Passing out

The door creaked open, and Zia entered with a trolley. Relief washed over me. It was not Adrian, it was Zia.

"Here’s the lemon soup, some snacks, and the painkillers," she said gently, offering a small smile.

"Thank you, Zia," I replied, rising slowly on shaky legs. "Thank you so much."

"Is there anything else you might need?" she asked.

I shook my head. “No... you should go now. Please.”

She nodded. “Alright. I’ll be close if you need anything.” With a final reassuring smile, she slipped out the door.

I sank back onto the couch, my body sinking into the cushions like it was the only thing holding me together. My head felt like a volcano—hot, heavy, on the brink of eruption.

The lemon soup sat untouched for a moment. I stared at it blankly. The appetite was gone, like everything else Adrian had stolen from me.

I forced a few spoonfuls down, swallowed the painkillers, and leaned back.

I didn’t sleep in the bed. That was Adrian’s territory—his throne, his kingdom. I wasn’t welcome there.

So I stayed on the couch, curled up in a ball, eyes shut tight against the pain swelling in my chest.

It hurts.

God, it hurts so much.

This life… this cage I can’t seem to escape.

...

The next morning, as I slowly opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was him.

Adrian.

He was already dressed—black tailored suit, crisp shirt, perfectly composed. Sitting across from me like he’d been watching for hours.

He smirked. “Good morning, dear wife. You’re finally awake.”

His voice slithered down my spine, and I swallowed hard. His gaze pinned me in place, sharp and unblinking, like he could see straight into my bones.

“Now that you’re up,” he said casually, “it’s time I assign today’s tasks.”

I tried to sit up—and pain shot through every inch of my body. 

I winced, my breath catching.

Adrian didn’t move. He just stood there, eyes watching me like a hawk, like this was a test I was already failing.

Despite the painkillers, everything still hurt. I needed more time—just a little more time to gather myself. But I knew better.

I forced myself to stand, slow and stiff.

He rose too, taking a step toward me. His face unreadable. Eyes burning.

“Get ready,” he said, voice low.

“I…” The words stuck in my throat. “Can I… Can I take a break today?”

Silence.

He tilted his head slightly, like he was amused. Like I’d just told a joke.

“A break?” His voice was soft, almost gentle. But I knew better. It was the kind of softness that came before a storm.

I nodded slowly, breath shallow. “Just… for today. I need time to—”

Before I could finish, his jaw tightened. His eyes turned to ice.

“You remember what I said about questioning my orders?” 

My heart thudded. I did. I remembered everything.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, lowering my gaze. “I’ll get ready.”

I turned away, hoping that would be the end of it—but I’d forgotten who I was dealing with.

His hand closed around my arm like a vice, spinning me back to face him. I stumbled, gasping, as his grip tightened.

“Look at me when I speak to you,” he said, voice low, deadly.

I lifted my eyes, trying to blink back the sting of tears.

“I don’t give breaks, Zey. You’re here to repay a debt. And until that debt is cleared, you don’t get to ask for mercy.”

The room spun for a second. I couldn’t breathe.

I nodded again, numb. “Yes…"

His smirk returned, satisfied.

“Good, ” he said, and let me go.

I stood frozen for a moment, rubbing the spot where his fingers had branded my skin.

"Get ready." He snapped. 

I swallowed hard. “I… I’ll go get ready.”

I turned and walked away as fast as my aching legs could carry me.

I freshened up quickly, pulling on a cream-colored blouse and a straight pencil skirt. The pounding in my head was still there, but I shoved it aside.

I had no choice. I had to do this.

The kitchen was already bustling when I entered. The dishes had been prepared—the finest spreads for the finest men. All that remained was to serve.

One by one, I moved through the hall, delivering plates, taking drink orders, pasting a polite smile on my lips even when my body begged me to stop.

And with every trip to the tables, I grew weaker. My stomach churned. My arms trembled. My breath shortened.

“Here’s your order,” I murmured, placing a tray down carefully.

Again. And again.

By the time I returned to the kitchen for the twentieth delivery, the world around me had begun to blur.

Ice-cold fingers gripped my arm.

I didn’t need to look up. I knew who it was. Adrian’s scent—sharp wood and expensive cologne—wrapped around me.

“What are you doing?” His voice was a low threat against my skin.

“I… I…” My words stumbled out.

My knees buckled slightly and I was struggling to keep my eyes open.

“I don’t appreciate this sluggishness,” Adrian’s voice snapped close to my ear. His fingers tightened around my wrist. “You can do better, can’t you?”

I glanced at his hand—at the veins standing out on his forearm—and swallowed the lump rising in my throat.

“I’m trying,” I whispered, my voice barely holding. “I... I’m really trying.”

Trying not to break down. Trying to stay strong. Because I knew too well—there were always greater consequences for failure.

His grip loosened, and I turned quickly to the counter, picking up the tray with trembling hands. My head was pounding, my vision spinning, but I pressed forward.

“I’m not… Please, I… I can’t.” The words echoed silently in my chest, never making it past my lips.

I took one step forward.

Then another.

The world tilted.

Everything slowed.

And then—nothing.

The tray slipped from my hands. I heard the sharp, echoing crash of porcelain shattering. I didn’t hit the ground—not yet. Adrian’s scent flooded my senses as he caught me, the last thing I saw was the deep scowl on his face.