INAYA ALI SHAH — POV
Canada
It was midnight.
A girl lay asleep on her king-size bed, her breathing uneven. Her entire body trembled violently. In her dream, she shook her head again and again, as if refusing something. Her fingers curled into tight fists until her knuckles turned white.
"I didn't kill her… she just fell… I didn't do that,"
she whispered weakly.
Suddenly, her eyes flew open.
She couldn't take it anymore.
She sat up in bed, gasping for air, dragging deep, desperate breaths into her lungs. Tears streamed down her face continuously, yet she cried silently—no sobs, no sound. She stayed like that for hours, unmoving, unaware of how much time had passed.
She didn't try to sleep again.
She knew that once the nightmares came, sleep never returned.
When she was finally done, she wiped her tears harshly from her face. Slowly, she lowered her legs from the bed. The moment her bare feet touched the cold floor, a sharp current shot up her spine—but she stood up anyway.
She walked to the main switch and turned on the lights.
Then she moved toward the mirror.
Barefoot, standing still, she stared at her reflection.
She wore a long white silk nightdress. Dark brown, almond-shaped eyes. Long black hair framing a sharp jawline. Soft lips, a round face, pale skin, a slim and delicate figure.
Her eyes were breathtakingly beautiful—
yet there was no hope in them.
Only coldness.
The world knew her as Canada's top businesswoman—a self-made billionaire. People praised her beauty, admired her power, envied her success. To the world, she was the dream girl of every man, the epitome of perfection.
Everyone believed she had everything:
power, beauty, money, a strong family.
But no one knew her dark side.
And no one knew the truth she was running from.
She walked toward her closet and emerged wearing gym trousers and a loose shirt. Without wasting a second, she headed to her private gym.
The silence there was heavy.
She pushed herself until her body burned, until exhaustion drowned the noise in her head. Until pain became easier than memory.
Afterward, she went straight into the bathroom and began splashing cold water onto her face—again and again—as if trying to erase the pain carved into her skin. The cold stung, but she welcomed it.
An hour later, she stepped out wrapped in a bathrobe.
She returned to her closet.
This time, she emerged transformed.
A sharp three-piece black suit. Perfectly tailored. Every button controlled. The softness was gone, buried deep beneath fabric and discipline.
The woman in the mirror wasn't broken anymore.
She was untouchable.
She picked up her branded bag and grabbed her phone from the side table. Without sparing a single glance behind her, she walked out of her room and descended the stairs.
The hall was already awake.
She took her seat at the dining table, posture straight, expression unreadable. She didn't look at anyone. Her attention remained on her phone as she answered emails, business notifications flashing endlessly across the screen.
The moment she sat down, the hall fell into complete silence.
Even the air seemed to hold its breath.
Sensing her presence, a woman in her fifties stepped out of the kitchen, dressed in a maid's uniform. A food tray rested in her hands. She placed the breakfast carefully in front of Inaya, then returned to the kitchen with her head bowed.
Inaya glanced at the food.
Slowly, she switched off her phone and placed it beside her plate.
Just as she reached for the spoon—
her phone rang.
The sound cut through the silence like a blade. She picked up the phone. The moment her eyes landed on the caller ID, her jaw tightened.
She inhaled deeply.
Once.
Twice.
Then she answered, pressing the phone to her ear with more force than necessary.
A deep, aged voice filled her ear—heavy with authority, cold with command.
"Come back home tomorrow."
Her fingers curled around the phone.
It was her grandfather.
He called after many months—only to check whether she was still alive, or if she had finally disappeared for good.
A sharp, painful emotion flickered in her eyes and vanished just as quickly. She swallowed hard before replying harshly,
"I'm busy."
There was a pause.
Then the voice returned—firmer, more dangerous.
"I'm not asking. I'm giving you a command. I want you home for dinner. Otherwise, you know very well what I can do. Finish all your work there and come back."
The line went dead.
No explanation.
No room for refusal.
She sat frozen, her chest tight with restrained anger, her pulse pounding loudly in her ears. The untouched breakfast lay before her, slowly going cold.
She didn't take a single bite.
Pushing her chair back, she walked out of the dining hall, out of the mansion, and into the cold morning air.
Moments later, she slid into her BMW—her face calm, controlled—
but something inside her was breaking.
As the car moved, the city blurred past the windows. Forty minutes later, the BMW stopped in front of a massive glass building—one of the biggest companies in the country.
Her company.
She entered without a sound.
The moment she crossed the doors, conversations died mid-sentence. Keyboards stopped clicking. Every employee straightened instinctively.
"Good morning, ma'am,"
they said together.
She didn't reply.
Her heels echoed sharply against the marble floor as she walked past them—commanding, unforgiving. No one dared to follow her with their eyes for long.
She headed straight to her private lift. An assistant stood waiting, files in hand, tension visible.
The doors opened on the top floor.
Her PA stood there—older, composed, concern etched deep into his face.
"Good morning, ma'am."
She looked at him once.
"Cancel all unnecessary meetings," she said coldly. "Clear my schedule after noon."
"Yes, ma'am."
Inside her cabin, the silence felt heavier.
She loosened her blazer and walked to the glass wall overlooking the city.
"He called," she said quietly.
Her PA stiffened. "Your grandfather?"
"Yes."
That single word carried years of control, fear, and wounds that never healed.
"He wants me back home. Tomorrow. Dinner. Orders. Threats," she added. "Same pattern."
"Do you want me to—"
"No."
Her voice was sharp. "Not yet."
She turned, eyes cold.
"If he wants war, he'll get silence first."
Her PA hesitated. "Ma'am… the board members are waiting in the boardroom."
"They can wait."
"They've been waiting for some time."
She turned slowly.
"They exist because I allow them to," she said evenly. "Five more minutes won't kill them."
Minutes later, the boardroom filled.
Executives stood the moment she entered.
"Sit."
Her voice was calm—but absolute.
One mistake. One explanation. One raised hand.
"Stop."
"You had one job. And you failed."
No shouting. No drama.
Just precision.
"Fix it by next quarter," she said coolly, "or submit your resignation before I do it for you."
Meeting over.
Back in her cabin, her PA spoke again.
"The media picked up rumors. About your family."
Headlines stared back at her:
Billionaire Inaya Ali Shah to Reunite with Family?
Is a Power Marriage on the Horizon?
Her grip tightened.
So this was it.
Her grandfather wasn't just calling her back—
he was closing the net.
She exhaled slowly, then smiled.
It didn't reach her eyes.
"Prepare the jet," she said softly.
She looked out at the city one last time.
"This time," she whispered to herself,
"I'm not running."
"I'm going back to end it."
zeeshan khan pov.
A man in his early thirties stood near the floor-to-ceiling window, hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored suit.
Zeeshan Khan.
The city lights reflected against the glass, outlining his sharp features—strong jawline, high cheekbones, and intense dark eyes that missed nothing. His hair was perfectly styled, his presence effortlessly commanding. He looked like the kind of man people trusted at first glance—
until they stayed long enough to see the darkness beneath.
He was lost in thought.
Inaya's face crossed his mind without permission.
Not the woman she had become—
but the girl she once was.
The door behind him opened softly.
"Sir…"
He didn't turn.
His PA stepped inside, hesitation clear in her voice. "She's… she's coming back tomorrow."
For a moment, the room remained silent.
Then—
a slow, dark smile curved Zeeshan's lips.
His reflection in the glass looked almost cruel.
"Welcome to hell, Inaya," he murmured.
The PA stiffened.
Fear flickered openly across her face as she gathered the courage to ask, "Sir… what are you going to do?"
She swallowed. "She is your fiancée."
Zeeshan let out a low, humorless chuckle.
It sent a chill through the room.
"Fiancée?" he repeated softly. "She doesn't deserve to be loved."
He finally turned around.
Up close, his eyes were cold—calculating, merciless.
"She killed her own younger sister."
The words came out sharp, final, like a verdict already passed.
He inhaled deeply, steadying the storm inside him, then spoke again—his tone commanding, absolute.
"You're dismissed."
The PA nodded quickly, relief and fear mixing in her expression, and turned to leave. The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Alone.
The smirk on Zeeshan's face slowly faded.
His expression hardened into something far more dangerous.
"This isn't the Inaya I loved," he whispered to the empty room. "That girl died ten years ago."
His jaw clenched.
"What came back… deserves only hate."
Outside, the city glittered—unaware that a war was quietly being prepared.
And Inaya—
was walking straight into it.
Zeeshan was still lost in Inaya's thoughts when his phone rang.
The sharp sound cut through the silence of the cabin.
He glanced at the screen.
Unknown to no one. Impossible to ignore.
inaya grandfather.
He answered without hesitation.
"Yes, sir."
The voice on the other end was firm, authoritative—used to obedience.
"You're aware she's back," the old man said. "It's time to remind you of your responsibility. Your engagement to Inaya still stands."
Zeeshan's jaw tightened slightly, but his voice remained calm.
"I know."
"She's coming home," the grandfather continued. "And you will marry her. Soon."
There was a brief pause.
Then—
Zeeshan smiled.
Slow. Dark. Calculated.
"As you wish," he replied easily.
The agreement came too fast.
Too smooth.
As if he had been waiting for this very moment.
Zeeshan was about to end the call when the voice on the other end spoke again—slower this time, deliberate.
"One more thing."
Zeeshan straightened instinctively. "Yes, sir?"
"You won't come alone," the old man said. "You'll come with your parents. Tomorrow evening."
A pause.
"I want the families present when she arrives. I want Inaya to be reminded of where she belongs."
Zeeshan's fingers tightened around the phone.
"And you will meet her properly," the grandfather continued. "No distance. No delay. You will look at her, speak to her, sit beside her—as my future grandson-in-law."
Zeeshan exhaled slowly, masking his reaction.
"Understood," he replied calmly.
The old man wasn't finished.
"This marriage will not wait," he added coldly. "The engagement will be reinforced. Publicly, if needed."
Zeeshan's lips curved into a faint, unreadable smile.
"As you wish," he said again.
The line disconnected.
Zeeshan lowered the phone, his expression darkening as thoughts began to twist into something far more dangerous.
"So you want us face to face," he murmured.
A low chuckle escaped him.
"Fine."
He turned back toward the window, city lights burning below like a thousand watching eyes.
"I'll come with my parents," he whispered.
"I'll smile. I'll play the part."
His gaze hardened.
"And then I'll make sure she remembers everything she tried to forget."
Because this meeting wasn't about reconciliation.
It was about control.
And Inaya—
was about to walk into a room where no one intended to let her leave untouched.
The call ended.
Zeeshan lowered the phone and leaned back in his chair, eyes darkening with intent. A low chuckle escaped his lips—dangerous, almost amused.
"So this is how it begins," he murmured.
Marriage.
Not as a bond.
But as a weapon.
He straightened, adjusting his cufflinks, his expression settling into something cruelly composed.
"You want me to marry her?" he whispered to himself.
"Fine."
His eyes hardened.
"I'll make her suffer—slowly. Publicly. Perfectly."
Because loving Inaya was no longer an option.
Breaking her—
was.
And somewhere far away, Inaya had no idea that the ring waiting for her wasn't a promise—
but a trap.