Chapter 1: Laiba Returns Home After 6 Long Years
"Kuch rishte sirf farz bante hain, ehsaas kabhi paida hi nahi hota."
The old house on M.M. Alam Road hadn't seen this much life in years. White fairy lights curled around the carved wooden balconies, glowing softly in the warm June air as faint strains of shehnai drifted through open windows.
Inside, the women of the Khan family moved briskly in and out of the drawing room, balancing trays of mithai and folded pastel dupattas. Voices overlapped in a hum of anticipation, the kind that only weddings bring.
Laiba's mother, Shaista Begum, had been supervising the staff since Fajr prayer. She was tired, her back aching from standing so long, but her eyes brightened every time she remembered. She hadn't seen her daughter in six months. Her sister-Laiba's khala-was beside her in the kitchen, tying cellophane around gift baskets.
Their daughter was finally coming home.
Three months. That's all Laiba had agreed to. Just long enough to attend her cousin Samina's wedding, to show her face, to keep her parents' wishes alive even though her heart remained somewhere far from Lahore.
Her younger brother, Hamza, stood by the drawing room window, scrolling absently through his phone. He'd barely adjusted to Lahore-he missed his friends in Sydney, the easy routine of their life there-but no matter how many years they'd spent in Australia, they were still Pakistani at heart.
And Zeeshan.
Zeeshan had been coming over every single day since Laiba's parents arrived, eager in a way that felt both familiar and suffocating. He'd always been around-ever since they were children, ever since she could remember, treating her like something he'd been entitled to by default.
No one had asked Laiba what she wanted.
Unka rishta fix hai, Shaista would say firmly, as if repeating it enough times would make it feel real, natural, inevitable.
But to Laiba, even from miles away in London, it had never felt right.
Across the city, in an entirely different world, Zain Shah's men were unloading crates from matte-black jeeps under the cover of darkness. The wheels crunched over gravel as headlights flickered against the ancient brick walls of the haveli his grandfather had built decades ago.
It was nearly midnight when Zain walked through the gates, his footfalls unhurried, his face expressionless in the glow of a single bulb swinging from a wire overhead.
His life was built on calculated violence-on the smuggling routes no one dared speak of in public, on the unspoken agreements with government forces desperate enough to buy from a man like him.
Everyone in Lahore had a story about Zain Shah:
Usko ghussa aata hai to kisi ko zinda nahi chhodta.
Usne apne baap ko bhi nikal diya tha jab wapas aaya tha.
Zain Shah se ulajh ke koi safe nahi rehta.
But no one knew what it cost him to keep that empire standing.
At the edge of the courtyard, Bashir, his most trusted lieutenant, stood smoking in silence.
"Sab load hogaya?" Zain asked, his voice low. He held a cigarette carelessly near his torso, the ash falling onto the dusty floor. Without looking, he flicked it behind him.
"Haan. Truck kal raat border cross karega."
Zain nodded once, then took the cigarette from Bashir's hand without asking. He leaned back against a brick pillar, exhaling smoke into the night, feeling that brief lull-the only peace he ever knew-after a shipment and before the next inevitable conflict.
He didn't know that somewhere across the city, in a house full of laughter and wedding preparations, there was a girl who would soon unravel every part of him he thought was unbreakable.
Back in Gulberg, Laiba's plane had landed hours ago, but her driver had been stranded in the late-night traffic near Liberty Market.
She sat in the back seat now, forehead resting against the cool window glass, watching Lahore's lights blur past in streaks of white and amber.
The driver cleared his throat, hesitant to disturb her thoughts.
"Baji... ghar phone kar lein? Sab wait kar rahe hain."
"Karti hoon." She pulled her phone from her handbag but didn't dial right away.
Six years was a long time.
She'd been thirteen when she left Pakistan. Nineteen now, almost twenty. A practitioner nurse, accustomed to the controlled chaos of a London hospital. Not this-this tangled mess of obligations and expectations.
Not the engagement she'd never asked for.
When the car finally turned into her street, she exhaled and tapped the call button.
"Mama... main bas Multan ke main stop par pohunchne waali hoon. Zeeshan nikal gaya hai?" she asked, voice quiet.
"Chalo alhumdulillah." Her mother sounded relieved, already softening into teasing. "Arey Zeeshan toh 2 ghante pehle hi nikal gaya tha, badi jaldi hai usse."
Laiba was meant to smile, to feel butterflies in her stomach at the mention of him. But she didn't.
She didn't answer.
"Acha, kuch khaya tha flight main ya nahin?" her mother asked, concern threading her voice. She knew her children too well-knew they refused airplane food.
"Nahi, bas coffee pee thi," Laiba said, adjusting the strap of her bag.
"Zeeshan ko bol dena kuch choti moti cheez le de tumhe. Ghar tak pohunchne main ghanta lagega," her mother suggested.
For a moment, Laiba imagined asking Zeeshan for anything. The idea made her throat tighten. But she knew her mother wouldn't let her brush it off.
They continued talking as the driver navigated the last stretch of road. In the quiet gaps between her mother's questions, she thought about how strange it felt to be here again-how familiar and foreign all at once.
She was the oldest daughter. The one who had left. The one who had learned to rely on her own hands and her own mind. But still, in so many ways, she belonged here-close to her mother, tied to all these expectations she couldn't seem to break.
When they reached the border line of Multan, ready to cross into Lahore, her driver slowed the car. One of her father's trusted men approached the window.
"Baji, main apke saath ruku agli savari aane tak, ya jaun?"
"Nahi, meri savari aayi hui hai," she replied. "Main bus call karke confirm kar leti hoon, phir ap chale jaiyega."
She stepped out carefully, her dupatta falling forward over her face. The night air was warm and heavy. She pulled out her phone again and called Zeeshan.
He picked up almost instantly.
"Tumhare left par."
She turned to her left and saw him waiting, the headlights of his car catching in his eyes.
Zeeshan's POV:
She looked ethereal.
She wore a dark green printed netted silk kurti, the matching dupatta covering most of her hair, except that one strand that slipped free and rested against her cheek with every movement. Her beige and gold handbag was balanced in her left hand, the stethoscope hanging out just enough to remind him of who she had become.
Her cheeks were pink from the heat, her faint smile tinged with confusion. She looked so simple, so impossibly elegant, it made his chest tighten.
POV Ends
Her driver moved around the boot to unload her luggage. Zeeshan finally stepped out, his gaze locked to hers.
"Assalamualikum."
"Walaikum Salam."
He helped with her bags, settling them gently in the boot of his car. Then he turned back to her, searching her expression for something he couldn't quite name.
"Kaisi ho?" he asked, voice softer now.
She adjusted her dupatta before answering.
"Theek alhumdulillah...ap?"
He studied her for a second, as if trying to understand what she was really saying. Then he smiled.
"Ab theek hoon."
Again, she was meant to feel something-some flutter of relief or happiness. But there was nothing. No spark at all.
Elsewhere, in the Shah haveli, Zain stubbed out his cigarette, unaware that the woman who would become his undoing was minutes away from stepping into the world he ruled from the shadows.
But for tonight, the city was quiet. And some stories hadn't started yet. Soon, they would become history.
The ride to her khala's house was silent. Only the hum of the AC and the faint echo of traffic filled the air.
Until he spoke.
"Tum pehle bhi itni hi chup rehti thi, ya mujhe ab feel ho raha hai?" he asked, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.
She shared a small, polite smile.
"Waqt ke saath saath sab kuch badal jata hai."
His smirk widened a little. That was what drew him to her-how she answered so calmly, so maturely, never direct but never evasive.
"Aj bhi mujhse nazre nahi milati," he said, looking back at the road when she lifted her gaze to him.
"Nazre milane ke liye waja chahiye hoti hai. Abhi toh ap drive kar rahe hain."
Her voice was quiet, steady.
"Chalo, batao, kya khao gi? Khala ne mujhe bola hai tumhe kuch lekar doon," he said, trying to make it less strange, less formal.
"Nahi, koi masla nahi hai. Ap bus ghar chaliye," she replied, adjusting her engagement ring absently.
At the next gas station, he pulled over anyway, locking the doors before leaving her alone. He returned with a tandoori sandwich and held it out wordlessly.
She accepted it. She was starving. She ate slowly as he drove, stealing glances at her when he thought she wouldn't notice.
They reached her khala's haveli not long after. The gate swung open as her family poured out to meet her. Warm voices, hands reaching for her bags, kisses on her forehead.
For a little while, it was easy to forget everything else.
They went inside, the house buzzing with stories, laughter, and relief that she was finally among them again.
Elsewhere, in the quiet of his ancestral courtyard, Zain's team gathered around a low table, maps spread out beneath a single bulb.
"Hume jaldi plan karna hoga. Kaisy rokenge ye attack? Aur hume toh pata bhi nahi konse bazaar par unka target hai?" Bilal asked, unwinding the map with tense hands.
Zain stood at the head of the table, one hand in his pocket, the other lifting a cigarette to his mouth.
"Saare target points par nazar rakhni hogi kal. Kuch bhi unusual report karna," he said calmly.
Smoke drifted across his face as he studied the map. The embers glowed in the dark, the only sign of how alive he felt when danger was near.