Orphan. Poor. Helpless.

Sherhzaad's heart skipped a beat as the feeling of being watched intensified. Her footsteps faltered, and she stopped mid-stride, frozen in place. The peaceful night, the soft rustling of the leaves, and the gentle breeze all seemed to fade away, swallowed by the cold rush of fear that gripped her chest. She didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The presence was too familiar, too overwhelming.

A shadow loomed behind her, silent but unmistakable. 

"Looking for something, Sherhzaad?" came a voice, smooth and dark, filled with an unnerving calmness. 

Shehryar's voice. Of course. He was always like this—moving unseen, controlling every space around him with such ease, such dominance. She hadn’t even heard him approach, but she knew he had been following her, watching her, as if he were playing a game—his game, one that had no rules. 

It was just about him. And his eyes. That she knew whenever those grey