Chapter 4: The Mask Behind His Eyes
900 Words
Kian Blackwood’s POV
I can still hear the violin.
It was raining that day. Not heavily—just a drizzle soft enough to soak the air in grief.
The altar was set in the garden. White roses. Black velvet. A thousand cameras waiting.
And I stood there like a fool, in a tuxedo tailored to perfection, holding a ring that meant nothing anymore.
“She’s not coming,” Gideon had whispered in my ear, too calm for the storm breaking inside me.
“She will,” I’d muttered. “Verena’s just late.”
But she wasn’t.
She never showed.
Instead, a letter was delivered. A single envelope sealed in crimson wax.
Inside it, no apology. No explanation.
Just a photo.
Verena. Laughing.
Wrapped in the arms of Rafiq Malik.
Zara’s father.
That was the day something inside me snapped.
Not loudly. Not with chaos.
Quietly.
Like a string pulled too tight, breaking where no one could see.
---
Zara Malik’s POV
“You’ve been watching me.”
I turned slowly, holding the file like it might burn through my skin.
Kian stood in the doorway of his office. Unbothered. Arms crossed. Eyes unreadable.
“Why?” My voice came out thinner than I intended.
He walked in slowly. “I needed to understand you.”
“You stalked me.”
“I studied you.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
He stopped in front of me. Close enough that I could see the way his jaw clenched.
“I needed to know how to break you,” he said calmly. “And now, I do.”
Something inside me recoiled. “You’re sick.”
“Maybe. But at least I’m honest about it.”
“Why me?” I stepped forward. “Why not her? Why not Verena?”
His gaze darkened. “Because she ran with your father. Because your family ruined mine.”
“So you take it out on me?”
“You’re the only piece of him I could touch.”
I lifted the photo from the folder—me, twelve years old, drawing on the sidewalk outside school. “This was before I even knew who you were.”
He didn’t respond.
“This was never about debt, was it?” I whispered.
“No.”
I threw the folder across the room. “Then just kill me already. If revenge is what you want, do it. Be done with it.”
He moved faster than I expected.
In a second, he had me pinned against the bookshelf. Not hard. But firm. Unmoving.
Our faces were inches apart. His breath hit my cheek.
“Stop saying things you don’t mean,” he growled.
“I mean every word,” I snapped. “I hate you.”
“I want you to.”
I shoved him off me, hard.
He didn’t fight it.
“I’m not your substitute,” I hissed.
He looked at me with something like regret. “No. You’re worse. You make me forget she existed.”
---
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
I kept thinking about the folder. The photos. The surveillance.
How far back did this go?
I waited until the staff switched shifts at midnight. Then I slipped out.
The Crimson Room.
The one door Kian had warned me never to touch.
I used the code I’d stolen from his notebook last week. He thought I wasn’t paying attention.
He was wrong.
The scanner blinked once. Then twice.
A click.
The door opened.
And the air changed.
It was colder. Metallic. Like the room itself had secrets it wanted to bury.
Inside were red-lit walls lined with shelves and glass cases. Dossiers. Letters. Maps.
One wall had pictures of my family pinned like prey. My mother. My stepmother. Even Elias.
In the center of the room was a pedestal.
A glass cube rested on top.
Inside, it was a piece of parchment.
Etched in blood.
A vow.
I bind my life and legacy to the destruction of House Malik. May my blood boil if I fail.
Signed: Kian Blackwood.
Below it, a second signature.
Gideon Cross.
I turned slowly, heart pounding.
A file caught my eye. Thicker than the rest.
I opened it.
Inside was a crayon drawing.
One I remembered making when I was six. A picture of me and my mom. I’d written “Zara’s World” across the top in big letters.
It had been stolen from my childhood bedroom.
On the cover of the file were the words:
Target: Malik Heiress
I couldn’t breathe.
I dropped the folder.
And then I heard it.
A voice.
Low. Smooth. Almost mocking.
“He didn’t just choose you…”
I spun around.
The shadows near the wall shifted.
“…he hunted you.”
From the darkness stepped a figure.
Tall. Slender. Eyes like Kian’s.
But younger.
Wilder.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” I whispered.
The man smiled.
“I get that a lot.”
I took a shaky step back.
“Emir?”
He bowed slightly.
“At your service.”
“What are you doing here?”
He looked past me at the parchment inside the glass. “Watching history repeat itself.”
I swallowed hard. “Why now? Why show yourself to me?”
He stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper.
“Because you’re the only one who can end him.”
- Writer
