Zoya's mind fought the creeping fog that threatened to swallow her thoughts. Her pulse quickened, a wave of panic bubbling in her chest, but the haze pressed in, suffocating. She tried to scream, but no sound came. The air was thick, oppressive. She couldn't escape it, couldn't escape the blur that distorted everything around her.
"Ah, once upon a time, there was a girl," the voice whispered, its tone smooth, but detached, like a storyteller weaving a tale. "Her name was Zoya. And her father, well, he was a man of power. A man who kept his daughter hidden away from the world, for fear of the danger lurking in every shadow."
Zoya's heart pounded in her chest as the words wrapped around her mind. Her father, the man who had kept her locked away, controlling her every step, every move. She had always known he was different, but hearing it spoken out loud felt like a jagged truth.
"The world Zoya's father lived in was a dangerous one," the voice continued, indifferent. "He was a king, not of any kingdom, but of an underground empire. A gangster, really. And his daughter? Well, she was more than just a girl. She was meant to rule beside him, destined to take her place in a world of shadows."
The words stirred something deep inside her—a memory, a flash of a man watching her from the corner of her childhood. His presence had always been a shadow, looming over her, a constant reminder of her chains.
"She wasn't allowed to live like others. No school, no freedom. She was raised behind walls, and when she did venture out into the world, she was always watched. Always protected," the voice continued, its tone almost amused. "But Zoya wasn't just any girl. She was promised, from the moment she was born, to another. Someone her father trusted. A man named Azan."
Azan. The name cut through Zoya's thoughts like a blade. The man who had always hovered at the edges of her life. The man who had been her father's right hand. The man who had been promised to her.
"Azan was powerful," the voice said, almost casually. "Cold, ruthless. But Zoya didn't see him that way. No, she saw him as a monster, a heartless man who wanted nothing more than to control her. But, of course, that's what she thought at the time."
Zoya clenched her fists, the anger she had buried for so long flaring to life. Azan had never been someone she could love. He had been a shadow, an image of everything she despised. But in the story the voice told, it was clear that Azan had played a part, a necessary one in the tale her father had woven for her.
"She hated him," the voice continued, now quieter, almost contemplative. "But she used him. She played the game, pretending to care when it suited her. And when she wanted something—something small, like the chance to go to school, to live like others—she had him ask her father for it."
Zoya's breath hitched. She had tried. She had begged for freedom, for something that wasn't her father's empire. She had played her cards carefully, using the only weapon she had: her presence.
"And so," the voice whispered, almost as if it were lost in thought, "Azan, the man she had despised, had given her what she wanted. Not because he loved her, but because he thought he could control her. She had always been a prize, a thing to be won."
Zoya felt the weight of the words settle over her, suffocating her. Azan's presence had never been an escape, only another chain that kept her tethered to her father's world.
"And then there were the other pieces of her life," the voice murmured. "There was school, where Zoya had tried to blend in, to be normal. But no matter how hard she tried, the fear of her name, of what she represented, kept people at a distance. Except for one. Eva. Eva was different. Eva didn't care about Zoya's father or her bloodline. She was the one who made Zoya feel like she could be something else, something more."
Zoya's chest tightened at the thought of Eva, the only person who had ever seen past the walls Zoya had built around herself.
"But there was someone else," the voice continued. "Someone who sat in front of her in class. A boy named Rayan. He didn't fear her. He didn't care about the mafia princess. He saw Zoya for who she was beneath the surface, and Zoya… well, Zoya had a crush on him, didn't she?"
Zoya flushed, the memory of Rayan making her feel something she had long forgotten—a fleeting hope, a moment of normalcy in her otherwise controlled world. She had never allowed herself to act on it, never allowed herself to want something so simple.
"But in the end," the voice sighed, "Zoya could not escape her bloodline. No matter how far she ran, no matter how hard she tried to hide, the ties that bound her to her father's empire would never loosen. They were always there, in the shadows, waiting."
Zoya's heart sank as the weight of the voice's words crushed her chest. She was trapped, bound by a past she couldn't escape.
"She didn't want to believe it," the voice murmured, "but the truth is, Zoya never could escape who she was."
Second Chapter Revision:
Zoya woke with a start, the remnants of the dark dream lingering in the edges of her consciousness. The fog in her mind hadn't cleared, and the oppressive weight of the voice was still there, waiting to take hold again.
"I will tell you a little story," the voice began, its tone distant, almost detached, like a storyteller recounting something far removed. "It's a story about a girl named Zoya. You see, Zoya never truly understood the path her life would take. She thought she could escape, but the world she lived in wasn't kind to those who tried to break free."
The words hit her like a blow to the chest, cold and sharp.
"Zoya had never been free. Her life was written for her long before she could ever understand the rules. She thought she could change it, thought she could find something real, something of her own. But the chains of her past were stronger than she knew."
Zoya felt the tension in her body rise as the voice wove its tale, pulling her into the story she couldn't escape.
"There were people in her life, pieces of her story, like Azan. Azan, who had been promised to her from the very start. But Zoya had never wanted him, not really. She hated him, hated what he represented. He had been a puppet, just like her. A piece in a game she never chose to play."
The voice seemed to chuckle at the irony. "But Azan loved her, in his own way. He had given her what she wanted—freedom, in small doses. But Zoya, well, she had always used him. She knew the game, and she played it. After all, she was her father's daughter."
Zoya's fists clenched. She had used Azan, but she had never wanted him. She had only wanted to escape.
"And then there was school," the voice murmured. "Zoya had tried, tried to blend in. She had found a friend, Eva, someone who didn't care about her bloodline, who saw her as more than a mafia princess. But that, too, was an illusion. Zoya had always been different, always been watched."
The voice paused, its tone growing softer, almost nostalgic. "And there was Rayan. Rayan, the boy who made her feel something real. Something she could never allow herself to have. He had made her feel alive, and yet… she had never been able to take that chance. She had never allowed herself to love him."
Zoya's heart twisted at the thought of Rayan. She had wanted him, but her life had never allowed her to have him.
"Zoya thought she could escape, but she never could," the voice whispered, its tone soft, final. "She was always a part of something bigger, something darker. And now, the story is far from over. It's only just beginning."