Zoya didn't sleep.
She lay on the unfamiliar bed, eyes open, staring at the damaged wall like the plaster could explain how a man could change in one night.
The room was neat. Too neat. Smooth sheets. Pillows aligned. Cold air that didn't belong to anyone. It felt like a space designed for visitors, not people who were bleeding quietly.
Nothing out of place.
Nothing hers.
When she closed her eyes, it wasn't even the moment he left that hit first.
It was the before.
It was the version of him that had looked at her like the world had narrowed down to one person, and it was her.
It had been his idea to go. The party. The masks. The whole public theatre of it.
He'd said it like it was simple. Like it was safe.
Come with me.
And she had agreed because it was him.
Because somewhere along the way, she'd started believing that when he chose something, he meant it.
He'd chosen the dress too.
She'd told herself she didn't care. That she wasn't that kind of woman.
Then she wore it anyway, because the truth was uglier and softer at the same time.
She wanted his attention.
Not attention in the way people stared.
His.
She remembered standing in front of the mirror before they left, adjusting the strap and telling herself she was being ridiculous, that she didn't need validation, that she wasn't a girl waiting to be seen.
Then he'd walked in.
And his gaze had hit her like a physical thing.
Not admiration. Not polite approval.
Something quieter. Possessive without touching. Like his restraint had limits and she was standing right at the borderline.
At the party, they'd danced.
Not the kind of dance where you smile for other people.
The kind where the room fades because two bodies find the same rhythm and refuse to share it.
His hand at her waist had been steady, confident. His breath near her neck, warm and controlled, as if he'd forgotten anyone else existed. His eyes on hers—deep, dark, focused—like she had access to parts of him nobody else got to reach.
That had been the dangerous part.
Because she'd felt it. The boundary shift.
Not lust. Not performance.
Something that looked a lot like love trying to grow in the worst possible soil.
And then—overnight—he'd turned into someone else.
Not loud. Not cruel in obvious ways.
Worse.
He'd turned sharp.
Words that weren't meant to be taken back. A tone that treated her like a problem to solve. A suspicion that didn't ask, didn't check, didn't care how it landed.
He'd made her feel like trust between them had been optional.
Like she'd imagined the closeness.
Like the dance had been nothing but a moment he could erase.
Zoya stared at the ceiling until her eyes burned.
Her throat did that tight thing it did when she refused to cry.
And still—her body betrayed her.
One tear slipped out. Silent. Hot.
It rolled down the side of her face before she could stop it.
Zoya sat up so fast the sheets shifted.
She wiped it immediately with the heel of her hand, rougher than necessary, like she'd caught herself breaking a rule.
No tears.
Not here.
Not for him.
Not in a room that wasn't hers.
She swung her legs off the bed and stood, steadying herself with nothing but stubbornness. Her reflection in the bathroom mirror looked the same. That almost made her laugh.
Same face. Same eyes.
Except her neck carried traces of the night.
She was not the same.
She washed her face with cold water, brushed her teeth, tied her hair back loosely.
If she looked composed, maybe the world would believe she was.
She dressed in pastel clothes. Soft. Practical. The kind of outfit that didn't hold memories. The kind that let you leave without being remembered.
Then she packed.
Folded everything carefully, not because she cared about wrinkles, but because order was something she could still control.
Her hands paused once, mid-fold.
A tremor threatened. Small. Quick.
She pretended she didn't notice it.
She exhaled slowly and kept going.
When she finished, the room looked untouched.
Temporary.
That was the word that fit everything right now.
She went to the kitchen.
Morning light filtered through the window, pale and gentle, trying to make the house look ordinary.
Zoya filled the kettle without thinking.
Mug. Spoon. Coffee.
Habit grabbed her before pride could stop it.
She made it the way Raiyan liked it.
Measured. Clean. Familiar.
She didn't know why she did it. She hated herself for the softness of it. The muscle memory.
Only when she set the mug on the counter did her chest tighten.
She aligned it with the edge. Turned the handle outward.
A tiny, unnecessary detail.
Something domestic. Intimate.
A quiet offering she didn't want to admit was an offering.
Her eyes stung again.
She blinked. Hard.
No tears.
Not because she didn't feel it.
Because she refused to let the house watch her break.
Zoya stepped back from the mug.
She didn't drink it.
She didn't change her mind.
Some habits weren't meant to survive endings.
She picked up her bag and moved through the hallway.
As she passed the bedroom, her gaze drifted inside.
The gown lay folded on the bed.
Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag.
That dress hadn't been random.
It had arrived two weeks after their marriage.
No note. No explanation. Just the box, placed like it belonged in his home.
He hadn't asked if she liked it.
But he'd noticed when she wore it.
That had been the point.
And the worse truth?
She had liked that he noticed.
Zoya crossed the room and lifted the dress carefully.
The seam was torn now—split where it hadn't been meant to give.
The fabric felt different in her hands today. Not romantic. Not soft.
Evidence.
She folded it once. Then again.
Her hands stayed steady.
Her chest didn't.
She placed it in her bag, separating it from the rest of her clothes like she was separating a version of herself from the woman she had to be now.
At the front door, she put her shoes on slowly.
Not because she was hesitating.
Because moving too fast would crack her open, and she didn't have time for that.
She glanced once toward the quiet living room.
Not looking for him.
She didn't need to.
If he wanted her, he would be here.
He wasn't.
Zoya opened the door and stepped outside.
Cold air hit her face, clean and sharp.
She pulled the door closed softly behind her—careful not to let it slam.
And just like that, she was gone.
She made it to the car before her breath finally caught.
Her hands hovered over the keys for a second too long.
Not because she wanted to turn back.
Because a part of her—quiet, humiliating—still waited for footsteps behind her.
For his voice saying her name like it mattered.
Nothing.
Zoya slid into the driver's seat and shut the door.
The silence inside the car was different.
Smaller. Safer.
She started the engine.
Her phone lit up on the passenger seat.
Unknown number.
Zoya's stomach tightened, not with fear exactly—more like recognition. Like her body knew this shape of danger even if her mind didn't have the words yet.
She opened it.
One line.
Faiyaz is looking for you. Stay alert.
Zoya stared at the screen.
Her grip tightened around the steering wheel until her knuckles went pale.
She didn't reply.
She didn't delete it.
She set the phone face-down like it could burn through the seat.
And drove—steady, controlled—because she wasn't going to give anyone the satisfaction of playing with her.