It felt like just yesterday, Pakhi's mother was yelling at her to wake up. Now, the same mother stood in tears, staring at her daughter's severely fractured body lying in an ICU bed—trapped between life and death.
Had not enough happened to the young woman, would she have ever realized how far love could truly take a person into this?
But it wasn't love that led to this. It was hate. Deep, burning hate.
Still, love holds the power to transform hatred into affection.
Could that powerful emotion save her now?
Pakhi—nineteen years old and a student at her dream university, Veldor—might never have discovered her own worth if it weren't for the encounter with that cold billionaire, Qasim.
Where could he be now? It was his exam. Why waste time at a hospital?
Remaining here wouldn't help her recover.
Would he go as far as possible to bury alive the person responsible for all this?
Perhaps. Perhaps not.
All she wanted—desperately—was for him to see her. Just once more.
Then the door flew open.
There he stood—Qasim—white shirt stained with blood.
She had told him not to worry anymore. So why was he punishing himself like this?
This wasn't a memory she ever wished to live. But it was far better than what is happening now.
April 2023.
A time when life was still frustrating—but simple.
Back when the loudest pain she experienced came from her mother's voice.
---
Flashbacks:
"Ohh~ the great queen is still sleeping in the afternoon~ now wake up!" came the familiar voice, clenched with frustration.
Without hesitation, the woman began shouting louder. "Wake up!" And when the teenager didn't respond, she stormed toward the bed.
There, a girl slept as if the world didn't exist. Eighteen years old, messy hair, eyes still heavy with dreams—Pakhi stirred with a groggy scowl.
"I'm feeling so hot. Why did you turn off the fan?" she asked, voice hoarse from sleep.
"Because we're not your servants to wake you up like an alarm clock! Ohh~ let me guess—I did try that, but you were too busy drooling in your dreams!"
"Just 5 more minutes. I'll wake up, InshAllah."
Still drowsy, the girl tried to return to her beauty sleep, but the woman grabbed her wrist firmly.
"No more drama. Just do what I said. Wake up! Rubina ( the helper ) needs to clean the room because our great queen can't do her own chores~ Wake up!" she snapped again.
"My school gave me a holiday today, but I still can't enjoy it," came the quiet protest as the older woman stormed off.
For a brief moment, guilt flickered in the woman's eyes. She paused, glanced back at her daughter, then continued toward the bathroom with a sigh of frustration.
Pakhi had never had a boyfriend—only fictional crushes that weren't even real.
Whenever she dived into the pages of a love story…
There she would be, lying on her bed, legs up, clutching a worn copy of The Cruel Prince.
"I hate you," Jude whispered to Cardan—and Pakhi's heart would skip.
"Then it's working," came his reply.
She closed the book with a soft sigh, teeth gently grazing her lower lip.
"Why don't boys like this exist in real life?" she wondered aloud, eyes fixed on the ceiling fan above.
Inevitably, her mother would bang on the door, yelling about forgotten chores.
She would groan, roll off the bed, muttering, "Cardan would even treat me better than my biological mom…"
A daydreamer, the girl longed for a boy straight out of fiction.
But reality was harsher. In dreams, love thrived.
In her world—hate reigned.
This was the life of a regular girl with strict, middle-class parents.
But something had changed. Something dark.
What had turned her into this?
Even the narrator didn't know.
She just wanted her story to be told.
But who was this Qasim?
---
Pretending everything was under control had become his second nature.
People saw the polished image—a wealthy surname, sharp suits, a cold gaze—and assumed he had it all.
What they didn't see were the sleepless nights.
The guilt clinging like a second skin.
The people lost along the way.
The pressure to remain flawless while internally unraveling.
No one taught him to process pain. Only how to hide it. Ignore it. Bury it.
So that's what he did.
Until she came along.
The girl looked at him differently. Not like a project. Not like a prince. Just... a person.
And that terrified him more than anything ever had.
Now she lay unconscious because of him.
And he stood there. Silent. Still.
Cowardly.
She had seen the blood on his shirt.
She had seen him.
And when she'd begged him not to worry, why was he destroying himself over her?
He is just a friend but he wants to more than that…
A nurse exited the ICU room, clipboard in hand, voice monotone, eyes tired.
"She's stable, but unresponsive. There's nothing more we can do right now. We'll monitor."
Qasim didn't move.
Unresponsive?
Like she was some broken device?
This was the same girl who debated over fictional characters like they were alive.
Who made him laugh even when he forgot how to smile.
Jaw clenched. Fists tight. His chest tightened. Words surged inside, demanding to be freed.
"You'll monitor?" he snapped.
The nurse blinked. "Sir, I understand you're upset, but—"
"No. You don't understand anything." His voice trembled. "She was fine a few days ago. Laughing. Breathing. Talking. And now you're telling me to just wait while she… lies there?!"
"Mr. Rahman, please—"
With a roar, he slammed his fist into the wall. The echo rang down the sterile corridor. People turned to look. His breathing grew uneven.
His father took a step forward but stopped cold at Qasim's warning glance.
"Don't. Not now."
Blood ran down his knuckles. He didn't care.
Pain made sense.
"She doesn't deserve this," the words slipped out, raw and broken. "I should be in that bed. Not her. Me."
And for the first time, the nurse didn't see a privileged boy throwing a tantrum—
She saw someone shattered.
Drowning in grief.
Raging, because if he started to cry—he might never stop.
---
No one could say when the anger began.
It came like fire, sudden and consuming. His hands would ball into fists before his brain caught up. His voice turned sharp like broken glass.
People labeled him "cold," "arrogant," "dangerous."
No one asked why.
Truth was—his rage had always been self-directed.
At the helplessness. At the failures.
At the boy who suffered silently and smiled like nothing was wrong.
Anger, at least, didn't feel weak.
Sadness made him vulnerable.
And vulnerability always made him a target.
But she—she never flinched.
She looked right through him.
From enemies to… whatever this broken bond was now.
And yet, she suffered, while he burned with guilt.
He should've understood her before it was too late.
Now she needed him more than ever—and all he could do was pray.
This—all of this—was his fault.
He had lost a mother once.
Now he was about to lose the only person who made his cold world feel warm again.
All Qasim wanted now…
Was for Pakhi to understand him again.
He was sorry.
But what came next?
She must never find out.
Because if she did… it would hurt more than this.
So now he needs to do something which will be take her privacy but will give him his satisfaction….