My Ice Cold Prince Charming

CHAPTER EIGHT

Anaya's POV

I barely slept.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face.

The cold intensity in his gaze.

The way he had looked at me in his study as if he could peel apart every thought I tried so desperately to hide.

And then his final words.

Pray Fajr in the east prayer room tomorrow.

Even now, lying awake in the darkness of my room, I could not understand them.

The east prayer room was not for staff.

Everyone in the house knew that.

It was reserved for the family.

For private use.

For people who belonged.

And I belonged nowhere in this house.

So why would he tell me to go there?

What game was he playing now?

I turned onto my side and stared at the faint moonlight spilling through my curtains.

My heart felt restless.

Confused.

A small part of me considered ignoring his order.

But that thought vanished almost immediately.

Disobeying him was not an option.

Not when I had already seen what he was capable of.

Not when I still remembered the darkness of The Room.

The chains.

The rats.

The suffocating terror.

I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.

No.

I would go.

And whatever waited for me there, I would face it.

When the adhan alarm on my phone finally sounded softly, I rose immediately.

The mansion was silent.

Still wrapped in the peaceful darkness that always came before Fajr.

I moved quietly to perform wudu.

The cool water against my skin calmed me.

Steadied me.

As I washed my face, I whispered softly,

“Ya Allah, guide me through what I do not understand.”

The words felt heavier tonight.

More desperate.

After drying myself, I carefully adjusted my hijab and stepped out of my room.

The hallway was empty.

My footsteps were almost soundless as I made my way toward the east wing.

The further I walked, the stronger my unease became.

This part of the mansion always felt different.

Quieter.

Almost sacred.

At the very end of the corridor stood a pair of carved wooden doors.

The east prayer room.

For a moment, I simply stared at them.

My heart thudded loudly in my chest.

Then slowly, I reached out and pushed them open.

The breath left my lungs.

It was beautiful.

Not in the extravagant, cold way the rest of the mansion was beautiful.

This was different.

Warm.

Peaceful.

Sacred.

Soft golden lanterns glowed from the walls, casting gentle light across the room.

White prayer rugs covered the floor, their edges lined perfectly.

Elegant Arabic calligraphy adorned the walls, verses from the Qur’an flowing gracefully in gold.

The faint scent of oud lingered in the air.

Rows of carefully arranged Qur’ans rested on polished wooden shelves.

Everything about the room radiated tranquility.

For a moment, all I could do was stare.

This place felt untouched by the cruelty that ruled the rest of the house.

It felt… pure.

Then my eyes landed on something at the far end of the room.

A framed photograph.

My steps slowed as I moved closer.

It was a woman.

Beautiful.

Graceful.

Her expression soft and kind.

She wore a modest hijab and smiled gently at the camera.

Beneath the frame, engraved in elegant script, were the words:

Hajiyah Maryam Al-Zubair

Beloved Mother

My brows furrowed.

His mother.

This had been her prayer room.

The realization sent a strange chill through me.

Why would he bring me here?

Why this room?

Why now?

Before I could think further—

I heard movement behind me.

I turned sharply.

And froze.

He was already there.

Zayaan.

Standing at the entrance.

Dressed in a simple white jalabiya.

His dark hair still slightly damp, likely from wudu.

No expensive suit.

No commanding black shirt.

No intimidating aura sharpened by polished shoes and tailored perfection.

Just him.

Simple.

Quiet.

Almost unrecognizable.

For one suspended moment, neither of us moved.

Then, without a word, he walked past me.

Calmly.

And took his place on the prayer rug.

My breath caught.

He was really here.

To pray.

To stand before Allah.

To bow.

To submit.

The thought unsettled me so deeply that I could barely process it.

How?

How could a man who chained people in dark rooms stand before Allah with such stillness?

How could a man whose words cut deeper than blades lower himself in sujood?

How could someone so cruel bow before the Most Merciful?

I had always thought of him as untouchable.

A man too proud to bend for anyone.

Yet here he was.

Preparing to bow before Allah.

The contradiction shook me.

If he could soften himself before his Creator…

why was there nothing but ice for everyone else?

The question settled heavily in my chest.

Still confused, I quietly moved to another prayer rug.

And when prayer began, I followed.

But my focus was fractured.

Again and again, my mind drifted toward him.

Toward the sound of his calm recitation.

Toward the sight of him in sujood.

His movements were precise.

Measured.

There was no hesitation in them.

No carelessness.

He prayed like someone who had done so his whole life.

Like someone who understood exactly before whom he stood.

And somehow, that disturbed me more than anything else.

Because it forced one painful question into my mind:

If he knows Allah… why does he act like this?

When we finished, I remained seated for a moment, whispering my adhkar softly.

SubhanAllah.

Alhamdulillah.

Allahu Akbar.

The familiar words grounded me.

Steadied my racing thoughts.

When I finally lifted my gaze, he was still seated.

Silent.

His expression unreadable.

Then unexpectedly—

he spoke.

“Did you know your mother?”

The question startled me.

I turned toward him fully.

“What?”

His gaze remained fixed ahead.

“Your mother.”

His voice was calm.

“Did you know her?”

My throat tightened.

Of all the questions I had expected from him, that was not one of them.

Slowly, I shook my head.

“No.”

Silence stretched between us.

Then he asked quietly,

“Did you ever resent her for leaving?”

The question hit somewhere deep inside me.

I looked down at my hands.

I had been asked many things in my life.

Pitied.

Whispered about.

But no one had ever asked me that.

I thought carefully before answering.

“No.”

My voice came out soft but certain.

“She returned to Allah because that was where she belonged.”

I swallowed.

“My pain does not give me the right to question His decision.”

The room fell still.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then I felt his gaze shift toward me.

Sharp.

Searching.

When I finally looked up, his expression had changed.

Not softened.

Just… altered.

As if my answer had unsettled him.

“You accept loss too easily,” he said.

I frowned.

“No.”

I met his gaze.

“I accept what Allah has written.”

Something flickered in his eyes.

Brief.

Unreadable.

Then he stood abruptly.

The moment was gone.

Coldness returned to his posture.

To his expression.

To the air itself.

“Go Do your chores”

And just like that, he walked out.

Leaving me kneeling there, more confused than ever.

---

The rest of the morning passed in uneasy silence.

But something had changed.

I could feel it.

His gaze lingered longer whenever he looked at me.

As though he was trying to solve a puzzle he did not understand.

And unfortunately—

someone else noticed too.

Samira.

At breakfast, she watched him watching me.

Her expression darkening each time.

By afternoon, I was helping Ana in the kitchen when raised voices drifted through the hallway.

I glanced toward the partially open door.

And saw them.

Samira.

And Stella.

Standing unusually close.

Whispering.

Stella’s expression was venomous.

Samira’s lips curved into a calculating smile.

I could not hear everything.

Only fragments.

“…too comfortable…”

“…needs to be reminded…”

“…tonight…”

A chill crawled down my spine.

The moment Samira noticed me watching, her smile widened.

Cold.

Knowing.

And Stella shot me a glare so full of hatred that my stomach tightened.

They were planning something.

Together.

I didn’t know what.

But I knew one thing with certainty.

Whatever it was—

it would not be small.

As I turned back toward the kitchen counter, my fingers tightened around the edge.

For the first time since entering this house, I no longer feared only him.

Now there were two demons watching me.

And somehow…

that frightened me even more.

---

That night, as I spread my prayer mat in my room and raised my hands for Isha prayer, one question refused to leave my heart.

How can a man who bows before Allah still carry so much darkness?

And why—

why did it feel like the answer would destroy everything I thought I understood?

___

The rest of the day passed beneath a cloud of unease.

No matter how hard I tried to focus on my duties, my thoughts kept drifting back to the prayer room.

To him.

To the image of Zayaan standing before Allah with his forehead pressed against the prayer rug.

It felt wrong.

Impossible.

Like watching darkness bow before light.

Again and again, the same question echoed through my mind.

How can a man who fears Allah still be capable of so much cruelty?

Was it all an act?

Did he pray because of routine rather than faith?

Or was there something about him I simply could not understand?

Every time I replayed the memory of his quiet recitation, my confusion deepened.

There had been sincerity there.

I was sure of it.

And that unsettled me more than anything else.

Because if his prayer was sincere…

then what explained the demon he became outside that room?

I was still lost in thought while arranging fresh fruit in the kitchen when Ana suddenly nudged my shoulder.

“Careful.”

I blinked.

I had nearly dropped the tray.

Ana studied my face.

“You’ve been distracted all day.”

I forced a small smile.

“I’m fine.”

Her brows lifted.

“You’re a poor liar.”

Before I could respond, Stella entered.

And immediately, the temperature of the room shifted.

She looked different since her punishment.

Quieter.

More controlled.

But the venom in her eyes had only deepened.

Her gaze swept over me before she spoke.

“Samira requests tea in the west lounge.”

Her tone was sharp.

“And she specifically asked for you to bring it.”

A knot formed in my stomach.

Of course she did.

Ana frowned immediately.

“I’ll send one of the junior maids.”

Stella’s lips curved coldly.

“She asked for Anaya.”

Her emphasis made my skin prickle.

This was deliberate.

I could feel it.

Ana’s eyes met mine briefly.

A silent warning.

But refusing was not an option.

Quietly, I prepared the tea tray.

As I lifted it, I noticed Stella’s expression.

The satisfaction there was impossible to miss.

Whatever they had planned…

it was beginning now.

---

The west lounge was one of the grandest rooms in the mansion.

Large floor-to-ceiling windows lined one wall, allowing the late afternoon sun to spill across polished marble floors.

Samira sat elegantly on the cream velvet sofa, flipping lazily through a magazine.

She looked up the moment I entered.

And smiled.

The kind of smile that never reached her eyes.

“Finally.”

I placed the tray carefully on the table.

“Your tea.”

Instead of reaching for it, she leaned back and crossed her legs.

“Pour it.”

I obeyed.

Slowly, carefully filling the delicate porcelain cup.

As I handed it to her, she tilted her wrist suddenly.

The cup tipped.

Scalding tea splashed directly onto my hands.

Pain shot through my skin instantly.

I gasped.

The cup shattered against the floor.

Hot liquid soaked the front of my dress.

The sting was immediate and brutal.

But worse than the pain was the sound that followed.

Samira’s sharp scream.

“You incompetent fool!”

I froze.

My burned hands trembled.

She rose dramatically.

Her voice echoing through the lounge.

“How dare you!”

Within seconds, footsteps filled the hallway.

Maids rushed in.

Stella among them.

Her eyes widened with fake horror.

“What happened?”

Samira pointed at me furiously.

“She threw boiling tea at me!”

My breath caught.

What?

“No—”

“Enough!”

Stella snapped.

She turned to the others.

“Look what she’s done!”

I stared in disbelief.

The tea had barely touched Samira.

Most of it had spilled over me.

Yet they were all staring as though I had committed some unforgivable crime.

“This is a lie,” I whispered.

Samira scoffed.

“Are you calling me a liar?”

I clenched my burned fingers painfully.

“Yes.”

The room went still.

Her expression darkened.

Before she could speak, Stella stepped forward.

And slapped me.

The force of it sent my head snapping to the side.

For a moment, everything blurred.

Shock rooted me in place.

The room fell deathly silent.

Slowly, I lifted my head.

My cheek burned.

My hands shook.

But my eyes met Stella’s steadily.

No tears.

No trembling.

No collapse.

And that seemed to enrage her even more.

“How dare you disrespect Miss Samira—”

“Enough.”

The cold voice cut through the room instantly.

Every person froze.

My breath caught.

He was standing in the doorway.

Zayaan.

His dark gaze swept across the room.

Taking everything in.

The shattered cup.

The tea-stained floor.

The redness blooming across my cheek.

His expression remained unreadable.

But something in the room shifted.

Even Samira straightened nervously.

“What happened?”

His voice was calm.

Too calm.

Samira moved first.

“She attacked me.”

I held my breath.

Stella quickly nodded.

“She lost control, Master.”

For a long moment, he said nothing.

His eyes moved to my hands.

The angry red burns already beginning to rise.

Then to my cheek.

Then back to Samira.

The silence stretched.

Sharp.

Uncomfortable.

And then—

“Leave.”

Samira blinked.

“Zayaan—”

“I said leave.”

The edge in his voice made everyone flinch.

Samira’s face paled.

Without another word, she turned and walked out.

Stella followed quickly.

The other maids scattered.

Until only the two of us remained.

He looked at me for a long moment.

Then his gaze dropped to my trembling hands.

“Go treat that.”

That was all he said.

No anger.

No accusation.

Nothing.

Then he turned and left.

And somehow, that unsettled me more than punishment would have.

---

Later that night, after praying Isha and applying ointment to my burns, sleep refused to come.

My thoughts churned restlessly.

The prayer room.

His strange questions.

Samira’s cruelty.

His reaction.

Nothing made sense.

Needing air, I stepped quietly into the hallway.

The mansion was silent.

Most of the staff had long since retired.

I walked slowly, hoping the stillness would calm my mind.

Then—

voices.

Low.

Sharp.

Coming from his study.

I froze.

The door was slightly open.

I shouldn’t have stopped.

I knew that.

But something rooted me to the spot.

And then I heard his voice.

Cold.

Controlled.

“I told you this arrangement was temporary.”

A pause.

Another voice answered, Sounded like he was on the phone.

A man.

Deep and Surprised.

I couldn’t make out every word.

Only fragments.

“…your grandfather…”

“…commitment…”

“…the girl…”

Then Zayaan spoke again.

And every muscle in my body went rigid.

“I married her because I had no choice.”

The words hit like a blade.

My breath caught painfully.

Silence followed.

Then his voice came again.

Lower this time.

Sharper.

More dangerous.

“But she’s becoming a problem.”

The world around me seemed to stop.

My chest tightened violently.

Problem?

What did he mean?

Had I ruined some plan?

Was he regretting letting me stay?

Did he intend to get rid of me?

A thousand horrifying possibilities flooded my mind.

And then—

the floorboard beneath my foot creaked.

The voices inside stopped instantly.

My blood ran cold.

For one suspended second—

silence.

Then his voice.

Sharp as steel.

“Who’s there?”

My heart lurched violently.

And before I could think—

the study door began to open.