Forced to marry Rome’s mafia king, she fights him. But his obsession might break her first.*

She's Not Going Anywhere

The door slammed shut behind Zim.

Meherma remained on the floor. Knees pressed to the cold marble, her body trembling as if the earth had shifted beneath her. The echo of his words still rang in her ears — *"You'll have to pay for that sin."*

But what sin? What crime had she committed, except being born as Raja Shah's daughter?

She hugged herself. The silk of her kameez was damp with tears. Her lips still burned from his forced kiss. Her wrist ached where his fingers had dug into the bone. But the deepest wound was inside — a loneliness so profound it felt like falling into a bottomless well.

*"I was never important to anyone…"*

Not to her father, who had used her as a pawn. Not to her mother, who had watched silently, too afraid to protest. And now not even to this beast, who claimed her as his wife but treated her like property.

She wiped her face with the back of her hand. The slap she had given him — for a moment, it had felt like reclaiming a piece of herself. But now that moment was gone, replaced by the cold dread of what would come next.

Outside, the palace was silent. The kind of silence that presses against the ears.

---

Zim Scorpione walked down the corridor like a storm barely contained.

His hand was still bleeding. He didn't care. The pain in his knuckles was a welcome distraction from the fire in his chest.

*She slapped him.*

Not just a slap — an insult. A rebellion. A crack in the empire he had built with blood and iron. But beneath the rage, something else squirmed. Something that made his jaw tighten with shame: the memory of her tears. The way her lips trembled under his. The way she had looked at him — not with fear, but with *hatred*.

*And he had liked it.*

No — he had *loved* it. That fire in her eyes, that defiance. It was the first time since she had arrived that she had looked at him as something more than a monster. She had dared to fight back. And for a sick, twisted moment, he had wanted to crush her — and then kiss her again.

*"Boss."*

Victor's voice came from the shadows of the hallway. Always there, always watching. Zim didn't stop walking.

*"What?"* His voice was gravel.

*"The package from Zoharan Mir has been verified. The girl's father — Raja Shah — he's making moves. We intercepted a call. He's planning to retaliate. He wants his daughter back."*

Zim stopped mid-stride. A bitter smile curved his lips. *"Let him come."*

*"There's more, boss."* Victor hesitated. *"Raja Shah has contacted the Russians. He's offering a trade. The girl in exchange for the docks at Porta Nuova."*

The smile vanished. Zim turned slowly, his green eyes cold as glaciers. *"The docks?"*

*"Yes, boss. He's desperate. The Russians are interested. They think it's a good deal."*

Zim said nothing. But the air around him grew heavy. Victor took a step back.

*"What do you want us to do?"*

Zim looked toward the closed door of his bedroom — where Meherma was still on the floor, probably crying. The thought of anyone taking her away, using her as a bargaining chip, made his blood boil in a way that had nothing to do with revenge.

*"Increase security. No one gets in or out without my word."* He paused. *"And Victor — if anyone lays a finger on her, I'll cut off their hands myself."*

Victor nodded, confusion flickering in his eyes. But he knew better than to ask questions.

---

Zim stood outside the bedroom door for a long time.

He could hear her soft sobs through the wood. Each one was like a needle in his chest. He wanted to go in. He wanted to shake her, to demand why she had dared to slap him. And at the same time, he wanted to hold her. To wipe those tears away and tell her she was safe.

But Zim Scorpione did not hold. He did not comfort. He did not feel.

Or so he told himself.

He pressed his forehead against the door, eyes closed. The bleeding hand left a dark smear on the white wood.

*"What have you done to me, Meherma Shah?"* he whispered into the silence.

No answer. Only her crying, like a lullaby from hell.

---

Inside, Meherma heard the faint sound of his voice through the door. She couldn't make out the words, but the tone sent a chill down her spine.

She crawled to the bed and pulled herself up. Her legs felt weak, but she forced herself to stand. She looked at the mirror on the wall — at the girl staring back. Red eyes, tangled hair, a bruise blooming on her wrist. The face of a prisoner.

*No.* She wouldn't accept this. She wouldn't let him break her.

She walked to the window. It was locked from outside, as always. But tonight, something was different — a sliver of moonlight fell on a small object on the windowsill. A hairpin. Not hers. She picked it up, frowning.

It was old, delicate, with a tiny ruby at the end. It didn't belong in this black room. It felt like a sign.

She clutched it in her palm and made a decision. She would find a way out. She would not wait for rescue — she would become her own.

---

Two hours later.

Zim sat in his study, a glass of whiskey untouched on the desk. His hand was bandaged now, but the throbbing remained. He stared at the security monitors on the wall. One screen showed the bedroom. Meherma was lying on the bed, facing away from the camera. She looked small, fragile.

He knew he should be focusing on the threat from the Russians, from Raja Shah. But his mind kept drifting back to that slap. To the fire in her eyes.

*"I hate you!"* she had screamed.

And he had felt something crack inside his chest. Not because she hated him — he expected that. But because for the first time, someone had seen him as he truly was, and still dared to stand against him.

*She's not afraid of death.* That was the real danger. A woman who doesn't fear death cannot be controlled by fear.

And Zim Scorpione needed control. It was the only language he knew.

He reached for the whiskey and drank it in one gulp. The burn was good. It reminded him he was alive.

A soft knock on the door.

*"Come in."*

It was one of the maids, an older woman named Rosa. She had been with the household for years. Her face was pale.

*"Sir… the madam… she's asking for food. She says she won't eat until you let her see her mother."*

Zim's jaw tightened. *"Let her starve."*

Rosa hesitated. *"Sir, she hasn't eaten since morning. She's very weak. Please…"*

Zim slammed the glass on the desk. Rosa flinched.

*"I said let her starve,"* he growled. *"She'll learn that in this house, my word is law."*

Rosa lowered her head and left quickly.

Zim sat back, running a hand through his hair. The anger was still there, but beneath it, a gnawing worry. She hadn't eaten? Since morning?

*Damn her.* Why did she have to be so stubborn?

He stood abruptly and walked out of the study. His feet carried him back to the bedroom door. He didn't knock. He turned the handle and entered.

Meherma was sitting on the edge of the bed, her back to him. She didn't turn when he came in.

*"You're not eating,"* Zim said. His voice was low, controlled.

Silence.

*"Turn around."*

She didn't move.

Zim crossed the room in three strides and grabbed her shoulder, spinning her to face him. Her eyes were red-rimmed but dry now. No tears. Just a cold, defiant stare.

*"You think starving yourself will make me let you go?"* he asked, his grip firm but not painful.

*"I think it will make you see that I am not your puppet,"* she replied, her voice steady despite her weakness. *"I am a human being, not a toy you can lock away."*

Zim's eyes flickered. *"You are my wife."*

*"A wife you kidnapped. A wife you married at gunpoint. That is not a wife, that is a slave."*

The word hung in the air between them like a blade.

Zim's hand fell from her shoulder. For a long moment, he just looked at her. The moonlight from the window caught her face, making her look ethereal — and utterly unreachable.

*"Is that what you think?"* he asked, his voice quieter now. *"That I see you as a slave?"*

*"What else would you call it? You took everything from me. My home, my family, my freedom. And now you take my body, my lips, my will. What is left of me that you haven't stolen?"*

Her words cut deeper than any knife. Zim felt a strange tightness in his chest. He wanted to deny it, to tell her she was wrong. But the truth was, she wasn't.

He had treated her exactly like property. Because that's what she was supposed to be — a weapon against her father. But somewhere along the way, the lines had blurred. He didn't just want to use her. He wanted to *possess* her. Every inch. Every thought.

And that scared him more than any enemy.

*"Eat,"* he said finally, his voice rough. *"I won't ask again."*

*"I won't eat until you let me see my mother."*

*"Your mother is not coming here."*

*"Then I will die of hunger."*

Zim's eyes blazed. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His touch was firm but not cruel. *"You think you can blackmail me with your life? I've taken more lives than you can count. One more won't matter."*

But even as he said it, his grip softened.

*"Please,"* Meherma whispered, and for the first time, her voice cracked. *"Just let me hear her voice. One call. I'm not asking for freedom, just… just a moment of my old life."*

Zim stared at her. The tears were back, welling in her eyes, but she held them back. That stubborn pride. That impossible will.

Something inside him broke.

*"One call,"* he said, his voice barely audible. *"Five minutes. That's all."*

Meherma's eyes widened with disbelief. *"Really?"*

*"Don't make me regret it."* He released her chin and stepped back. *"Eat first. Then I'll give you the phone."*

She nodded quickly, wiping her eyes. *"Okay. I'll eat. Thank you."*

The word "thank you" from her lips felt like a slap to his own face. He turned and walked to the door without another word.

As he left, he heard her sob once — but this time, it was a sob of relief.

And Zim Scorpione, for the first time in twelve years, felt something he had long forgotten.

*Guilt.*