Chapter Four

(NOORIA)

The bedroom door flies open so hard it bangs against the wall and bounces back. It's a miracle it doesn't fall off its hinges.

A man in black tactical gear fills the frame—broad shoulders, face half-hidden by a balaclava, pistol already drawn and steady. Behind him, two more shadows loom in the hallway.

“Downstairs, both of you. Now!”

His voice is flat, mechanical even, leaving no room for argument.

Faiza scrambles to her feet first, hands raised. I stay frozen on the carpet until the guard steps forward, boots thudding. He grabs a fistful of my hair, rough, and without hesitation, and yanks me upright. Pain explodes across my scalp; I cry out before I can stop myself. He does the same to Faiza, twisting her long braid around his knuckles until she whimpers.

“Move.”

He drags us both down the corridor like rag dolls. My bare feet slip on the polished stair. I stumble twice, knees slamming into the edges, ankles twisting so hard I'm sure they'll sprain. Faiza’s sobs turn sharp and panicked, but the guard doesn’t slow.

We reach the bottom of the stairs and a soft gasp escapes my lips.

The living room looks like a fucking war zone.

My father is on his knees in the center of the rug, hands zip-tied behind his back, blood soaking the front of his white thobe from a bullet wound high in his shoulder. He’s breathing in wet, ragged gasps. My mother is crumpled against the wall, face ashen, one hand pressed to her mouth to stifle screams. Two more of Valentino’s men stand guard at the doors, rifles slung low, and expressions blank.

And Valentino.

He stands in the middle of it all, calm as if he’s attending a business meeting. Black suit immaculate, no tie, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows. A thin trail of smoke curls from the cigarette between his fingers. His gray eyes flick to me the second I’m dragged in; sharp, possessive, and furious.

The guard shoves us forward. I drop to my knees beside my father, and Faiza collapses next to me.

Valentino exhales, smoke curling around him slowly.

Then he turns to the guard who dragged us.

“You were told to handle them with care.” His voice is quiet, almost conversational.

The guard stiffens. “Sir, they…”

Valentino doesn’t let him finish.

He draws a sleek black pistol from inside his jacket in one smooth motion, aims without looking, and fires. The movement is so nonchalant that it makes me shiver. Only a man with decades of experience can fire a perfect shot with zero concentration.

The guard’s head snaps back, and he drops like a stone, blood spraying across the marble. My mother screams again, this time it's high, and broken. Faiza flinches so hard she almost falls into me.

Valentino doesn’t even glance at the body.

He holsters the gun, takes another drag from his cigarette, and crouches in front of my father.

Baba’s eyes are wide with pain and terror. Blood pools beneath him, dark and spreading.

“You promised me a wife, Ahmed,” Valentino says softly. “A daughter from the Al-Fariz family. Business was agreed, papers signed, my word given, and your word given.”

He flicks ash onto the rug.

“You tried to sell her to some sultan in Abu Dhabi instead. Thought you could back out. Thought you could humiliate me in front of my associates.”

My father wheezes. “Valentino… please… it was a mistake…”

“No.” Valentino’s voice is ice. “Mistakes cost money. This cost me respect.”

He stands, dusts invisible lint from his sleeve.

“The debt is still owed. And I collect what’s mine.”

He turns to me.

His eyes soften—just a fraction—when they meet mine. He crosses the room in three strides, reaches down, and grips my elbow. Gentle this time. Almost careful. He pulls me to my feet.

“Come.”

I don’t resist. My legs move on autopilot.

He leads me past my bleeding father, past my sobbing mother, past Faiza who stares at the floor like she can disappear into it.

Outside, the black SUV waits in the driveway, engine idling. The night air is cool against my tear-streaked face. Valentino opens the back door, guides me inside, then slides in beside me.

The door closes with a soft, expensive click.

The car pulls away smoothly. Streetlights streak past the tinted windows.

He doesn’t speak for a long minute, only smokes his cigarette while typing away on his phone like I am not seated in the car beside him.

Then he turns to me.

“You’ll marry me, Nooria.” It's not a question, just a statement.

“You’ll come to my bed every night. You’ll spread your legs for me until you’re pregnant with my child. You’ll give me an heir, and you’ll be mine, completely.”

I stare at my hands in my lap. They’re shaking.

“And if I say no?” I whisper.

He studies my face for a long beat.

“You have a choice,” he says finally. “You always have a choice.”

Relief flickers—tiny, fragile.

Then he leans closer. His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing the bruise his own teeth left there last night.

“But if you don’t cooperate—if you run, if you refuse, if you let your father sell you to anyone else—I will kill him.”

His voice drops softer. Almost tender.

“I’ll put a bullet in his head myself. Slowly. In front of you. And then I’ll do the same to anyone else who tries to take what’s mine.”

He releases my jaw.

The car glides through the city streets.

“Get us to City Hall," he orders the driver.