zeeshan khan pov
After that terrible dinner, we said our goodbyes and left the palace.
I got into my car while my parents followed in theirs. The moment the door shut, silence wrapped around me—but my mind refused to quiet down.
The entire drive, my thoughts kept circling back to her.
To Inaya.
Every word exchanged between us replayed again and again in my head. Her calm voice. Her cold strength. The way she stood her ground as if nothing could shake her anymore.
And the way she looked.
Breathtaking.
I was angry at her—furious for what she had done. For what she had destroyed. And yet… somewhere deep inside, a part of me still loved her.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop.
Remembering her face made my heartbeat quicken. A strange, unwanted peace settled in my chest, clashing violently with the hatred I carried. I hadn't shown her anything—not the anger, not the weakness.
But the truth was unbearable.
She was still devastatingly beautiful.
And I still loved her.
Too much.
Suddenly, my thoughts drifted to that night.
The accident.
My grip tightened around the steering wheel. I wished—desperately—that it had never happened. Because after that night, everything changed.
Because of that accident, I saw my best friend, Hamid, break completely.
I remembered Zoya's funeral.
The sound of Hamid crying still echoed in my ears—the way his whole body shook as if he might collapse any second. I remembered the pain on every face, the grief that swallowed both families whole.
How could she do that?
How could Inaya do that to her own sister?
To her family?
To us?
Before the accident, my wedding with Inaya had been all I thought about. I had imagined that day a thousand times—her smile, her laughter, the future we would build together.
But now—
Nothing was the same.
Nothing.
She had destroyed everything.
And for that, I hated her.
I hated her so much.
My jaw clenched, my fingers tightened painfully around the steering wheel. Anger burned through my veins, my eyes turning red as fury consumed me.
By the time I reached home, my parents were already there, seated on the sofa. Their faces were tense, worried, watching me closely.
I didn't look at them.
Without a word, I walked past them, climbed the stairs, and entered my room, slamming the door shut behind me.
The moment I was alone, something inside me snapped.
I tore off my blazer and threw it onto the floor. Then another thing. And another.
I grabbed whatever was within reach—books, frames, a lamp—and flung them across the room. The sound of glass shattering filled the air.
Within minutes, my room was a mess.
A reflection of me.
My chest heaved, breaths uneven and harsh. My legs gave out, and I slid down until I was sitting on the cold floor.
That's when the tears came.
I clenched my fists, my lips trembling as a broken whisper escaped me.
"Why, Inaya… why did you hurt us?"
My voice cracked.
"Why did you destroy our future?"
The tears kept falling—hot, silent, unstoppable. I didn't know how long I cried like that, sitting on the cold floor with my back against the bed, drowning in anger, regret, and love I couldn't erase.
And somewhere between the pain and exhaustion—
I fell asleep.
Still crying.
On the cold floor.
The next morning, I woke up to sunlight spilling through the curtains, sharp rays stabbing straight into my eyes.
I groaned softly and tried to sit up—
only to be hit by a terrible pain in my head.
It throbbed violently, as if someone were crushing my skull from the inside. My eyes burned, swollen and heavy from crying all night. My throat felt dry, raw, and tight—like I had screamed without making a sound.
I sat there for a moment, breathing slowly, letting the memories rush back.
The dinner.
The arguments.
Inaya.
My chest tightened again.
I ran a hand through my hair and winced when another wave of pain hit me. My body felt stiff from sleeping on the cold floor, every muscle aching, every bone protesting.
I wasn't supposed to feel like this.
I wasn't supposed to still care.
Yet the moment her face crossed my mind, the ache in my chest returned—deeper than the headache, heavier than the exhaustion.
I dragged myself to my feet and glanced around the room.
Broken glass.
Scattered papers.
An overturned chair.
The aftermath of last night stared back at me like a silent accusation.
I let out a slow, bitter breath.
So much destruction—
and still no relief.
I rubbed my temples, closing my eyes tightly.
"Get a grip," I muttered to myself.
But even as I said it, I knew the truth.
The war hadn't started last night.
It had simply awakened again.
And this time—
there would be no escape.
I forced myself to move.
I headed straight to my private gym.
The cold metal of the equipment grounded me. I pushed my body hard—harder than necessary—until my muscles burned and my breath turned uneven. Sweat soaked through my shirt, pain replacing emotion, control returning piece by piece.
That was always my method.
Exhaustion silenced the chaos in my head.
After an hour, I went to the bathroom. The hot water hit my skin, steaming away the sweat and tension. I stood under the shower longer than usual, hands braced against the tiles, letting the water drown the thoughts I refused to face.
When I finally stepped out, I was calm again.
Dressed.
Composed.
Masked.
I put on a crisp shirt and trousers, adjusted my watch, and stared at my reflection. No redness. No cracks. No sign of the man who had broken down on the floor just hours ago.
Perfect.
I went downstairs for breakfast.
My parents were already seated at the dining table. The moment I entered, their conversation stopped. Their eyes lifted to me—searching, cautious, worried.
I pulled out a chair and sat down smoothly.
"Good morning," I said evenly, as if the night before had never happened.
I picked up my cup of coffee and took a sip, unfazed.
Inside, my chest was still tight.
My jaw still clenched.
But on the outside—
nothing showed.
I ate in silence, responding only when necessary, my tone calm and detached. I didn't mention the palace. I didn't mention Inaya. I didn't mention the war raging quietly inside me.
To them, I looked fine.
And that was the most dangerous part.
Because when I pretended nothing had happened—
that was when I was most capable of destruction.
Zeeshan remained focused on his food.
Knife steady. Movements precise. Expression unreadable.
Across the table, his parents were anything but calm.
His mother's fingers trembled slightly as she folded her napkin again and again, worry etched deep into her face. His father leaned back in his chair, jaw tight, eyes clouded with concern.
"This marriage…" his mother finally spoke, unable to hold back any longer. "It's not right, Zeeshan. Not after everything."
Zeeshan didn't look up.
He cut another piece of food slowly, deliberately.
"After what?" he asked coolly.
His father sighed. "After Zoya. After Inaya leaving. After all that pain. This isn't a union—it's reopening wounds."
Zeeshan finally lifted his gaze.
His eyes were calm.
Too calm.
"She deserves to face them," he said flatly.
His mother's breath hitched. "She was a child too, Zeeshan."
That was when he stopped eating.
He placed the cutlery down with careful control and wiped his hands, as if nothing more important than etiquette was at stake.
"She killed his own sister," he said quietly.
The words sucked the air out of the room.
"She can't do that —" his mother started.
He raised his hand.
"Enough."
His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
"This marriage secures our future," he continued coldly. "Power. Influence. Control. And if it costs her peace—"
A faint, humorless smile touched his lips.
"Then that's justice."
His father stared at him, realization dawning painfully.
"This isn't about duty," he said slowly. "It's about revenge."
Zeeshan met his gaze without blinking.
"Call it whatever you like."
He stood up, adjusting his cufflinks, flawless as ever.
"I'll marry her," he said calmly. "And I'll do exactly what the family expects of me."
He paused at the doorway.
"And she will learn," he added softly, "what it feels like to lose everything."
He left the room.
Behind him, his mother covered her mouth, tears spilling silently.
And his father remained seated, staring at the untouched food—
wondering when his son had become a stranger.
Armaan meer pov
A man sat in the leather chair of his luxurious office, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit.
Armaan Meer.
Hazel eyes sharp and restless. Long lashes shadowing a gaze that missed nothing. A sharp jawline, broad shoulders, a hard chest that rose and fell slowly—controlled on the outside. His veined hands moved expertly over the laptop keyboard, fingers typing with ruthless precision.
Professionally flawless.
Mentally—elsewhere.
Stuck in last night.
The balcony.
Inaya.
Her fragile figure stood beneath the cold night sky, arms wrapped around herself, shoulders shaking. She had been crying—sobbing like a child who had finally broken after holding too much inside.
And he had seen it all.
From a distance.
Hidden.
Watching.
Her pain had pierced him sharper than any blade.
For a moment, he had felt it too—raw, unbearable, suffocating. Something twisted violently in his chest. A pain he didn't recognize… but didn't want to lose either.
He hadn't been able to stay.
The second her sobs became too much, he had slid into his car and driven off at insane speed, not caring about red lights, traffic, or consequences.
Only one thought screamed in his head—
She's hurting.
An hour later, that thought had driven him mad.
He had slammed the brakes suddenly, tires screeching loudly against the road. The car jerked to a halt. Breathing heavy, eyes burning, he punched the steering wheel again and again—anger, frustration, helplessness spilling out through his fists.
"Damn it…" he had growled, jaw clenched.
Back in the present—
Armaan's fingers paused over the keyboard.
His jaw tightened.
Just then, the office door opened without knocking.
A man walked in casually and dropped into the chair across from him.
"So," the man said, stretching comfortably, "you didn't miss me? What kind of best friend are you?"
The teasing tone was unmistakable.
Armaan didn't look up.
His voice came out irritated, rough with suppressed tension.
"You're talking like you're my ex."
There was a beat of silence.
Then—
"Eww."
Armaan finally looked up.
Hamid Ali Shah sat there, making a dramatic face of disgust. "I'm a married man. Have some respect."
Armaan leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. "Then act like one and stop entering my office like you own it."
Hamid smirked. "You're tense."
Armaan's eyes darkened.
"No, I'm focused."
Hamid leaned forward, elbows on his knees, studying him carefully. "You saw her, didn't you?"
That hit harder than expected.
Armaan's fingers curled slowly.
"She looked broken," Hamid continued quietly. "I haven't seen her like that in years."
Armaan's gaze drifted toward the glass window, toward nothing—and everything.
"She shouldn't cry like that," he said slowly. "Not after what she's survived."
Hamid frowned. "You sound like—"
"Like someone who understands her," Armaan cut in sharply.
There was something dangerous in his voice now.
"She thinks she's alone," he added, almost to himself. "But she's not. She never was."
Hamid watched him carefully. "You're crossing a line, Armaan."
Armaan smiled.
It wasn't warm.
It wasn't sane.
"Lines exist for people who hesitate," he said softly. "I don't."
His eyes hardened, obsession burning quietly beneath control.
"I won't let this palace break her again," he murmured. "Even if she never looks at me. Even if she never knows."
Hamid didn't smile this time.
Because for the first time—
he realized this wasn't curiosity.
It wasn't concern.
It was obsession.
And obsession never asks permission.
Hamid's smile slowly faded.
He was still sitting across from Armaan in the luxurious office, the teasing from moments ago hanging in the air—but something inside him had shifted.
He leaned back slightly, his fingers interlocking in front of him.
Armaan hadn't looked up once.
His veiny hands moved swiftly over the laptop keyboard, precise, professional—handling million-dollar decisions as if they were nothing. But his eyes… they weren't present.
They were elsewhere.
With her.
Hamid noticed it now.
The silence.
The intensity.
The way Armaan's jaw tightened every few seconds, as if holding something back.
Hamid's chest grew heavy.
This wasn't casual affection.
This wasn't a harmless crush.
This was obsession.
His gaze drifted to the glass window of the office, where the city stretched endlessly below. Somewhere in that vast chaos was his sister—standing alone in a house that had already failed her once.
And now—
both the men closest to her were circling her life again.
In different ways.
With different intentions.
But with the same dangerous focus.
Hamid swallowed hard.
Zeeshan loves her, he thought grimly.
Armaan is consumed by her.
And Inaya—
she stood in the middle, unaware of how tightly fate was closing in.
Hamid loved them all.
Armaan —his childhood friend, his brother in every way except blood.
Zeeshan—the man who had stood beside him when his world shattered, who never asked questions, only stayed.
And Inaya—his little sister, his heart, the one he had failed to protect once.
His jaw clenched.
He couldn't fail her again.
"Armaan," Hamid said suddenly, his tone no longer playful.
Armaan's fingers paused for half a second on the keyboard.
But he didn't look up.
"Yes?" he replied calmly.
Hamid studied him closely now. "You're still working… but your mind isn't here."
Armaan finally lifted his gaze.
Their eyes met.
Something dark flickered there—quick, controlled, dangerous.
"I'm fine," Armaan said evenly.
Hamid shook his head slowly. "No. You're not."
A beat of silence passed.
"You were watching her last night, weren't you?" Hamid asked quietly.
The room felt colder.
Armaan leaned back in his chair at last, expression unreadable.
"She wasn't safe," he said simply.
Hamid's heart dropped.
"That's not what I asked," he said.
Armaan's lips pressed into a thin line.
"She was alone," Armaan continued, voice calm but edged with steel. "And no one in that house knows how to protect her."
Hamid stood up abruptly, palms slamming onto the desk.
"That's exactly what scares me," he said sharply.
Armaan's eyes hardened.
"You don't trust me?"
"I trust you," Hamid replied immediately. "That's the problem."
The words hung between them.
Hamid exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face.
"I know what love looks like when it turns into obsession," he said quietly. "I saw it after Zoya's death. I saw what it did to Zeeshan."
He looked Armaan straight in the eyes.
"I won't watch it happen again—with my sister in the middle."
Armaan stood now.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
"I would die before hurting her," he said, voice low.
Hamid nodded. "I know."
Then his voice cracked slightly.
"But you might destroy her trying to save her."
That hit.
For the first time, Armaan said nothing.
Hamid picked up his coat.
"I love you both," he said softly. "But if either of you becomes a threat to Inaya—"
He paused at the door.
"I won't choose friendship over my sister."
He left the office without looking back.
Armaan remained standing.
The office was silent again.
Slowly, his gaze drifted back to the city.
To the direction of the palace.
To her.
His jaw tightened.
"I won't lose her," he whispered.
Not to Hamid.
Not to Zeeshan.
Not to fate.
And that—
was exactly what Hamid feared most.