The ballroom shimmered like a jewel box. Chandeliers, dripping with crystal, cast golden light on polished marble floors. Waiters in immaculate black-and-white moved silently among the crowd, their silver trays laden with champagne flutes. The clinking of glasses and soft strains of a string quartet mingled with laughter and murmured conversations.
Zara Malik paused at the top of the grand staircase, her hand resting lightly on the banister. For a moment she simply stood there, surveying the room. The city's elite had gathered tonight, politicians, business tycoons, foreign diplomats, and their perfectly dressed spouses. Power lived and breathed in this room, dressed in silk gowns and tailored suits, and Zara was about to step directly into its orbit.
She was twenty-seven, and yet she carried herself with the composure of someone far older. The emerald satin gown she wore clung to her slender frame, its off-shoulder neckline revealing delicate collarbones. Her hair, dark and glossy, was swept up into a chignon, and a pair of diamond earrings, the only pieces of jewelry she owned—caught the light with every subtle movement.
Her heart beat fast, though her face revealed nothing. Tonight was important, far more than anyone here could guess. She descended the staircase slowly, deliberately, each step measured. Conversations faltered as heads turned toward her. She could feel their eyes on her, some admiring, others calculating. That was the thing about gatherings like this: nothing was innocent, not even a glance.
At the base of the staircase stood Saif Rehman, impeccably dressed in a black tuxedo. He was older than Zara, perhaps in his mid-thirties, with a strong jawline and a gaze that held both charm and steel. Saif was the kind of man who could smile warmly at you while calculating your worth in the same breath. He extended his hand as she reached the final step.
"You're late," he said softly, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles.
"Fashionably," Zara replied, her voice cool, steady. She slipped her hand into his. His touch was firm, grounding.
Together they moved into the sea of glittering faces. Saif's presence at her side was no accident. He was a political strategist, a fixer of sorts, someone who understood that in their country, power was a game played behind closed doors and in whispered deals. Zara had met him only three months ago, but in that short time, he had become both ally and enigma.
As they mingled, Zara's eyes scanned the room. She was searching for one man in particular: Senator Imran Khan, chairman of the ruling party's finance committee. He was known for his influence, his ruthlessness, and his appetite for younger women. Zara loathed him, but she needed him.
Saif leaned closer, his breath brushing her ear. "He's over by the French ambassador. The one with the smug expression and the whisky glass."
Zara's gaze followed his. There he was. Senator Imran in his late fifties, heavyset, his thick mustache hiding a perpetual sneer. His laugh boomed, too loud, too forced. The ambassador beside him laughed too, though it was the brittle laugh of someone tolerating arrogance.
Zara straightened her shoulders. "Introduce me."
Saif's eyes narrowed, studying her face. "Are you sure you're ready?"
She met his gaze evenly. "I've been ready my whole life."
They crossed the room, weaving through clusters of men discussing oil contracts and women whispering about jewelry and rivalries. Senator Imran looked up as Saif approached, his eyes immediately flicking to Zara. His gaze lingered, traveling slowly from her neckline to her face. He smiled, wolfish.
"Senator," Saif greeted smoothly. "Allow me to introduce a friend. This is Zara Malik."
Zara extended her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Senator."
His palm was sweaty as it enclosed hers. "The pleasure," he drawled, "is all mine. Malik, you said? Any relation to Arif Malik?"
Her pulse quickened. That name. Her father's name. The man who had once been a rising star in the Ministry of Energy, until corruption charges destroyed him and their family. Zara's entire childhood had been consumed by his disgrace. She forced a calm smile.
"Yes. He was my father."
Senator Imran's grin widened. "Ah, I knew Arif. Sharp man. Misguided, but sharp. And you… well, you have his eyes."
Zara's lips curved politely. "I hope I have more than that, Senator."
The men around them chuckled, appreciating the boldness. Imran's eyes gleamed with something between amusement and interest. He liked confidence; it made the eventual conquest sweeter. Zara knew this game well. She had no intention of being conquered, but she was willing to let him think otherwise.
For the next hour she played her role flawlessly. She laughed at his jokes, asked questions about the economy, listened intently as he spoke of his accomplishments. All the while, she tucked away pieces of information, mentally noting the names he dropped, the hints of projects he boasted about. It was like assembling a puzzle where each fragment could someday become leverage.
At one point, Senator Imran leaned closer. "You should visit me at my office, Zara. We could discuss… opportunities. I like to help ambitious young people."
Zara tilted her head, feigning innocence. "Opportunities?"
He winked. "For someone as intelligent as you, doors can open quickly."
She smiled, though inside her stomach turned. "Perhaps I'll take you up on that."
When he finally drifted away, called to another conversation, Zara exhaled slowly. Saif was watching her closely.
"You handled him well," he said.
"I've had practice."
Saif studied her for a long moment. "I don't think I've ever met anyone quite like you, Zara Malik."
"And you've met a lot of people," she replied lightly.
Their eyes held for a second too long. Zara looked away first.
As the evening drew on, the ballroom began to thin. Cars were called, coats retrieved, promises of lunches and meetings exchanged. Zara excused herself to the terrace for air. The night was cool, the city lights shimmering beyond the gardens. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply, trying to steady herself.
Her life had changed so much in such a short time. A year ago she had been invisible, working long hours in a garment factory to support her ailing mother. No one had cared who Zara Malik was then. But fate or perhaps ambition had pulled her into this new world. And now, standing here beneath the glittering sky, she could feel it: the whispers of power brushing against her skin, beckoning her deeper.
She thought of her father. Arif Malik had once told her, "Power is never given, Zara. It's taken. And once you take it, never let it go." She had been twelve then, too young to understand. But now, she understood all too well.
Behind her, the terrace door opened. Footsteps approached. She turned.
It was not Saif. It was not Senator Imran.
It was a woman.
She was tall, elegant, draped in a deep red gown. Her hair was silver, her face lined, but her eyes burned with sharp intelligence. Zara recognized her instantly.
Begum Shahana, widow of the late Prime Minister. A woman as powerful in silence as her husband had been in politics.
"I've been watching you," Shahana said, her voice low, measured. "You're Arif Malik's daughter, aren't you?"
Zara inclined her head. "Yes."
Shahana's lips curved. "Then perhaps you understand what it means to have your family destroyed by politics."
Zara's heart thudded. "I understand too well."
The older woman stepped closer. "Good. Then maybe you also understand this: the men in that room will never give you power. They will use you, discard you, laugh about you over their cigars. If you want to rise, Zara, you will need women. Women who know how to fight in the shadows."
Zara stared at her, startled. "And you would teach me?"
Shahana's smile deepened. "I would test you. If you survive, then perhaps… yes."
Before Zara could respond, Shahana turned and walked away, her gown sweeping across the terrace tiles like a trail of fire.
Zara stood frozen, her mind spinning. Tonight she had stepped into a game she barely understood, and already new doors were opening although they were dangerous doors.
The whispers of power were growing louder.
And Zara Malik was listening.