City General Hospital – One Week Later, 1:54 p.m.
The dressing room was colder than usual. Not by temperature—by atmosphere.
Zain walked in, slower this time. No dramatic entrance. No flick of the wrist or arrogant tilt of the head. Just silence.
He wore navy this time. Kurta plain, collar slightly rumpled from how many times his hand had tugged at it unconsciously. The bandage wasn't urgent anymore. But he told the staff, firmly, that only Dr. Laiba Khan would handle it. No one questioned him now—they'd seen his refusals before.
They knew who he was. He'd kill for something... now even SOMEONE. He was Zain Shah. The biggest mafia boss in Pakistan. Everyone feared him, but girls couldn't stop falling for him either, since he was so handsome.
His eyes scanned her room. She wasn't in the corridor today.
He sat on the same bench, eyes scanning the reception. Nurses passed by. A child cried distantly from pediatrics. An orderly rattled past with metal trays.
Then—he saw her.
She walked in through the back staff entrance, head covered with her dupatta, as a part of it fluttering lightly behind her. Her skin looked brighter today—blush on her cheeks and a light lipstick was normal. But today, she was wearing mascara. The kind she only wore on special days.
Her outfit was soft lilac, with silver threadwork shimmering across the hem as she moved. She looked like she'd come from a celebration. His eyes landed on her hands, she had mehendi on them.
His chest tightened. Phirse koi function?
She was talking to Amna again. They were whispering, but he could hear pieces of it.
"Laiba!" Amna clapped her hands quietly. "Ring toh bohut pyari hai, pehli wali se bhi zyada acchi. Pehle wali roz kyun nahi pehnti thi?"
Laiba smiled—nervous, almost shy sound. But she was awkward. She never wanted this. "Bas... aadat nahi thi tab."
Amna grinned wider. "Aadat dalni padegi. Ab toh officially ho gaya sab. Face to face mangni. Na koi distance, na sirf family promise."
"Exactly," Shanze replied, entering the conversation. "Australia mein sirf baat hui thi, promise tha. Ab... yahan sab ke samne. Finally done."
Zain's nails bit into his palm.
Officially done.
So it was Zeeshan. The same cousin. But now... face to face. Real. Present.
He looked toward her hand. There it was.
A small diamond. Polished. Shiny. Nestled against her skin like it had been made just for her. His eyes locked on it as if it had the power to undo something inside him.
Amna and Shanze asked for some pictures, and she reluctantly showed them one.
Laiba caught his gaze briefly—just for a second—and looked away.
She didn't smile. Didn't walk over immediately. Instead, she took the patient chart from the nurse, skimmed the names, and then walked toward the dressing room.
"Zain," she said softly when she entered.
He stood. Followed her in silence.
Inside the Dressing Clinic
Laiba was quiet today. More than usual.
She didn't ask questions. Didn't glance at his face more than necessary. She wore her gloves slowly, methodically—like she was buying time with every movement. Her posture was careful. Professional.
Yet every time that strand of hair escaped and she tucked it behind her ear, his breath caught.
He didn't speak. Couldn't.
If he did—he wouldn't stop. Wouldn't stop until he asked why she let someone else put that ring on her hand. Why she still touched him so gently when she dressed the wound. Why her hands still trembled sometimes.
So he watched instead.
She peeled the bandage back. His skin looked better. The swelling had gone down. Only a faint red mark remained. But her fingers hovered, delicate, as if she were afraid to touch.
"Aaj sirf gauze change karna hai," she murmured. "Healing ho rahi hai."
He nodded once, silently.
She continued, unrolling the clean strip. Her fingers brushed his skin—accidentally—and his breath hitched. She paused but didn't look at him.
Then from outside the door—
"Laiba?" Zeeshan's voice. Clear. Calm.
She stiffened.
Zain's jaw clenched.
"Kidar ho?" she called out, louder than she'd intended. She went out to call him over, even though she didn't want to.
"Sab theek?" Zeeshan asked, his voice warm. "Mama keh rahi thi tumne lunch nahi khaya. Mujhe bhej diya."
He stepped in before she could respond.
A small paper bag in one hand, juice box in the other.
Laiba turned to him, surprised.
"Yeh sab kya hai?" she asked.
"Tumhara lunch," he said, stepping forward. "Pichli dafa bhi toh dressing ke time kuch nahi khaya tha."
He glanced at Zain, gave a polite nod. Zain returned it—barely.
Zeeshan handed her the juice, eyes lingering on the bandage.
"Redness thodi baaki hai," he said casually. "Tum dhyan rakhti ho." His teeth gritten unknowingly, and Zain watched their proximity.
Laiba smiled faintly, awkward. "Usi ka toh kaam hai mera."
Zeeshan chuckled, then without thinking—reached up and tucked the same loose strand behind her ear.
Zain's throat burned. That soft touch. That casual intimacy.
He'd noticed it before. But now it was different. Now she wore the ring. Now the mangni was real. Not a distant family promise. Not something she could walk away from.
His fists curled tighter.
The antiseptic burned. But not as much as the sight of Zeeshan leaning in, saying—
"Dinner ke liye late mat hona. Mama ne biryani banayi hai."
Laiba nodded. Her breath hitched, but not because she felt nervous under his presence, but because she was uncomfortable. She didn't want to get married to him, but she had to.
Zeeshan turned to leave. "Main baahar wait kar raha hoon," he said, glancing at Zain one last time before walking out.
The silence afterward was thick.
Laiba didn't speak.
Zain didn't either.
But his eyes locked on her hand again. The diamond glinted cruelly under the light.
She resumed the dressing quietly, fingertips brushing skin, breath catching in her throat when their eyes met for a split second.
She looked away.
"Agli dafa yahan nahi aana padega. Tumhe main medicine likh ke de rahi hoon, woh use kar lena. 3 times a day" she said softly, removing her gloves.
He nodded slowly. Stood.
She handed him a prescription of the medicine and then looked away, as if she had other things to do. But in reality, it was his intense gaze she couldn't equally reciprocate to.
Because she knew she would fall for him. But he was unaware of this fact.
He paused at the door. Looked back once. But she was busy—arranging the gauze tray, focused on her work.
Like she hadn't heard his heart ripping through the silence.
Sunday – 6:42 p.m. Anarkali Bazaar, Lahore
She was on a shopping spree with her family members. But she thanked Allah as Zeeshaan hadn't accompanied them.
Zain had come to that location regarding a mission. His 5 gang members, all handsome as ever, stayed beside him, eyes darting from edge to edge. The entire bazaar was full of laughter.
The city hummed around them, alive with light and motion. Rickshaws rattled past, hawkers called out prices, and the air buzzed with stories. But Zain saw none of it.
Because she was there.
He hadn't expected her. His men were parked discreetly nearby, surveilling a target in a jewelry shop—one he was meant to confront tonight. But everything paused when he caught sight of her dupatta gliding past the mirror stand, a soft lilac that teased familiarity.
A moment later, she turned.
Her eyes met his.
Something inside him stilled. Something ancient, heavy. That gaze—it had the same calm storm as the day she'd dressed his wound, the same quiet tremble beneath professionalism. She wore minimal makeup, but her skin glowed under the bazaar's golden hue. The mehendi on her hands was darker today, lines sharper, bolder.
And this, he did not like.
She was surrounded—two khalas discussing fabric costs, her mother inspecting buttons, younger cousins circling in bursts of excitement. But her eyes found his again.
Held him there.
Zain didn't approach her. Not yet. He didn't need to. Her gaze said she saw him. Felt him. Questioned why he was here, fully knowing the answer.
She shifted slightly, fingers grazing a soft green fabric roll. A salesman hovered nearby—eager, opportunistic.
"Madam, yeh wala dekhain... pure silk hai. Aap jaise khubsurat logon ke liye hi aya hai," he said, tone slick.
She froze. Zain watched.
Her cousins surrounded her, denying that they wanted the fabric, but the salesman wasn't listening. Her mother and khalas were not around. They had left the younger 2 under the older one's supervision.
The man leaned closer than necessary, his shoulder brushing hers lightly as he reached across the fabric.
Zain blinked once. And then the storm arrived.
His boots clicked against the broken tiles. His black shalwar kameez rustled like a warning. He didn't yell—he just moved, fast, precise, deadly.
The salesman turned too late.
Zain's grip on his collar was ice-cold. He slammed him against the steel shutter, rattling bangles that hung from the adjacent rack.
"Zubaan sambhaal," Zain whispered, deadly calm.
"B-bhai, misunderstanding—" His eyes widened. This was Zain Shah. The biggest fear of Pakistan.
"Tu yahan kapray bechne aaya hai. Nazrein bechne nahi," he spat.
The crowd hushed. The khalas returned in shock. Laiba didn't move—but her fingers dug into her dupatta, clutching the edge like it was the only barrier between her and him.
And still... she wasn't scared.
Zain let go. The man collapsed onto stacked boxes, gasping. Zain stepped back slowly, eyes dark and unreadable.
Then—he turned to her.
She hadn't moved. Her cousins watched wide-eyed, but Laiba's gaze didn't flinch.
Not from his fury. Not from the reputation that followed him like shadow.
Their eyes locked again. She said nothing. But her gaze spoke.
Zain... tumhe yeh sab nahi karna chahiye tha.
His response—just a flicker in his brows.
Lekin kisi aur ko... haqdaar samajhna muskhil hai.
She stepped forward slightly, only enough that the soft scent of her rose attar reached him. Her dupatta shifted, wind pulling the corner gently away from her forehead. She caught it quickly, repinned it.
That single motion.
His breath faltered.
She turned toward her mother—offering quiet reassurances, distracting them from what just unfolded. Her posture had steadied. Voice even. But her glance, every few seconds, pulled toward him. Unsaid things trembled there.
She didn't look away until he did.
Zain walked—slow, purposeful—out of the alley.
But the mission was forgotten. His men watched as he passed them, confused.
"Zain?" one called.
He kept walking. Tonight... she was the mission.
8:17 p.m. Zain's Safehouse, Lahore
The room was dim, sparsely decorated with shadows and silence. Zain stood by the window, one hand gripping the edge of the sill, knuckles white.
He hadn't touched his food. His men had returned from the bazaar—mission incomplete. Questions lingered. Orders awaited.
But he couldn't speak.
Laiba's eyes haunted him.
How they looked at him with calm defiance, even in the face of violence. How they flickered when he protected her—conflicted, confused, moved.
He wasn't sure what tore him more—that she didn't stop him...
Or that she hadn't run.
Her silence was louder than any scream.
In that glance, she'd seen the worst of him—and hadn't looked away....
TO BE CONTINUED...