls from D, though John had been waiting.
He answered, and the voice on the other end, cold and emotionless, spoke in French:
Votre fille a été infectée par la drogue et maintenant 6 hommes l'emmènent dans la salle privée de la boîte de nuit si vous voulez la sauver, alors atteignez l'adresse que vous avez reçue sur mobile.
(Your girl has been injected with drugs and now 6 men are carrying her to the private room of a nightclub. If you want to save her, reach the address you've received on your phone.)
The call ended, and a message arrived with the nightclub's address. It was close. Emma worked in a club, but John wasn't taking any risks.
He drove straight to the address. Entering the hallway, he saw a man dragging a girl with her face hidden by her hair. After whispering something to his companions, the man disappeared inside the private room. But John had recognized the girl. She was wearing the same clothes Emma had worn that morning.
He wasted no time, taking out the guards first. Then he knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he pulled out his silenced pistol and shot the lock open.
His eyes fell on Emma. For a moment, he looked away, then quickly removed his coat and draped it over her shoulders before launching himself at the man.
"How dare you touch her!" John roared, punching him relentlessly.
The man's intoxication was gone, but John didn't stop until his face was bloodied.
"Touched her with these hands, didn't you?" John snarled, grabbing both his hands.
"F-forgive me…" the man begged, trembling.
But John ignored him, firing bullets into both his hands. The man fainted from the pain.
John carried Emma out.
She was unconscious. He brought her straight to his room, laid her on the bed, and saw her swollen, bruised face turning pale blue. Scratches marred her arms and neck.
Her condition only fueled his rage further.
---
Aahil's behavior yesterday had deeply hurt her. Yet she still didn't stop doing his work. Today, she entered his room even in his presence, without knocking. But then she regretted it. He stood shirtless before the mirror, fixing his hair.
Aahil, too, was startled to see her there.
"If you'd care to wear a shirt, it would be appreciated," she remarked sarcastically, turning her back.
Today her attitude shocked him. Where was the soft-spoken Hoor?
Still, he put on his shirt.
"Now tell me, what is it?" he asked seriously, turning back to the mirror.
Hoor looked at him. He was now spraying perfume on himself, filling the room with his scent. She had promised herself to face him boldly, yet once again, she lost herself in his magnetic presence.
Aahil looked at her silently. Dressed in white shalwar kameez with a white hijab, she appeared angelic, gazing at him absentmindedly.
Can anyone look so pure? he thought.
"Did you want to say something?" Even he was surprised by the softness in his voice. He didn't know why.
"Yes… about Dayan." She snapped back to reality, remembering her purpose.
"Hmm, go on," he said, folding his arms and giving her his full attention.
Her heart raced under his gaze.
Sensing her discomfort, Aahil shifted his eyes to his phone, pretending to be busy.
"I was saying that Dayan should be admitted to school now…" she said, her voice full of a mother's concern. It was genuine, but Aahil thought it was another act—just her way of gaining his attention.
Smirking mockingly, he stepped closer.
"A clever way to get attention…"
Hoor stared at him as though doubting his sanity.
"Why do you twist everything the wrong way?" she asked wearily.
"You do wrong, and I shouldn't even point it out?" he countered, arms still folded.
"I tried to explain that day, my—"
He raised his hand, cutting her off before she could finish. She swallowed her words.
"Save these stories for someone who doesn't know you. Understood?"
"That's exactly why I'm telling you…" she replied helplessly. He was near, yet miles away.
"No more arguments. I know what to do and what not to do. Now you can leave." He degraded her with ease.
As Hoor left his room, she decided she would leave the matter to her Lord. She had tried. Every time, he only humiliated her.
---
When Emma regained consciousness, she was shocked to find herself in John's room. But seeing her condition, the events of last night came rushing back. She glanced around; she was alone. John wasn't there. Sunlight streamed in through the uncovered window.
She first returned to her own room, freshened up, changed clothes, and was heading toward the kitchen when she saw John and James in the lounge.
James stood with his head bowed before John, his face flushed red, clearly being scolded. Emma instinctively felt sorry for him.
"Get out of my sight immediately!" John ordered harshly, pointing at the door. James disappeared quickly.
Emma watched until he left. But as soon as she straightened, she found John glaring at her with fiery eyes, standing very close.
"Who told you to work there? Do you know what would've happened if I'd been even a little late?" His anger hadn't cooled, even after venting on James.
Emma lowered her head. She knew she owed him—had he not arrived on time, she couldn't even imagine the outcome.
"Since you came into my life, you've been nothing but a curse," he spat.
That snapped her patience.
"I never intended to come into your life. You dragged me here yourself. Now deal with it!" she retorted angrily, turning to leave.
But John grabbed her arm, pulling her to face him.
"What did you just say?" His blue eyes blazed with fury. She glared back. Only she knew how hard it was to steady her heart—with those piercing blue eyes, with the closeness between them, their heartbeats mingling. But today she had decided to stand her ground.
"You heard me. And don't you dare blame me again. Hmph!" She jabbed a finger at him, warning him.
John stared at her in disbelief.
"Your tongue is getting a bit too sharp…" He twisted her finger coldly. Emma winced but, stubborn as ever, locked her brown eyes into his piercing blue ones.
"This is who I am. And you'll just have to bear it."
He studied her eyes. A faint shimmer of moisture lingered there—a sign of her pain. His grip loosened but he didn't release her.
"Whatever you need, tell me. But after today, I don't ever want to see you in such a place again," he warned, raising his finger before turning away.
But Emma's next words stopped him cold.
"I want freedom… from this name tied to me."
John spun back, furious. He grabbed a stick from the fruit basket on the table and thrust it into her hand.
"Here. Kill me. Because as long as I live, that's not happening."
Emma's face drained of color. She threw the stick away. But John picked it up again and pressed it against her neck.
"You want freedom? Say it…" He pressed harder, the stick cutting her skin until drops of blood appeared. The pain was unbearable.
"Say it…" He pressed harder still.
She quickly shook her head in denial, trembling.
John pulled the stick away and slammed it against the wall with such force that Emma covered her ears in terror.
For the first time, she was truly afraid of John. Afraid enough to want to hide somewhere he'd never find her.
His eyes bloodshot, he glared at her one last time and stormed out of the penthouse.
---
To be continue