Cyrus turned on his heel, his shadow stretching long and jagged across the hallway as he headed for the stairs. Inside him, tension flared like an uncontrolled inferno, a dry, searing heat that burned behind his eyelids. Every pulse in his temples felt like a hammer strike. He threw open the door to his room, the wood slamming against the wall, and yanked a small plastic bottle from the nightstand drawer. He didn't need a doctor to tell him his blood pressure was skyrocketing; he could feel the feverish vibration in his very bones.
Suddenly, his phone shrieked on the bedspread. Seeing Masoud's name flash on the screen, he pressed the device to his ear, his breathing ragged.
"Sir, the party is still going on," Masoud reported, his voice hushed against the background noise of distant music. "A few more men just went inside. Give the word, and I'll call the boys to raid the place. We can end this tonight."
"Come back home," Cyrus cut him off, his voice dropping into a cold, weary abyss. "Let her do whatever the hell she wants. It doesn't matter anymore."
He hung up without a word of goodbye and tossed the phone onto the silk duvet. Leaning back against the headboard, he braced his weight on his trembling arms and tilted his head up to stare at the ornate ceiling.
Everything was spiraling out of control—everything. From Atousa's disappearance to the crumbling walls of the HealCo empire. But deeper than the corporate ruin was a more personal dread. He knew all too well that if Sophia returned, the air in this house would become unbreathable.
As Sophia's image flashed in his mind, his eyes drifted shut. His little sister—only eighteen when they sent her away—was now being dragged back for her own husband's funeral. It was pathetic... a sick, twisted joke of fate.
The same Sophia who had shattered the bond of brotherhood with a single look...
Dear Sophia! Precious Sophia!
Sophia the Enchantress... Sophia the Witch... Sophia the Devil!
***
11:00 AM | The Witch
My suitcase is gripped tight in my hand, yet I remain frozen beside the cold metal of the airport seating. My gaze is fixed strangely on the exit gates, watching the blurred figures of happy families reuniting. I have no desire—none at all—to step foot outside this terminal.
I know exactly when the next flight is. I could sit here until I rot into the upholstery, or perhaps hide in one of the cramped restrooms until nightfall, then take the next flight back to the sanctuary of my exile.
But if I actually went back, what lie would I tell? "Hello to my dear family, and to my brothers and sisters who are dearer to me than life itself! I missed the smell of your betrayal so much that I couldn't stay away."
I adjusted my pink top, smoothing the vibrant fabric with a hand that wouldn't stop trembling. It was a beautiful color—the color of life. If Mother saw me in these bright, defiant clothes, wouldn't she just drop dead on the spot? A widow wearing anything other than the shroud of mourning... what a delicious scandal that would be.
I tore my eyes away from the exit gates and turned toward the sign for the ladies' room. Dragging my heavy suitcase behind me, the wheels clicking rhythmically against the marble, I pushed the door open. It was deserted, smelling faintly of bleach and cheap rosewater.
I half-unzipped the bag to pull out the armor I had meticulously ironed beforehand. I stripped off the pink top and the white blazer, stuffing the remnants of my happiness into the dark corners of the suitcase. In their place, I pulled on a black blazer, the fabric heavy and restrictive. I swapped my blue jeans for a long, pleated black skirt that reached my ankles. Finally, I kicked off my sneakers, tucking them into a bag like a buried secret, and stepped into a pair of black high heels.
Once I closed the suitcase, I let my hair fall loose and free, a dark curtain around my pale face. I made sure every inch of my outfit was as obsidian as the occasion demanded.
I pulled out a tissue and stared at my reflection in the spotted mirror. The last time I had left this city, I stood before this very same mirror, gazing at eyes that were bloodshot and swollen from weeks of weeping.
I pressed the tissue against my lips, wiping away the vibrant lipstick until only a faint, ghostly pink smudge remained. As I was cleaning the edges of my mouth, my gaze suddenly fell upon the heavy gold band on my finger.
A widow. I was a widow now.
I couldn't hide the smile that tugged at the corners of my mouth. The mirror saw it, but it didn't scowl at me. On the contrary, it reflected my grin back at me—perhaps it remembered how I stood here seven years ago, sobbing my heart out as I was forced to leave.
I yanked the ring off my finger, the metal feeling suddenly light. I hadn't wished for his death—I wasn't that cruel—but his sudden passing felt like nothing short of a miracle.
When Mother called, her voice trembling with the weight of the news, I hadn't believed it. I thought to myself: Could it be? Could this perpetually unlucky girl have actually struck gold for once?
I didn't truly believe it until the digital ticket arrived in my inbox. When I saw that ticket, I finally had faith. I felt I should bow down in gratitude for this miracle—the agonizing, wonderful death of my "dear" husband! The mere fact that they had sent for me was the ultimate miracle; the news of his death was just a bonus.
I tossed the stained tissue into the trash. For a second, I was tempted to throw the ring in there too, to let it rot with the paper towels. But then I remembered the theater of the funeral. I slid the gold band back onto my finger. I just had to endure it for a little longer; the moment the body was in the dirt, I would never wear this shackle again.
I stepped out of the restroom, the clicking of my heels echoing like a countdown. Once again, my gaze drifted to the exit gates. I had to do this. At most, it would be a week. I'd stay for seven days, attend the funeral, shed ten rounds of crocodile tears, beat my chest for show, and faint at least thrice for the cameras... Then, I'd fly back to Oman. Done and dusted.
I quickened my pace toward the exit. The sun was beating down with a blinding intensity, so I slid my dark sunglasses on, masking my eyes. I scanned the crowd, but saw no familiar faces. This "overwhelmingly warm" welcome was exactly what I expected from the Zarrin family. Heartbreaking, truly.
"Ms. Zarrin?" a stranger's voice caught my attention from behind.
I spun around quickly. He was young, tall, with a permanent scowl etched onto his face as if it had been carved there by a blunt knife. Looking past him, my eyes landed on a black van and an older man standing beside it. Novan...
My gaze shifted back to the scowling young man. I gave a sharp, regal nod.
"Ms. Sophia Zarrin?" he asked again, just to be certain.
I gave another firm nod. His scowl softened by a fraction of a millimeter as he reached for the handle of my suitcase.
"This way, Ms. Zarrin... the car is over there," he said.
He walked beside me with measured, robotic steps, his eyes constantly scanning the terminal with sharp precision. Novan opened the door for me, a faint, gentle smile touching his weathered face. I slid into the leather back seat without a word. While the young man was busy loading my suitcase into the trunk, Novan climbed into the front. His arm was in a sling, white and jarring against his suit.
I caught his gaze in the rearview mirror. "You've gone gray, Novan," I said immediately.
Deep wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes as he turned toward me. He studied my face for a long, silent moment before his smile widened, revealing his teeth.
"How you've grown, little miss!" he whispered.
I couldn't help but let a small, genuine smile slip. "And you've grown quite old."
The driver's door swung open, and the young man took his seat behind the wheel. For a split second, our eyes locked in the rearview mirror. I didn't look away; I let my gaze linger, cold and unyielding, until he was the one to shift. Novan turned toward the young man and chuckled, a dry, gravelly sound.
"You'd better learn to say 'Yes, Ma'am' to whatever she says right from the start, boy!" Novan joked.
The boy leaned back slightly, a look of genuine surprise crossing his face. This time, I addressed him directly.
"You're new? What's your name?" I asked.
He turned fully toward me, his posture stiff. "Yes, Ma'am. I am Raad."
Novan gave a pointed, forced cough. "Just the first name, son?"
The boy seemed slightly flustered, his ears reddening. "Arad... Arad Raad."
"Arad! Who do you work for?" I pressed, leaning forward.
The boy fell silent for a moment, casting a hesitant, uncertain glance at Novan. Novan just nodded, his smile never wavering.
"Regardless of who you work for, you'd better be ready to follow every order the Little Miss gives you, boy," Novan said.
Arad gave a small, quiet smile, which made me arch an eyebrow in challenge. "Novan... set Mr. Arad straight. He seems to think this is a democracy."
Novan burst into a fit of laughter. "First, whatever the Miss says, you say 'Yes, Ma'am.' Second, you'll be her eyes and ears in that house. Third, you keep your mouth shut—whatever you see or hear, you bury it deep in the garden. And fourth..."
I was the one who finished the sentence. "And fourth, once again, whatever I say, you say 'Yes, Ma'am.' Novan, why don't you explain the consequences of disobedience to the young man as well? I'd hate for there to be any... accidents."