Bought by the underworld CEO

Chapter 09 ( Performance of Normalcy)

Ch 9

Three days later, at 6 AM, Zoya’s room door opened.

Ares entered.

The room smelled like sweat, stale air, and despair. He didn’t wrinkle his nose. He’d caused worse smells.

Zoya was still sitting in the exact same place as three days ago. On the cold floor, back against the leg of the bed, knees pulled to her chest. The silver chain pooled around her ankle like a dead snake.

She didn’t move. She didn’t look up. She didn’t say anything. Zoya kept staring at a crack in the marble floor, like it held the secrets of the universe.

She hadn’t showered for three days. Her hair was matted, tangled into knots. Her kurta, once white, was now stained with dirt and tears. Her lips were cracked. Her eyes were empty — two dark holes where a person used to be.

Ares stood in front of her. He said nothing for a full minute. He just looked her over from head to toe, cataloging the damage. The hollow cheeks. The bruises on her ankle from where she’d pulled at the chain the first night. The way her collarbone jutted out more than before.

_Good,_ he thought. _She’s learning._

Then he crouched down. His tailored pants brushed the dirty floor. He didn’t care.

"Zoya," he said. His voice was very sweet. Loving. Soft as velvet.

Both of them knew it wasn’t sweet at all. It was the tone a scientist used when a lab rat finally stopped fighting the maze.

Zoya didn’t react. Not even a flinch.

Ares reached into his pocket and pulled out the key. The small silver key that controlled her world. He dangled it in front of her face. She didn’t look at it.

_Click._

He unlocked the chain. The metal fell away from her ankle with a whisper. Her skin underneath was raw, red, circled by a faint bruise in the shape of her cage.

"Look what a mess you’ve made of yourself," Ares said, clicking his tongue. He sounded like a disappointed father, not a man who’d put her there. He reached out and tucked a piece of matted hair behind her ear. His fingers were warm. She didn’t pull away. "You used to be so pretty. Now look at you."

He stood up. "Go shower and change. I’ll have some maids clean this room. It’s too dusty in here. Smells like a cell."

_Because it is a cell,_ Zoya thought, but the thought felt far away. Like it belonged to someone else.

She didn’t say anything. On unsteady legs, she stood up. The world tilted. Three days of only water and a bowl of rice had made her weak. She grabbed clean clothes from the wardrobe — he’d already laid them out for her. A simple light purple colour shalwar kameez. With dupatta.

She walked to the bathroom like a ghost.

---

*Behind the Door*

The hot water hit her skin.For three days, she’d been living in filth. The soap smelled like jasmine. He’d picked it. He always picked everything.

She scrubbed until her skin was red. Until she couldn’t smell the floor anymore. Until she couldn’t feel the ghost of that chain.

She knew he was listening. Waiting. Measuring how long she took. Measuring if she was “grateful.”

When she came back, wrapped in a towel, the room was transformed.

The bed was made with fresh, white sheets. The floor gleamed. The air smelled like lemons and bleach. The silver chain was gone. The bolt in the floor had been covered with a decorative rug, like it never existed.

A maid was standing there, head bowed, eyes on the floor. "Miss Zoya, Mr. Blackwood is waiting for you downstairs for breakfast."

Zoya dressed mechanically. The light purple kameez was soft. Too soft. It felt like another kind of chain.

---

The dining table was set. Sunlight streamed through the windows. It was a beautiful morning.

And again, it was her favorite breakfast. Halwa puri, still steaming. Chicken achari, rich and red .orange juice and chai. The same meal she’d eaten the day she planned her escape.

Ares was already seated at the head of the table. He looked perfect. Suit, tie, hair flawless. He looked like he hadn’t just kept a woman chained on the floor for three days.

"Sit," he said, gesturing to the chair next to him. Not across. Next to. Claiming her.

Zoya sat.

"Eat," he said. "You must be hungry."

She picked up a piece of puri. It should have tasted like home. Like her mother’s kitchen on Sundays. Instead, it tasted like ash. She chewed. She swallowed. She was a doll performing a function. Eat. Drink. Breathe. Don’t die.

Ares watched her the entire time. He didn’t eat much himself. He was feeding on something else — her compliance. Every bite she took, his smile got wider.

He was satisfied with everything. He smiled throughout breakfast, occasionally reaching out to brush a crumb from the corner of her mouth. His touch was gentle. It made her want to vomit.

"See?" he said softly. "Isn’t this better than the floor? Isn’t this better than running?"

Zoya said nothing. She just drank her chai (tea)

---

He finished his breakfast, dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin, and stood. He took his coat and his mobile.

Before leaving, Ares walked back to her. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. His lips were warm. His cologne was the same — cedar and blood.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t move. She just looked up at him, empty.

Ares pulled back and searched her face. He was looking for something. Fear? Brokenness? He found it. And it pleased him.

He smiled at her — a real smile this time, not the fake, PR-friendly ones he gave the police. This one was private. Possessive. "You look quite adorable when you behave, Zoya," he said, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. "So nice and So... obedient."

His gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips. They were still cracked, pale from dehydration. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in to kiss her.

It wasn’t a question. It was a claim.

But Zoya turned her face away.

It wasn’t a big movement. Just a tilt of her chin. A few centimeters. But it was a wall. It was a _no_.

Ares froze. He didn’t close his eyes. He saw it. He saw her rejection, clear and deliberate and screaming, even in her silence.

The air in the room turned to ice.

For one second, his perfect mask slipped. Pure, unfiltered rage flashed across his face. His jaw clenched so hard Zoya heard his teeth grind. He bit his own lower lip, hard enough that a bead of blood welled up.

He wanted to grab her. To force her. To remind her who owned her.

Instead, he slammed his palm down on the back of her chair. The solid wood _cracked_ under the force. The sound was like a gunshot. It was a little too close to her face. Close enough that she felt the wind of it. Close enough to be a promise.

The maids in the corner froze, pretending to be statues.

Ares leaned down, his bloody lip inches from her ear. His voice was low, a venomous whisper only she could hear. "You will learn, Zoya."

It wasn’t a threat. It was a curriculum.

Then he straightened up, smoothed his coat like nothing had happened, and walked out. The front door shut behind him with a final, echoing _boom_.

Zoya sat there. The cracked chair digging into her back. The taste of her own fear in her mouth.

She had turned her face.

And she had survived it.

It wasn’t a victory. It was a diagnosis.

The disease was still here. But now she knew she wasn’t dead yet.

_End of Chapter 9_

---*