AUTHOR POV
The road was quiet.
Too quiet.
Inaya lay crumpled near the edge of the pavement, her pink kurta stained with dust, her hair fanned around her like spilled ink. Her chest rose shallowly—barely. The world had gone distant, muffled, as if she were underwater.
Headlights cut through the stillness.
A black car screeched to a halt meters away.
The engine hadn't even fully stopped before the driver's door flew open.
Armaan.
He crossed the distance in seconds, shoes skidding on gravel as he dropped to his knees beside her.
"Inaya," he said—sharp, urgent.
No response.
His jaw tightened. His fingers hovered over her face, hesitating for the briefest fraction of a second—as if touching her without permission was a line even he measured.
He brushed her hair back gently.
Too gently.
Her skin was cold.
"Damn it," he muttered, the word clipped, controlled—but something wild burned beneath it.
He checked her pulse.
It was there.
Weak.
Relief slammed into him so hard his chest ached.
"Stay with me," he said quietly, leaning closer. "You don't get to leave like this."
A truck passed on the opposite lane, wind rushing over them. Armaan positioned himself instinctively between her body and the road—shielding her without thinking.
He slipped one arm beneath her knees, the other behind her shoulders.
For the first time, he hesitated again.
"You hate being touched," he whispered, as if she could hear him. "But I won't let you bleed out on the road."
He lifted her carefully.
Her head lolled against his chest.
And that—
that nearly broke him.
Her weight was light. Too light.
"She doesn't eat," he thought grimly. "They starve her in that house."
He laid her gently in the back seat, adjusting her dupatta around her shoulders, tucking it in so the breeze wouldn't touch her skin.
Possessive.
Precise.
Controlled.
He slammed the door shut and rounded the car, hands steady despite the storm inside him.
As he pulled onto the road, his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror again and again—watching her chest rise. Counting breaths.
"Breathe," he said softly. "For me."
His phone buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
He ignored it.
Nothing mattered more than getting her somewhere safe.
The hospital lights came into view.
Armaan parked crookedly, barely caring, and jumped out before the car had fully stopped. He opened the back door and lifted her again—this time without hesitation.
"Doctor!" he barked as he stormed inside. "She collapsed. She's unconscious."
Nurses rushed forward.
As they tried to take her from his arms, his grip tightened reflexively.
"For God's sake," one of them said, startled. "Sir—"
"She's allergic to milk," Armaan said immediately, eyes never leaving her face. "Severe trauma history. Panic episodes. Don't sedate her unless necessary."
The nurse blinked. "How do you—"
"Just do your job."
They eased her onto a stretcher.
The moment they wheeled her away, something sharp twisted in his chest.
He followed.
Of course he did.
ARMAAN POV
I told myself this wasn't ownership.
I told myself this was instinct.
But watching them take her away—
watching the doors close between us—
felt like losing something that was already mine.
And I hated the world for making her fall where I had to be the one to catch her.
Zeeshan khan pov
The road was empty.
Too empty.
Zeeshan's car screeched to a halt near the shoulder, dust rising in the air as he stepped out, heart pounding violently against his ribs. His eyes scanned the asphalt, the gravel, the stretch of silence—
Nothing.
No car.
No body.
No sign of her.
His breath caught.
"No…" he whispered, walking forward as if the ground might reveal her if he looked closely enough.
There—
tire marks.
Fresh. Sharp. Panicked.
Someone had stopped here.
His jaw clenched. His chest tightened painfully, an unfamiliar panic clawing up his throat. He pulled his phone out, dialing without thinking.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Nothing.
His hand fell to his side slowly.
Someone had reached her first.
The realization hit him like a blow to the chest.
And for the first time in years, fear—not anger, not hate—flooded Zeeshan Khan's veins.
He turned back to his car, movements sharp, violent.
"Find her," he muttered to himself as he slammed the door shut.
Because whatever war he thought he was fighting—
this was something else entirely.
INAYA ALI SHAH — POV
Waking
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The sound drilled into my skull.
Light burned behind my eyelids. My body felt heavy—wrong—like it didn't belong to me anymore. When I tried to move, pain shot through my head, forcing a broken sound from my throat.
I groaned.
Immediately, a hand stilled my shoulder.
"Easy."
The voice was male.
Calm.
Too calm.
My eyes flew open.
White ceiling.
Bright lights.
Hospital.
Panic surged instantly, sharp and suffocating. I tried to sit up, but dizziness slammed me back against the mattress.
"Hey—don't," the voice said again, closer now. "You collapsed. You're safe."
Safe.
That word didn't belong in my life.
I turned my head sharply—
And froze.
Armaan Meer.
He stood beside the bed, dressed in black, expression composed—but his eyes… his eyes were dark, intense, watching me with an attention that made my skin prickle.
"What are you doing here?" I demanded hoarsely.
My throat burned.
He didn't smile.
Didn't joke.
"I brought you in," he said simply.
The room tilted.
"You—" I swallowed hard. "You found me?"
"Yes."
My fingers curled into the bedsheet.
A thousand questions crashed into me at once, but one rose above all the others—heavy, terrifying.
"How long," I asked quietly, "were you watching me?"
For the first time, something flickered across his face.
Not guilt.
Not shame.
Restraint.
"I saw you fall," he said carefully. "I didn't touch you until you collapsed."
That wasn't reassuring.
That made it worse.
My pulse raced. I pushed myself up slightly despite the pain, putting distance between us.
"Where is my family?" I asked. "Zeeshan?"
Armaan's jaw tightened.
"They don't know yet."
The room felt suddenly smaller.
"You didn't call them?" I whispered.
"No," he replied calmly. "You needed medical attention first."
That was logical.
Too logical.
I stared at him, heart pounding loudly in my ears.
"You shouldn't have been there," I said.
"But I was," he answered.
Silence fell between us—thick, suffocating.
Then, softer, dangerously quiet—
"You don't fall alone anymore, Inaya."
Fear slid coldly down my spine.
I looked away.
"I want my brother," I said firmly. "Call Hamid. Now."
For a moment, Armaan didn't move.
The tension stretched.
Then he nodded once.
"Alright."
He stepped back, pulling his phone out—but his eyes never left me.
Not even for a second.
As he walked out of the room, the door closing softly behind him, my chest finally shuddered with a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
My hands trembled.
Zeeshan was late.
Armaan was early.
And suddenly, I understood something terrifying—
I wasn't caught between love and hate.
I was caught between control and possession.
And neither of them were safe.
zeeshan khan pov
The hospital doors slid open with a sharp hiss.
Zeeshan Khan walked in like a storm that had finally decided where to strike.
His suit was immaculate, his posture rigid—but his eyes were burning. Dark. Furious. Afraid in a way he hadn't allowed himself to feel in years. Every step echoed through the corridor, drawing glances from nurses and patients alike.
He didn't slow down.
Didn't ask politely.
"Where is Inaya Ali Shah?" he demanded at the reception desk, voice low but lethal.
The nurse flinched.
"Sir—her room number—"
He was already moving.
Room 317.
He reached it in seconds.
The moment he pushed the door open—
He stopped.
Inaya lay on the bed, pale against white sheets, an IV in her arm, eyes half-open but unfocused. For one terrifying second, his chest seized so hard he couldn't breathe.
She was alive.
That thought hit him like relief and punishment combined.
Then he saw him.
Armaan Meer stood near the window, arms crossed, posture relaxed—as if he belonged there.
Something inside Zeeshan snapped.
He crossed the room in long strides and grabbed Armaan by the collar, slamming him hard against the wall. The sound echoed—sharp, violent.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Zeeshan snarled.
Inaya gasped.
"Zeeshan—stop!" she croaked, struggling to sit up.
Zeeshan froze.
Her voice.
Weak.
Shaken.
He released Armaan instantly and turned to her, anger dissolving into something far more dangerous—fear.
"Are you okay?" he asked harshly, gripping the bed rail. "Why didn't you answer my calls? Do you have any idea—"
"I fainted," she said flatly. "Not died."
The words cut deeper than a scream.
Armaan straightened his jacket calmly, eyes cold now.
"I brought her here," he said evenly. "She collapsed on the roadside."
Zeeshan's head snapped toward him.
"You had no right."
"I had every right," Armaan replied, voice controlled. "She needed help. I was there."
"That's the problem," Zeeshan shot back. "You're always there."
The air between them turned sharp, dangerous.
Inaya's fingers curled into the sheets.
"Enough," she said weakly. "Both of you."
Neither listened.
Zeeshan stepped closer to Armaan again, voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a threat.
"Stay away from her."
Armaan didn't back down.
"You don't get to decide that," he replied quietly. "Not after everything."
Zeeshan laughed—a short, bitter sound.
"You think sitting beside her makes you her savior?" he asked. "You think she doesn't notice how you watch her?"
Armaan's eyes darkened.
"At least I see her," he said.
That did it.
Zeeshan turned away abruptly, chest heaving, then faced Inaya again—his voice rough now.
"You shouldn't be alone," he said. "Not like this."
She looked at him—really looked.
"You left me alone ten years ago," she said softly. "This is just the consequence."
Silence fell like a blade.
Zeeshan swallowed hard.
"I was wrong," he said finally, the admission tearing its way out of him. "But don't let him—"
She cut him off with a look.
"Don't turn this into a competition," she said. "I'm not a prize. I'm tired. I'm hurt. And right now, I just want my brother."
That hit both men.
Hard.
Zeeshan nodded once, jaw clenched, then stepped back.
Armaan glanced at her, unreadable, before moving toward the door.
"I'll be outside," he said quietly.
As he passed Zeeshan, he paused for just a second.
"This isn't over," Armaan murmured.
Zeeshan didn't reply.
He watched Armaan leave—then turned back to Inaya.
For the first time since she'd returned—
He looked terrified of losing her.
And Inaya?
She closed her eyes.
Because she knew one truth now—
She wasn't standing between love and hate.
She was standing between two storms.
And neither one planned to let her go.
AUTHOR POV
The Return No One Welcomed
The hospital corridor smelled of antiseptic and silence.
Hamid Ali Shah arrived breathless.
One look at Inaya—pale, exhausted, sitting upright with forced composure—and something inside him broke and hardened at the same time.
He didn't ask questions.
He didn't look at Zeeshan.
He didn't acknowledge Armaan.
He went straight to his sister.
"Inaya," he said softly, crouching in front of her. "I'm here."
Her fingers tightened around his sleeve.
"Take me home," she said quietly. "Please."
Hamid nodded immediately.
Then she added, her voice firm despite her weakness, "And listen carefully. No one at home needs to know I fainted. Not dadi. Not aunt. Not anyone."
Hamid frowned. "But—"
"No," she cut in, eyes sharp now. "I won't survive their pity or their blame. Promise me."
He held her gaze for a long moment.
Then nodded.
"I promise."
He stood up and finally turned toward the two men standing on opposite sides of the room.
Zeeshan's face was rigid, eyes burning with unspoken fear.
Armaan's expression was controlled—but Hamid noticed the possessiveness beneath it.
In that moment, Hamid understood something terrifying:
Both men were dangerous.
In very different ways.
"I'm taking my sister home," Hamid said clearly. "She doesn't need anyone else right now."
Neither man argued.
But neither looked happy.
Ali Shah Palace
The car stopped in front of the palace gates just before sunset.
Inaya stepped out slowly, supported by Hamid. From the outside, she looked composed—calm, dignified, untouchable.
Inside, she was hollow.
The moment she entered the living hall—
her aunt's sharp voice sliced through the air.
"Well, well," she said coldly, standing near the sofa. "Look who's back."
Inaya froze.
Hamid stiffened instantly.
Her aunt walked closer, eyes raking over Inaya with barely disguised contempt.
"Gone since morning. No explanation. No manners," she scoffed. "Is this how a respectable girl behaves now?"
Inaya said nothing.
She didn't trust her voice.
Her aunt's lips curled cruelly. "Or were you busy creating another scene? God knows you're good at that."
Hamid stepped forward. "Enough."
But the aunt wasn't done.
"Every time there's chaos in this house," she continued venomously, "your name is attached to it. Zoya died, this family shattered—and now look at us. Shame follows you wherever you go."
That was it.
Inaya lifted her head slowly.
Her eyes were calm.
Too calm.
"You should stop," Hamid warned sharply.
But Inaya spoke before him.
"Say her name again," she said softly, "and I won't stay silent."
Her aunt laughed mockingly. "Truth hurts, doesn't it? You were responsible then, and you're responsible now. Your presence alone poisons this house."
The words struck like knives.
Inaya's chest tightened—but she refused to break.
Hamid moved in front of her completely now, shielding her.
"That's enough," he said coldly. "You don't get to speak to my sister like that."
"Oh?" the aunt snapped. "Am I wrong? Ever since she returned, nothing but tension—"
"She collapsed today," Hamid blurted out.
Inaya's breath caught.
Hamid realized his mistake instantly.
The aunt's eyes widened—then gleamed.
"Collapsed?" she repeated sharply. "So now she's pretending to be ill too?"
Inaya finally snapped.
"I fainted," she said, voice shaking but loud. "Not for attention. Not for sympathy. Because this house suffocates me."
The room went silent.
Her aunt scoffed. "Drama."
Inaya took a step forward, eyes burning.
"You blame me for Zoya's death," she said, voice cracking now. "But none of you were there when I screamed for help. None of you asked what really happened."
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"You just needed someone to hate."
Her aunt looked away—but didn't apologize.
Hamid placed a hand on Inaya's shoulder.
"We're done here," he said firmly. "She needs rest."
He guided Inaya away.
As they walked toward the stairs, her legs trembled—but she didn't look back.
Behind them, the aunt muttered bitterly, "She'll destroy us all."
Hamid stopped mid-step and turned slowly.
"If this family is being destroyed," he said coldly, "it's not because of her."
And with that—
he took his sister upstairs to her room
Inaya's door closed softly behind her.
But the damage?
That lingered in every corner of the palace.
Inaya's room was dim, curtains half-drawn, sunlight barely daring to enter.
The door closed behind them with a soft click.
That was all it took.
Inaya's strength shattered.
Her knees gave out and she sank onto the edge of the bed, fingers digging into the fabric of her kurta as if holding herself together by force.
Her breathing turned uneven.
Hamid stood there for a moment—watching his sister crumble in silence.
Then he crossed the room in two long strides and knelt in front of her.
"Inaya," he said gently, lifting her face with two fingers. "Look at me."
She tried.
Her eyes filled instantly.
"I didn't say anything wrong," she whispered, voice breaking. "Did I?"
Hamid's jaw tightened.
"No," he said firmly. "You didn't say a single thing wrong."
A tear slipped down her cheek.
"She looks at me like I'm a curse," Inaya whispered. "Like everything bad in this house has my name written on it."
Hamid exhaled slowly, controlling the rage rising in his chest.
"She's wrong," he said, voice low but steady. "And her words don't get to decide your worth."
Inaya shook her head weakly. "But they all believe her. No matter what I say… Zoya's name always comes back to me."
At that name, her lips trembled.
"I loved her," she cried softly. "She was my sister too. If I could trade my life for hers, I would. Why can't anyone see that?"
Hamid's eyes burned.
He pulled her into his chest without asking, wrapping his arms around her tightly—protectively.
She broke completely then.
Her sobs tore through the quiet room, fingers clutching the back of his shirt like a lifeline.
Hamid rested his chin on her head.
"I'm here," he whispered over and over. "I'm not going anywhere. As long as I'm alive, no one gets to hurt you like this."
She cried into his chest, voice muffled.
"I'm so tired, Hamid," she whispered. "I try so hard to be strong. But every day feels heavier than the last."
He closed his eyes, holding her tighter.
"You don't have to be strong with me," he said softly. "You're allowed to break. I'll hold the pieces."
She pulled back slightly, looking at him with red, swollen eyes.
"What if I really am the problem?" she asked shakily. "What if everything would be easier if I wasn't here?"
Hamid stiffened.
He cupped her face in both hands, forcing her to look at him.
"Don't ever say that again," he said fiercely. "You are not the problem. You are the one surviving everyone else's cruelty."
His voice softened.
"And listen to me carefully—if this house ever becomes unbearable, you come to me. Day or night. No explanations needed."
She nodded slowly, tears still falling.
"Promise?" she whispered.
"I swear on my life," Hamid said without hesitation.
He wiped her tears gently with his thumb.
"Now lie down," he said, standing. "You're exhausted. I'll sit here until you fall asleep."
She lay back slowly, eyes still wet.
As Hamid pulled the blanket over her shoulders, she whispered, barely audible—
"Thank you for believing me."
Hamid looked down at her, heart aching.
"Always," he said quietly. "Even when the world doesn't."
The room fell silent.
But for the first time that day—
Inaya wasn't alone.
inaya ali shah pov
The evening air was heavy.
Inaya stood near the garden fountain, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, fingers digging into her sleeves as if she could physically hold herself together. The palace lights glowed behind her, but she felt none of their warmth.
She felt exposed.
Watched.
Her heart thudded painfully when she sensed it—
him.
Zeeshan.
He stood a few steps away, dressed immaculately in black, hands in his pockets, posture calm—too calm. His hazel eyes were fixed on her, dark and unreadable, like a storm trapped behind glass.
She hated that look.
It still had power over her.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," Zeeshan said finally, his voice low, controlled.
Inaya laughed bitterly without humor. "Funny," she replied softly. "I've been alone for ten years."
His jaw tightened.
"That was your choice."
Her eyes snapped to his, burning. "You think I chose that?" she whispered, pain cracking through her calm. "You think I chose to be abandoned, blamed, erased?"
Zeeshan took a step forward.
"And Zoya?" he asked quietly. "Did she choose that too?"
The words hit her like a blade.
Her breath hitched.
Tears welled, but she refused to let them fall.
"I didn't kill her," Inaya said, her voice shaking. "I've said it a thousand times."
Zeeshan's eyes darkened, rage flickering. "And I've buried her once. I won't bury the truth too."
Before she could respond—
A shadow moved at the edge of the garden.
Inaya felt it before she saw him.
Armaan.
He stood partially hidden by the trees, black suit blending into the night, eyes locked on Inaya with an intensity that made her skin prickle. His presence was silent, dangerous—like he had been there the whole time.
Zeeshan noticed immediately.
His body stiffened.
"What is he doing here?" Zeeshan asked coldly.
Armaan stepped forward into the light.
"I could ask you the same," he replied evenly.
Inaya turned sharply, startled. "Armaan—?"
He ignored Zeeshan completely, his gaze fixed only on her.
"You're shaking," he said quietly.
That broke her.
The concern in his voice—real, unfiltered—cracked the wall she had built all evening.
"I'm fine," she whispered, even though she wasn't.
Zeeshan moved between them.
"She doesn't need you," he said sharply. "Stay out of this."
Armaan smiled—but there was no warmth in it.
"She doesn't need you deciding what she needs," he replied.
The tension was suffocating now.
Inaya felt like the ground beneath her was splitting open.
"Stop," she said suddenly, her voice louder than she intended.
Both men froze.
She looked from Zeeshan to Armaan, her eyes glossy but fierce.
"You both talk about me like I'm not standing here," she said. "Like I'm some object you're fighting over."
Zeeshan's expression softened for a split second. "Inaya, you're my fiancée."
"And that gives you the right to hurt me?" she shot back.
Armaan stepped closer to her side—not touching, but close enough that she felt his presence like heat.
"You don't owe him anything," Armaan said quietly. "Not your silence. Not your pain."
Zeeshan laughed darkly. "Careful, Armaan. You're crossing lines."
"I crossed them the moment I watched her cry alone while you stood inside pretending to be righteous," Armaan replied.
Inaya's heart pounded.
"You were watching me?" she asked Armaan softly.
He met her eyes.
"I would never let anything happen to you," he said.
Zeeshan's fists clenched. "That sounds like obsession."
"And yours sounds like punishment," Armaan fired back.
The air felt electric.
Dangerous.
Inaya stepped back suddenly, overwhelmed.
"Enough," she said, tears finally spilling. "You both scare me."
That silenced everything.
Zeeshan's face drained of color.
Armaan's chest tightened painfully.
"I don't want to be loved like this," Inaya continued, her voice breaking. "One of you looks at me like I'm guilty. The other looks at me like I'm his last breath."
She wiped her tears angrily.
"I just want to breathe."
She turned and walked away toward the palace, leaving both men standing there—frozen.
Zeeshan stared after her, guilt and fury tearing him apart.
Armaan watched her disappear, his hands slowly curling into fists.
He whispered under his breath, barely audible—
"I'll protect you… even if I have to become the villain."
And somewhere deep inside,
Zeeshan realized—
he might already be one.
zeeshan meer pov
Zeeshan took one last look at Inaya.
She hadn't moved.
Her cheeks were pale, lashes resting softly against her skin. Her lips were slightly parted, her breath uneven—but steady. She looked fragile. Peaceful.
And that hurt the most.
Because he knew—
he had never been the reason for her peace.
Not once.
His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as guilt wrapped around his chest like iron chains. His eyes burned, but he refused to let the tears fall.
"I won't touch you," he whispered hoarsely, his voice heavy with restraint.
"I won't disturb you again."
A lie.
A cruel one.
Because even as he said it, every part of him was already breaking.
He turned away before his resolve shattered completely.
The door closed behind him—softly.
No sound.
No drama.
Just absence.
Just him choosing distance over destruction.
Outside, the evening air hit him like a slap.
Cold.
Sharp.
Unforgiving.
Zeeshan strode toward his car with long, furious steps, his fingers curling and uncurling as if he were barely holding himself back from ripping something apart. The guards straightened instantly, sensing the storm rolling off him—but he didn't spare them a single glance.
He yanked the car door open and slid into the driver's seat.
The door slammed shut.
The sound echoed louder than it should have.
His hands tightened around the steering wheel, gripping it so hard it creaked beneath his hold.
For a second—
just one—
he dropped his forehead against it.
His breathing turned heavy.
Uneven.
Broken.
"Why do you still own me?" he whispered into the silence. "Even after everything… why is it still you?"
Then his eyes opened.
Dark.
Storm-filled.
Burning with anger.
Angry at the world.
Angry at himself.
Angry at fate—for binding his heart to a woman he kept hurting, again and again.
The engine roared to life.
Zeeshan slammed the accelerator.
The car lunged forward violently, tires screeching against the driveway as he sped out of the palace. The headlights cut through the darkness, slicing it apart, leaving behind nothing but dust—
and unanswered pain.
He didn't look back.
Didn't slow down.
Didn't care how fast the speedometer climbed.
Because staying would have destroyed him—
and leaving was the only way he knew how to survive without falling to his knees and begging forgiveness he didn't deserve.
The road swallowed him whole.
Streetlights blurred past like fading memories.
And just like that—
Zeeshan Khan disappeared into the night,
his car vanishing at ruthless speed,
his heart heavier than ever,
carrying guilt no distance could ever outrun. 🖤
The speedometer kept climbing.
One hundred.
One twenty.
One forty.
The city lights blurred into meaningless streaks as Zeeshan drove like the road owed him answers. His grip on the steering wheel was brutal, veins standing out on his hands, knuckles white with pressure.
His chest burned.
Inaya's face wouldn't leave him alone.
Her still body.
Her pale skin.
The way she hadn't even flinched when he left.
"Damn it," he hissed, slamming his palm against the wheel.
His vision blurred for half a second.
That was all it took.
A sharp turn appeared out of nowhere.
Too close.
Too fast.
"Shit—"
He twisted the steering wheel violently.
The tires screeched, screaming against the asphalt as the car skidded sideways. His body slammed against the seatbelt, pain slicing through his shoulder. The world tilted—metal, light, speed colliding into chaos.
For one terrifying moment—
he saw it.
Blood.
Glass.
A crushed car.
Another funeral.
Inaya standing there again—
silent, shattered, blaming herself.
"No," he roared, forcing the wheel back. "Not like this!"
The car spun once—
twice—
then slammed to a halt inches away from the divider.
Smoke rose from the tires.
The engine growled angrily before falling into an eerie silence.
Zeeshan sat frozen.
Heart pounding so hard it hurt.
Breath ragged.
Hands shaking.
He stared straight ahead, unable to process how close he had come.
How easy it would have been to end everything.
A broken laugh escaped his lips—low, bitter, unhinged.
"So this is it?" he muttered. "This is how weak you've made me?"
His forehead dropped against the steering wheel.
This time, he didn't stop the tremor in his hands.
"If I had died just now…" his voice cracked, "would you have cared, Inaya?"
Silence answered him.
Only the distant sound of passing cars—life continuing, indifferent to his collapse.
He sucked in a shaky breath and straightened slowly.
No tears.
Just something darker settling in his chest.
"I won't die," he said quietly, dangerously.
"Not before the truth destroys us both."
He restarted the engine.
The car moved again—slower now, controlled—but something inside him had cracked beyond repair.
Because Zeeshan Khan had just learned one terrifying truth:
Inaya didn't just have the power to break his heart—
she had the power to end his life.
And that scared him more than hate ever could. 🖤