His Favorite Lie
1318 Words
The next morning, the world pretended to be normal.
The sun filtered through the curtains as if it hadn't watched her break apart hours ago. The air smelled of roses and polished wood. Somewhere in the distance, someone was playing a soft instrumental piece—classical, elegant, haunting.
Isha sat at the edge of her bed, staring at the gold necklace in her palm.
The key.
The one that unlocked her mother’s prison.
She didn’t wear it anymore. But she didn’t throw it away either.
Because Zayan would notice.
And right now, she needed him to believe something she had never felt:
> That she was surrendering.
Not truly.
Not forever.
But just enough to make him let his guard down.
Because if there was one thing she’d learned about Zayan Malik, it was this—
> Control was his drug.
Obedience was his high.
And a lie, if whispered sweetly, was more addicting to him than any truth.
So that morning, she got dressed.
She wore soft silk.
She left the room without being summoned.
And she walked into his kingdom like a girl made of grace, not resistance.
---
He was waiting in the dining room.
Alone, as always.
Black suit. No tie. A silver watch gleaming on his wrist. There was a quiet elegance in the way he held his coffee—left hand, two fingers resting lightly on the rim of the porcelain cup.
A man born of power.
A man raised on silence.
A man who didn’t flinch when she walked in without permission.
But he noticed.
She knew he did.
“You’re early,” he said.
She met his eyes. “You wanted obedience.”
He raised one brow. “I never used that word.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Zayan set his cup down.
“You slept?”
“No.”
“Why?”
She sat across from him. Calm. Composed.
“Because I was learning how to stop being prey.”
He studied her for a long, quiet moment.
And for the first time, something flickered in his eyes—an emotion he didn’t know how to hide fast enough.
> Surprise.
He wasn’t used to her talking like that.
Not without breaking.
Not without crying.
Not without shaking in a corner and begging for space he’d never offer.
“You’re different today,” he said softly.
“No,” she replied. “I’m just done pretending.”
He leaned forward, voice velveted with curiosity. “Pretending what?”
She smiled.
A lie dressed in silk.
> “That I hate you.”
Zayan didn’t breathe.
Didn’t blink.
And in that stillness, she felt it:
The shift.
He wanted to believe it.
More than anything.
Because Zayan’s favorite lie…
was being wanted.
Not for his power.
Not for his name.
Not for his wealth.
But for the monster he kept hidden beneath all three.
---
Later, he took her to the west wing.
The forbidden one.
This time, he opened the doors himself.
Inside: a private gallery.
Photos. Paintings. Newspaper clippings.
Everything about her mother.
Amara Singhania.
“I kept it,” he said, walking beside her. “Because no one else did.”
The walls were lined with her mother’s face. Smiling. Laughing. Speaking at charity events. Caught in rare candid moments with Zayan’s father.
“I don’t understand,” Isha whispered.
“You will.”
He handed her an envelope.
Thick. Sealed.
Not addressed.
“Inside is the last letter your mother ever wrote.”
Isha took it slowly, her fingers shaking despite everything she’d trained herself to feel.
“She left it for you,” Zayan said. “But it never reached you. I kept it. To protect you.”
She looked up. “Or to keep control.”
He smiled faintly.
> “Same thing, isn’t it?”
---
That night, she didn’t open the letter.
Not yet.
Not while her hands still smelled like his cologne.
Not while her thoughts still echoed with his voice.
Not while her heart was beating out a rhythm she didn’t want to recognize.
She sat on her bed, staring at the envelope like it might burn her.
And whispered aloud, to no one but herself—
> “I will survive you, Zayan Malik.
But first… I’ll make you love the girl who learns to destroy you.”
She said it like a vow.
Not loud.
Not brave.
But certain.
The kind of quiet certainty that survives storms—not because it’s stronger, but because it waits.
Isha didn’t sleep that night either.
But she didn’t cry.
She didn’t panic.
She traced the edges of the envelope with her fingertips. She almost opened it. Twice.
But something in her gut told her not yet.
Not until she knew the price of its truth.
Instead, she pulled out a notepad and pen from the drawer beside her bed. Started writing in the dark. Slowly. Carefully.
> What he wants.
Control. Silence. Worship.
What he fears.
Disobedience. Memory. My mother.
What he doesn't understand.
That fear and love don’t live in the same room forever.
She drew a line under the last sentence. Tapped the pen against her lip.
Then wrote:
> Use the lie. Play the part. But don’t forget the door.
Because she was starting to see it now.
This wasn’t a romance.
It was a maze.
And Zayan thought he was the only one who knew the way out.
---
The next morning, she wore the necklace again.
Not because she trusted him.
But because the only thing more dangerous than truth… was familiar comfort.
She found him in the east garden, seated under the arch of white jasmine, watching koi glide through a marble fountain.
He didn’t speak when she arrived.
He just looked at her.
At the chain around her throat.
At the silk she wore.
At the softness in her walk that wasn’t weakness anymore—
It was a trap.
“You’re early,” he said again.
“I like silence,” she replied. “It reminds me who I am when no one’s watching.”
He turned toward her slowly.
“I always watch.”
“I know.”
She sat beside him.
Not across from him.
Beside.
The way a lover might.
The way someone obedient might.
But her hands were folded too neatly. Her spine too straight. Her breath too steady.
She was playing the part.
And he was starting to suspect it.
“Say it again,” he said, eyes fixed on the water.
“Say what?”
“That you don’t hate me.”
She tilted her head, met his gaze, and lied like a prayer.
> “I want to stay.”
Zayan exhaled slowly, like her words had fed something starving inside him.
“Then don’t make me hurt you again.”
Her throat tightened.
“You wouldn’t,” she said.
But he smiled.
The kind of smile that knew exactly how much pain he was capable of.
Then he leaned closer, his hand brushing her cheek.
“You’re the only soft thing I’ve never broken, Isha.”
She didn’t flinch.
“You will,” she whispered. “If you try to own me too long.”
He paused.
For a moment, the air was still.
Then he stood.
“You’re not ready to read that letter yet,” he said. “But when you are, you’ll stop pretending to fight me.”
He started to walk away.
She called after him.
“What happened to her?” Her voice shook now. “To my mother?”
Zayan froze.
Didn’t turn.
Didn’t breathe.
But his voice reached her like smoke.
> “She found out the truth.”
> “What truth?”
He glanced back at her.
And said—
> “That I wasn’t the worst monster in this house.”
Then he left.
- Writer
