Chapter 130: The contract

The wall.

The mucky, stained wall was what her eyes had been fixed on.

Observing different patterns, bloody patterns, and dangerous weapons on it had been her

prime interest since last week. Those different patterns would often divert her attention

from the human body hung from the ceiling. Her face was purposely kept toward her, her

eyes staring at Sheharzaad—staring deep into her soul, stealing all the life left in her. Her

feet were dangling in the air, her hair sprawled open. Her skin was now turning blue, and

the smell of decay was already arising from it. Once or twice, she had spotted insects

crawling on the dead woman's feet.

The dead woman was none other than Khaleda.

The week she had spent here, all alone with that dead body, with minimal human

interaction, and with little to no food, had brought her to crave even the smallest exchange.

The men who served her food wouldn't even look at her. In the past week, she had been

served food twice. The silent room would often growl from the sounds produced by her

stomach. The first few days, she thought he would let her out soon, but as the days passed,

nothing happened. The four dark walls wouldn’t let her breathe properly. When she wanted

to stand, the chains would snake around her ankles. When she wanted to move her hands,

the chains again would bind her tightly. Breathing alone was becoming difficult.

She felt frustrated—not only due to the mental torture but also because of the physical

torment that would force her mouth open and let out relentless screams and cries. Her

voice banged against the wall and echoed back into her ears. She would call out to her loved

ones, but no one answered.

She felt alone.

So alone.

Desperate for human interaction, she began to wonder what might lie beyond the walls that

had encaged her.

When she tried looking up, she would see the dead woman’s face—a face she knew would

haunt her for life. She knew his purpose in having Khaleda’s body dangle in the same room

as hers, and that too in front of her. And he was succeeding in his purpose. That dead body

would walk in her dreams, depriving her of sleep too.

He had paid one or two visits after announcing her as his personal escort, and she already

expected him to behave like this. And every time he confronted her, despite knowing the

consequences, he didn’t hold back. He had gone livid, as if someone had turned on a switch

in him. Once, he came close to her, his eyes penetrating her soul, and simply demanded the

hand she had held his with. She knew he was referring to Hannan, though he didn’t mention

his name. She just tried putting on an act and feigned ignorance, which only unleashed his

fury. He slapped her repeatedly until her cheeks were numb. He asked the question again,

and she just replied with whatever came to her mind, terrified of him. That day, he had

nearly broken her finger.

She could only feel immense rage and danger radiating off of him. So much so that

whenever the cell door opened, dread pooled in her stomach. With every step he took

toward her, a whimper escaped her lips.

She felt nothing but profound fear and agony.

Just as she did now, with his fingers wrapped around her throat, cutting off her air supply,

his mouth pressed to hers.

Her eyes jutted out.

Her mouth parted open as his tongue invaded.

Her toes curled inward.

Her hands clawed at his hands that gripped her neck.

It was a brutal kiss against the wall, stealing every ounce of her breath.

No words of apology left her lips; no words begging for mercy came forth. Instead, with her

arms wide open, she awaited death.

And that dirt-stained wall grew distant from her vision. The room seemed to expand. The

little light streaming in from the small window spread, filling the room. His face blurred, and

the light became her sole focus. No prior sensation of her neck in his steely grip could be

felt.

Was this death?

Had she died?

She felt at peace...

But before a smile could form on her lips, she felt the same light drifting away. The wall that

had faded came closer. The fingers around her neck were felt again, though not as tight as

before. She could feel her body, against her will, drinking in oxygen.

No. Don’t do this.

She called out to herself, yet her lips parted more and more, sucking in air instinctively,

without her consent.

Let me die.

She called out again, but even her body ignored her as darkness sprawled in front of her

eyes once more, the wall returned to its place, Khaleda’s dangling feet came back into view,

and she now lay sprawled on the ground, coughing heavily and spitting with each cough.

Her face was next to the tip of his shiny black shoe.

“I curse you,” she whispered, once her coughing had died down and she lay lifeless on the

floor, staring at his shoe.

He bent down, grasped her by the shoulder, then pulled her up and made her sit in the chair

as he began to chain her arms and legs again. A tear dropped from her eye as the clanking of

metal chains struck her ears.

“Eh?” he asked, as he locked her wrists, which already bore red marks. “But I feel like you’ll

curse me even more now,” he said. He had become so emotionless, so void of any ounce of

humanity. He ignored the pleading in her eyes—the same pleas he had once occasionally

paid heed to. This was the most inhumane and cruel version of him she had ever

encountered.

Yet she didn’t know there was more to come.

“You have to sign this, Sheharzaad,” he declared, sitting proudly in front of her and placing a

piece of paper on the table in front of her.