Chapter 5 - The Auction memory.
1804 Words
I didn’t sleep.
Rule 7: You will sleep in my bed.
Rule 8: You will not touch me unless I allow it.
Zayn wasn’t in the bed to allow anything.
The silk sheets were cold against my skin. The pillow next to me was untouched. Perfect. Like no one had ever slept there. I lay there for hours, staring at the glass ceiling, watching the stars disappear as dawn came to Rawalpindi.
The city was quiet 20 floors below. Only the occasional car horn. The occasional click of the guards outside the door as they changed shifts.
I counted my breaths. 1 to 100. Then again.
At 4:47 AM I gave up.
Sleep wasn’t coming. Not in this bed. Not in this penthouse. Not as Zayn Malik’s wife.
I sat up. The black card was on the nightstand. The one with the 10 rules. Rule 1 was crossed out in gold ink. Underneath, in his sharp, angry handwriting: *Exception: Only with Zayn.*
He changed a rule for me.
My chest felt tight. That was more dangerous than any threat. Because it meant I was getting to him. And that was the one thing Rule 10 said we couldn’t do.
The door opened at 5:03 AM with a soft click.
Zayn.
He looked wrecked.
Same black shirt from yesterday, now wrinkled. Sleeves still rolled up. Blood had dried on his knuckles. A fresh cut ran along his jaw. Dark circles under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days.
He stopped when he saw me sitting on the bed. His eyes went from me, to the empty side of the bed, back to me.
“You didn’t sleep.” It wasn’t a question.
“Neither did you.”
He didn’t answer. He walked past me without another word. The bathroom door closed. The shower turned on immediately. Water hit tile, loud in the silence.
I could hear him moving. The sound of the towel. The sink.
Ten minutes later he came out.
Towel around his waist. Water dripping down his chest, tracing over the tattoos that started on his shoulders and disappeared down his arms. More ink on his back. And scars. Dozens of them. Old ones, white and thin. New ones, still pink.
I looked away instantly. Rule 8.
But he saw.
A small, dangerous smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.
“You can look, Aisha. I’m your husband.”
“That doesn’t mean I want to.”
“Liar.”
His voice was rough from lack of sleep.
He went to the closet. Pulled out another black shirt. Black pants. Black socks. Black everything. He dressed without speaking, without looking at me. Methodical. Like a soldier preparing for war.
“Where are you going?” The words slipped out before I could stop them. Rule 5. You will not ask about my business.
Zayn stopped mid-button.
The room went still.
He turned slowly. His eyes were dark. Not angry. Assessing.
“Breaking rules already?”
“I’m just curious.”
“Curiosity gets people killed in my world.”
“Then why are you still talking to me?”
That got me a real laugh. Low. Tired. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“Because you’re not dead yet.”
He finished buttoning his shirt. Walked to the door. Hand on the knob. Then paused. His back was to me.
“The auction.”
My heart stopped.
“You asked why you.” His voice was quiet now. No coldness. Just quiet. “Back in the bedroom. When I first brought you here.”
I nodded. Barely. My throat was dry.
“You want to know?”
“Yes.”
“Come.”
I followed him.
We didn’t take the main elevator. He used a private one at the end of the hall. Keycard access. Fingerprint. Retina scan.
Down. Down. Past the floors I knew. To a floor I didn’t know existed.
The doors opened to darkness.
He flicked a switch.
The room lit up.
I gasped.
Wall to wall screens. Dozens of them. All black right now. In the center, a massive desk with 6 monitors and a black leather chair. Cables everywhere. This was his war room. His brain.
“Welcome to my basement,” he said dryly. “Try not to get any ideas about escaping from here. There’s only one way out and it’s biometrically locked to me.”
He walked to the main console. His fingers moved over the keyboard. Fast. Practiced.
The center screen flickered to life.
And there I was.
Six months ago.
The auction house in Lahore.
Red velvet walls. Gold trim. Chandeliers that cost more than my father’s entire house. Crystal. Expensive. Obscene.
Men in tailored suits. Women dripping in diamonds. All of them with too much money and not enough conscience. They were drinking champagne. Laughing. Like this was a charity gala, not a human auction.
The camera panned to the stage.
Me.
19 years old. Black dress that was too big for me. Hair down. No makeup. Bare feet because they’d taken my shoes. Head high.
My hands were shaking but I kept them at my sides.
The auctioneer’s voice was smooth, practiced. Like he’d done this a hundred times. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have Aisha Khan. 19 years old. Educated. No prior engagements. Starting bid: 500 million rupees.”
Hands went up immediately.
“600 million.” A man in the second row.
“800 million.” A woman with too much jewelry.
“1 billion.” Someone in the back.
In the front row, my father. Drunk. Three glasses in already. Laughing. Talking to the man next to him like he was watching a cricket match, not selling his daughter.
I didn’t look at him.
“2 billion.”
The room went quiet.
That was a lot. Even for this crowd.
Then a voice from the back. Calm. Cold. Final. It cut through the room.
“2.5 billion.”
The camera swung.
Zayn Malik.
Black suit. Black tie. Perfect. He wasn’t even looking at the stage. He was looking at his phone. Scrolling. Like this was boring. Like he was buying a car or a building.
No expression.
Gavel. “Sold. To Mr. Zayn Malik for 2.5 billion rupees.”
The camera zoomed in on me.
And I smiled.
Not a scared smile. Not a broken one.
A defiant one. Directly into the camera. Directly at him.
Chin up. Eyes clear.
Zayn paused the video.
The room was silent except for the low hum of the monitors.
“That’s why you,” he said finally. He didn’t look at me. He was still staring at the frozen image of me on screen. Me at 19. Defiant. Angry. “Because everyone else in that room begged. Cried. Fainted. One girl tried to jump off the stage.”
He turned to me now.
“You walked up there like you owned the place. Like you were the one auctioning us off.”
“I was angry,” I whispered. “Too angry to be scared.”
“I know.” He stepped closer. “Anger is better than fear, Aisha. Fear breaks people. Anger makes them dangerous. And I don’t collect broken things.”
I met his eyes. They were black. Intense. “Then why buy me at all? If you don’t collect broken things, why pay 2.5 billion for me?”
“Because you looked at me like you wanted to kill me.” He said it simply. Like it was obvious. “And I was tired of people who were afraid of me. Tired of yes-men. Tired of people who only see the mafia king and not...”
He stopped himself.
“Not what?”
“Nothing.” He turned away. Walked to the bar in the corner. Poured two glasses of water. Brought one to me.
“Drink,” he said.
I took it. My hands were shaking.
“The last person I cared about ended up in a body bag,” he said quietly. He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the screen, at the frozen image of me. “My sister. 16 years old. Wrong place, wrong time. Someone decided to send me a message.”
He drank his water in one go. Set the glass down hard on the console.
“So I swore. No attachments. No weaknesses. No one I can lose.”
He looked at me then. Really looked.
“That’s why Rule 10 is there. Because you’re already a problem, Aisha. You walk in here with that defiant look and I forget for a second that this is business. That you’re a transaction.”
I felt my chest tighten.
“I’m not going to die,” I said.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“Neither do you.”
For a second, something flickered in his eyes. Pride? Anger? Surprise? I couldn’t tell.
He turned away. “Come on. Breakfast.”
We went back upstairs in silence.
The dining table was set. Two plates. Coffee. Fresh fruit. Bread. Butter.
He pulled out my chair for me. Rule 6. You will eat what I serve.
I sat. He sat across from me.
For ten minutes, it was almost normal. The clink of silverware. The smell of coffee. Sunlight starting to come through the glass walls, turning the marble gold.
Then his phone buzzed.
He glanced at it. His whole body went rigid. Jaw tight.
“Problem?” I asked.
“Always.” He stood abruptly. “Stay here. Don’t leave.”
Rule 1.
But this time I nodded. “I won’t.”
He paused. Surprise crossed his face. Then he nodded back, once. Sharp.
“Good girl.”
He left. The door closed with a soft beep.
I sat alone at the table.
Looking at the empty chair across from me.
Looking at the penthouse that was now my prison and my home.
Looking at the man who paid 2.5 billion rupees for me and then told me not to fall in love with him.
My phone, which I didn’t know I had, buzzed on the table.
I picked it up. Unknown number.
A new message.
*You shouldn’t have smiled at him in the auction. Now he’ll never let you go.*
My blood went cold.
I dropped the phone like it burned me.
Outside the glass, the city was waking up. Cars on the road. People going to work. Normal lives.
And somewhere down there, someone was watching.
Someone who knew about the auction.
Someone who knew about me.
I looked at the door Zayn had left through.
For the first time since I got here, I wasn’t sure who I was more scared of.
The man who bought me.
Or the people who wanted me back.
To
- Writer
