Chapter 142: Fearful Apologies

Her hands fell to her sides out of terror as she immediately bowed her head down and

clutched the dupatta draped around her chest with her left hand, thinking her right hand

still had blood on it and would mess up her clothes. She kept her hand away from her

clothes. And she did not look at her hand either. She feared the sight of blood.

Standing in his vicinity, she found herself hyperventilating. The instructions that had been

fed to her brain about him played in her mind, adding more to her misery. She was trying to

calm herself, to relax, but she couldn't. It was as if her body did not belong to her, as if it was

someone else's body. She had no control over herself, her emotions, or her fear. All she

knew was that Shehryaar was her owner. She belonged to him. She couldn't defy him. She

couldn’t even think of defying him.

He closed the door and stepped towards her.

Her legs began to lose strength, and they started to shiver.

She didn’t dare say anything without his permission as he came closer, though she wanted

to apologize.

Apologize for…?

She herself didn’t know the reason, but she wanted to apologize to him so he wouldn't

punish her.

As he stood just in front of her, she stumbled and fell to her knees, unable to stand anymore

due to lack of energy and out of fear.

She didn’t make an attempt to stand up either, her whole body shivering like someone

suffering from intense fever, like a leaf in the wind.

He bent down, held both her arms, and made her stand up before lifting her face. She

stumbled again but couldn’t fall, as his arm held her.

She was standing in front of him.

Her fear knew no bounds.

Sheharzaad was close to fainting, fervently hoping that nothing would go wrong and that

she wouldn't, even mistakenly, step out of those boundaries set for her.

"What’s going on?" he asked.

She shook her head in denial while staring up at him.

"I’m sorry," she answered. "Please, I’m sorry," she said without a pause, as his question was

a green signal for her to speak.

He made her sit and lifted her face again as he stood while she sat.

"Why were you shouting?"

Tears formed in her eyes.

"I’m sorry, I won’t do that again. I promise. I’m sorry," she quickly said as a tear fell from her

eye.

He sat beside her, and she felt herself go stiff, like a dead body. Her face turned white, her

toes curled inward, but unlike other times, she wasn’t trying to crawl away from him.

He might not like it.

"Zaad," he called out, and she slowly turned her tear-streaked face toward him. These were

tears of terror.

"I’m sorry," she whispered again.

"Why?" he asked, and he proceeded to wipe her tears with the back of his fingers.

"I’m sorry… I’m crying… crying… without your permission," she hiccupped. After listening

to her answer, he moved his thumb toward her face, and she resisted the urge to flinch. He

subtly nodded his head in acknowledgment while his eyes remained fixed on clearing her

tears from her face.

When he had dried her face, he looked back at her. "Go and wash your face. Hurry up," he

commanded, and she stood up and dashed to the washroom at the speed of lightning.

She struggled as she splashed water on her face; her hands were shivering so rapidly. She

thanked God when she didn’t see blood spots on her hands again. It suddenly brought a

sense of peace to her.

Quickly, she dried her face with a towel and looked in the mirror to make sure her face

looked washed enough, as he had commanded her to "wash her face."

This was how her body and mind had been working lately. His every word, every sentence,

weighed heavily on her heart. The idea of defying him, the thought of denying him, the

concept of disobeying him had been drilled out of her mind so thoroughly that there was no

going back. All she knew at this point was to breathe when he asked her to breathe. To stop

when he asked her to stop. To talk when he asked her to talk.

If he asked her to stop breathing, she would do so.

Her mind was under his control to this extent.

Her will had died.

Completely.

She spotted mascara around her eyes, causing her to panic as she started washing again,

rigorously rubbing soap around her eyes.

She winced as some soapy water entered her eyes, but nevertheless, she continued. On the

other hand, she knew he was waiting for her outside, so she had to be quick.

She couldn’t let him wait.

Sheharzaad emerged from the restroom and found his eyes fixed on her. She suddenly

realized she had forgotten her dupatta in the washroom.

She gulped, now caught in a dilemma of either going back inside to get her dupatta, asking

him if she could retrieve it, or just standing there, waiting for his next order.

She pointed her thumb back at the washroom and made a face as if seeking his permission.

He raised his brows, urging her to speak.

"Wo… mera… mera dupatta andar reh gaya hai. L-l-layi aoon k-kya?"

(My-my scarf… I left it inside… can I go get it?)

He stared at her for longer than a minute, making her heart leap to her throat.

Thinking.

Thinking hard.

Despite shaping her into what he wanted, there were still parts of her he couldn’t change.

And he could see that. It was all visible and clear to his mind and eye.

She still didn’t want to be his mistress, though with all she had been through, she should

just care about him, eradicating her desires entirely.

She still hadn’t given her will.

Rather, he still hadn’t managed to get the consent he wanted.