Rain tapped softly against the tall glass windows of the mansion, each drop sliding down the surface like quiet tears. The house was enormous, filled with polished marble floors, long silent corridors, and chandeliers that glowed over empty rooms. Everything was perfect, expensive, and carefully controlled, just like the man who lived there. Zayan stood near the window with his hands in his pockets, staring down at the endless city lights. From this height, the world looked small and manageable. People feared him, and that was how he preferred it. His name alone was enough to silence a room, and his orders were never questioned. At only twenty-six years old, Zayan had built a powerful empire, yet the mansion behind him remained painfully quiet. Lately, the silence did not bring him peace. His thoughts kept returning to one person — Imaan. He closed his eyes briefly, annoyed with himself. He should not think about her, and he certainly should not care. Men like him were not meant to have hearts. Life had taught him that long ago. Zayan never knew his parents. There were no photographs, no stories, and no names, only an empty past and a metal bed in a cold orphanage. The building smelled of damp wood and worn-out clothes, and winters were especially cruel. Blankets were thin and food was never enough, and the other boys quickly realized that he had no one to protect him. They pushed him, mocked him, and reminded him again and again that he was unwanted. Once, when he was only nine years old, an older boy locked him inside a storage room for an entire night. There was no light, no sound except his own breathing, and no one came looking for him. He waited for hours, hoping someone would open the door, but no one did. That night he learned a lesson that shaped the rest of his life — no one was coming to save him. After that, he stopped crying and stopped trusting people. Loneliness became normal, and pain became something he accepted without complaint. When he turned sixteen, he left the orphanage without saying goodbye to anyone and without taking any memories with him. The streets were harsh, but at least they were honest. You either survived or you disappeared, and Zayan chose to survive. He began with small illegal jobs, delivering packages he was not allowed to open and guarding places he was not allowed to leave. He watched, listened, and learned faster than everyone else. Over time, he climbed higher until he no longer followed orders but gave them instead. By the age of twenty-six, he had become one of the most powerful mafia bosses in the city, a man known for being cold, precise, and untouchable. He disliked clubs because they were loud and artificial, but business required appearances, and one night he forced himself to go. Dressed in a black suit, he moved through the crowded room while people stepped aside instinctively. Fear seemed to recognize him even when strangers did not know his name. That was when he saw you, Imaan, sitting alone at a corner table. Your head was slightly lowered, and a glass rested loosely in your hand. You were clearly drunk, yet there was something peaceful about you, something honest and unguarded that did not belong in a place like that. He told himself to ignore you and managed to do so for a few minutes, but his eyes returned to you again and again without permission. Then something unexpected happened — his heart gave a sudden heavy thump. The feeling irritated him because it made no sense. He turned away and tried to focus on the business meeting that had brought him there, discussing numbers and plans, but his thoughts kept drifting back to you. When you tried to stand and nearly lost your balance, he finally gave up the argument with himself and walked toward you. He spoke quietly, telling you that you should not be alone, and you looked up at him with unfocused eyes. Instead of fear, there was only mild curiosity in your expression, and you simply told him that he looked serious. No one had ever spoken to him like that before, as if he were just another ordinary man. When you tried to walk, you stumbled, and he caught you before you fell. Your hand held onto his sleeve for balance, and the small contact felt strangely significant to him. Without thinking further, he took you outside into the cool night air and helped you into his car. He brought you to his mansion and into his private room, placing you carefully on his bed. You fell asleep almost immediately, breathing softly and peacefully, as if you trusted the world to keep you safe. Zayan remained standing beside the bed longer than he intended, watching quietly. You looked smaller in sleep, softer and unguarded, and for the first time in years he felt something unfamiliar — not desire or possession, but a quiet urge to protect. By morning, sunlight filled the room, and you woke in confusion before realizing what had happened. He stayed near the door to give you distance and explained simply that you had been drunk. You thanked him sincerely, without fear or suspicion, and left soon after. When the door closed behind you, the mansion felt emptier than before. Days passed, and Zayan tried to return to his normal routine, but nothing felt the same. He buried himself in work and meetings, convincing himself that you were just a passing distraction, yet he kept returning to the same club night after night, hoping to see you again. Each time the corner table remained empty, and frustration slowly replaced patience. Zayan was not a man who accepted defeat, so eventually he began searching. It did not take long for him to find everything about you — your name, your address, your family, and your struggles. He learned about your sick mother and the endless medical bills, about the quiet sacrifices you made to support her. Instead of pushing you away, the knowledge only drew him closer, because now he understood you. Eventually he went to your house, which was small and simple compared to his mansion. Your father welcomed him nervously, and when Zayan placed his offer on the table, silence filled the room. The amount of money he offered was enough to solve every problem, enough to provide treatment and security for years. Calmly, he explained that in return he wanted to marry you. Your father agreed almost immediately, but you refused without hesitation, your voice steady as you said that you would not marry him. You looked at him directly without fear, and for the first time in years he felt something painful stir inside his chest. Despite your refusal, the wedding still happened because your father chose money and you chose your mother. For you it was a forced marriage, but for him it felt like fate, or perhaps obsession. A month passed after the wedding, and nothing changed between you except the distance. You still hated him, and he knew it. He never forced you to do anything and never touched you, not even once. The mansion was divided into separate wings so that you could live peacefully without feeling trapped. He gave you freedom because he could not bear to see you in pain. Most days he stayed away, yet he saw you often enough — across the long dining table at breakfast, passing through the living room in the evenings, or sitting quietly with a book in your hands. Sometimes you did not look at him at all, and sometimes your eyes met his with quiet resentment. Still, even those brief moments felt precious to him. For a man who had grown up with nothing, simply seeing you every day felt like a victory. He could control the city and command the loyalty of dangerous men, but he could not control the way his heart reacted whenever you walked into the room, and perhaps for the first time in his life, that was something he did not want to change.