It was just another workday—until it wasn't.
Zoha had gone out during lunch to pick up some office supplies. The day was cloudy, the air heavy with heat, and the streets buzzed with noise. She didn't notice the black car trailing her from the bookstore to the parking lot.
But someone else did.
Back at the office, Zafar was reviewing documents when one of his security staff walked in, tense.
"Sir," he said quickly, "we tracked an unfamiliar vehicle following Miss Zoha. One of our cars is keeping an eye, but she's alone."
Zafar froze.
He didn't ask why. He didn't ask who. His heart had already leapt to his throat.
"Where is she now?" he snapped.
"Still outside the stationery store—she's walking to her car."
Zafar didn't wait.
Ten minutes later, Zoha's heart was pounding. She'd noticed the man. Tall, wearing a hood. He wasn't moving, just standing near the parked cars, watching her.
Her phone had no signal. She gripped her bag tightly and tried to stay calm.
She didn't have to wait long.
A sleek black car pulled up so fast it screeched against the road. The back door flew open.
"Get in!" came Zafar's voice—sharp, deep, commanding.
Zoha didn't hesitate. She jumped inside, and the car sped off, tires burning.
Her breathing was heavy, hands shaking. Zafar didn't speak at first. He was gripping the seat in front of him, veins bulging in his arms, jaw clenched tight.
She'd never seen him like this.
"Are you okay?" he finally asked, his voice low but raw.
"Yes," she whispered. "I think so…"
He turned to her then, and in his eyes, there was fire. Not anger. Not frustration.
Fear.
Pure fear.
"Don't ever go alone again," he growled. "You have no idea how many enemies I have. You think they won't use you to get to me?"
Her eyes widened. "But why would they—"
"Because you're mine!" he shouted.
The car went silent.
Zafar looked away instantly, breathing hard.
"I mean… you work for me. You're under my protection. That's all," he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
But it was too late.
The words were out.
You're mine.
And Zoha felt it. Felt the truth buried in his panic. In his anger. In the way he'd come for her, without hesitation.
That evening, he dropped her at her apartment personally.
He didn't say much. Just walked her to the door, made sure it locked behind her, and stood outside for a moment too long.
She opened the window and looked down.
He was still there—arms crossed, watching the building.
Protecting.
Caring.
Falling—against his will.