inaya ali shah pov
Morning came with no mercy.
Sun rays pierced through my half-open eyes, forcing me awake.
The first thing I felt was pain—sharp, throbbing—splitting my head apart.
Crying all night had left my body weak, my eyes swollen, my chest heavy.
Only then did I realise— I wasn't on my bed.
I had fallen asleep on the cold balcony floor.
Slowly, painfully, I pushed myself up. My legs trembled as I stood, the marble floor sending chills through my bare feet.
Every muscle ached, every breath felt heavier than the last.
I walked back into my room like a ghost returning to a place that no longer felt like home.
I sat on the edge of the bed for a long while, staring at nothing.
Trying to breathe.
Trying to feel normal.
After some time,
I forced myself up and did a few light exercises—not because I had the strength,but because I needed control.
Pain in the body was easier than pain in the heart.
Then I got ready.
I wore a soft pink kurta with white palazzo—simple, traditional. I left my hair open, letting it fall freely down my back, and applied light makeup.
Nothing dramatic.
Just enough to hide the evidence of a sleepless, broken night.
For a moment, I caught my reflection in the mirror.
My eyes were still heavy, my lips pressed into a line of practiced calm.
Then my thoughts drifted.
The messages.
The presence.
That lingering feeling that someone was always watching me—even now, inside these walls.
I swallowed hard, trying to shake it off.
My steps were quiet as I started walking across my room, each movement deliberate, careful.
The floor beneath my feet felt colder than usual, sending a small shiver up my spine.
I ran my fingers along the edge of the table, my hand brushing the glass I had left there earlier, before turning to pace slowly.
Every shadow seemed sharper, every whisper of sound heavier, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
I had to stay calm.
I had to stay strong.
But my subconscious mind is telling me... he was here.
Watching.
Waiting.
which i didn't want to accept.
Then I walked downstairs.
The house was already awake.
Saad had left for college.
Baba and uncle were gone to the office.
The kitchen echoed with the sound of utensils—mom and aunt busy with their work.
Dadi sat on the sofa, her back straight, her presence heavy.
I quietly took a seat on the opposite sofa.
The moment she noticed me— her expression hardened.
Without a word, she stood up, anger radiating from every step, and walked away.
Before leaving, she turned briefly toward my mother and said coldly, "Bring my food to my room."
She didn't say it directly— but the message was clear.
She didn't want to eat at the same table as me.
The words hit harder because they were unspoken.
A sharp pain spread across my chest, tight and suffocating.
I tried to ignore it.
I really did. But some pain doesn't listen.
Dadi disappeared into her room.
My mother had seen everything.
She stood there silently, holding a glass of milk, her fingers tightening around it.
Her eyes flickered between the door dadi had closed and me—sitting still, pretending not to be affected.
Then she walked toward me and stopped in front of me.
"Drink this," she said softly, extending the glass.
I looked up at her. She forget.
She forget that i was allergic to milk.
She knew it would make me sick.
Yet she stood there, conflicted—torn between being a mother and being a daughter-in-law in this house.
I didn't took the glass from her hand.
"I just stared at the glass, feeling the world blur behind it, as my mom's quiet presence lingered unnoticed."
And at that moment, I realized something painful:
In this house, everyone had a place.
Except me.
"She set the glass on the table, letting it rest there with soft finality." "
Drink it you love milk so much i still remember," Ammi said softly.
"You didn't eat anything."
"My subconscious screamed at me, urging, Tell her... she's like milk, and I didn't..."
The smell hit me first.
Milk.
My breath caught.
For a split second, I wasn't in the living room anymore.
I was sixteen again.
Zoya sat on the edge of my bed, swinging her legs, holding the glass in her hands.
"Just one sip," she had laughed.
"You're so dramatic."
"I'm allergic,"
I had told her, rolling my eyes.
"but I love milk so much," she replied, grinning.
Her voice echoed too clearly in my head.
My chest tightened.
My throat burned.
Ammi was talking about something which i don't hear.
Then she said absentmindedly, almost fondly.
"Zoya used to drink it every morning,"
That was it.
The final crack.
My fingers went numb as I gently placed the glass back on the table.
"'But... I'm allergic to milk,' I said, my voice cracking, a sharp ache running through my chest.
The words tasted bitter on my tongue, carrying a sorrow I couldn't hide, a truth I had buried too long."
The words came out broken—like they'd been dragged out of me. Silence.
Ammi froze.
Her eyes flickered to the glass... then to my face.
Understanding dawned slowly, cruelly. Her hand shook.
"Inaya..." her voice whispered, barely there.
"I—I forgot."
Forgot.
Or remembered the wrong daughter.
Something sharp pierced my chest.
I stood up abruptly, the room spinning.
"I done," I said, my voice hollow.
She rushed toward me, panic flooding her features.
"Wait—please don't go like this.
At least take the driver. Inaya, don't go alone."
I didn't look at her. If I did, I would crumble.
"I need to breathe," I said. "This house suffocates me."
Her hand brushed my arm, desperate. "Inaya, beta—"
I pulled away. And walked out.
The door slammed.
The sound echoed through the palace like a gunshot.
Ammi stood there, unmoving.
The glass of milk still sat on the table, untouched.
Her knees gave out.
She sank onto the sofa, covering her mouth as a sob tore out of her chest.
Tears spilled freely now, soaking into her dupatta. "What have I done?" she cried softly.
"Ya Allah... I hurt her again." Her eyes drifted toward the hallway Zoya used to run through, laughing, alive.
"I lost one daughter," she whispered, voice breaking. "Am I losing the other too?"
No one answered.
But I didn't stop.
I grabbed my car keys and walked out of the palace, the morning air cold against my burning skin.
I slid into my car and slammed the door shut, cutting off her voice—cutting off everything.
The engine roared to life.
As I drove away, my vision blurred, the road stretching endlessly ahead.
My mother's words echoed faintly in my mind, but I drowned them out with speed.
Because staying would have killed me slower— and leaving at least gave me the illusion of survival.
Outside, I drove.
Too fast.
The road blurred as my hands tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles white.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears, drowning out everything else.
Zoya's face flashed before my eyes.
Her smile.
Her scream.
That moment.
"Stop," I whispered to myself, breath uneven.
"Stop thinking."
But my mind betrayed me.
The accident replayed again and again—merciless, unforgiving.
My vision burned with unshed tears.
"I didn't push you," I choked out to the empty car.
"You slipped.
You know that... please tell them you know that."
"Please... Zoya... tell them I'm innocent!" I screamed, my voice raw and shaking, each word torn from the depths of my soul.
"I... I can't take it anymore! Please... tell them I'm innocent... I beg you!"
And then—everything I had been holding in for so long shattered.
I broke down completely, my sobs wracking my body, hot tears streaming down my face.
The sound echoed in the car, a desperate, helpless cry that carried all my fear, guilt, and pain.
I clutched at the air, at the memories, at anything that might bring her back, but it was all gone.
Just me.
Alone.
Broken.
The car swerved slightly.
I slammed the brakes suddenly.
The tires screeched loudly against the road as the car came to a violent halt.
My body lurched forward.
A raw, broken sound as I hit the steering wheel again—once, twice—until my hands hurt and my chest felt like it was being ripped open.
"Why didn't you hold my hand?" I cried.
"Why did you let go?" My forehead dropped onto the wheel.
Tears fell freely now, soaking into my sleeves.
I stayed there—shaking, gasping, unraveling.
Because no matter how far I drove— the past was always faster.
Zeeshan khan pov
Zeeshan sat behind his desk, files spread before him, pen poised—but nothing moved Zeeshan sat behind his desk, files spread before him, pen poised—but nothing moved.
The words blurred in front of his eyes, lines of numbers and letters melting into meaningless shapes.
His chest felt hollow, empty, as if something vital had been ripped away.
He glanced at the clock again.
She would be home by now.
She's safe, he told himself, but the words felt hollow.
Convincing.
Untrue.
A strange restlessness crept in, coiling around his ribs, tightening his jaw.
He pushed his chair back abruptly, the wheels screeching against the floor.
The sudden noise startled his secretary outside the office, but he didn't notice.
Something was missing.
No—someone.
He rose and walked to the glass wall of his office, staring down at the city.
Lights blinked far below, but nothing reached him. His reflection stared back—controlled, sharp, untouchable.
And yet, almost unconsciously, his hand drifted to his chest. "Inaya..." he muttered under his breath, voice rough, low, almost a growl.
He shook his head as if the sound itself annoyed him.
Why now?
Why today?
An image flashed in his mind—her standing alone in the garden last night, shoulders stiff, eyes empty, lips pressed into a line of practiced calm.
The way she had walked away without a backward glance, leaving a void in her wake.
His fingers curled slowly, knuckles whitening.
"I shouldn't care," he whispered, sharp and bitter.
But his heartbeat betrayed him—faster, harder, like it wanted to speak the truth his mouth refused.
He ran a hand through his hair, tugging slightly, frustration etched into every movement.
"What the hell is wrong with me?" he muttered.
His voice echoed slightly against the glass.
Then, quieter, almost desperate: "Why can't I stop thinking about her?"
He took a step back, staring at the skyline again.
The city buzzed with life below, but here, in his office, time seemed to stretch, each second unbearable.
"I can't just ignore her..." he said, almost to himself, almost as if admitting it made it real.
"She's... everywhere." His chest tightened again.
The absence of her presence—the very fact she was somewhere else, somewhere safe—was deafening.
"For God sake, Inaya," he muttered, clenching his fists on the glass wall.
"Why do you have to haunt me even when you're not here?"
And for the first time that morning, Zeeshan felt it clearly:
Her absence wasn't peace.
It was noise.
It was chaos.
It was everything he had been trying to control... slipping through his fingers.
Zeeshan's chest tightened again, the silence of his office now unbearable.
The city buzzed below, but it was nothing compared to the storm raging inside him.
Then—his phone buzzed. He grabbed it.
The screen flashed "Sana Qaseem Ali Shah".
"Hello ammi?"
he answered, voice sharp, controlled—but the edge in it betrayed him.
"Zeeshan... it's Inaya," her mother's trembling voice whispered.
"She... she's missing."
The words hit him like a punch to the chest.
Missing.
My Inaya.
"What do you mean missing?" His voice rose, thick with panic, teeth clenched.
"What?
Where exactly?"
"She explained to him, her voice trembling, what had happened in the accident this morning." Sana's voice cracked.
"And her phone is... it's not responding. Zeeshan... please...find her" The world seemed to tilt.
Zeeshan slammed his phone down on the desk.
His heart thundered.
"No... no, no, no," he muttered, his hands clenching into fists.
He shoved past his secretary without a word, storming out like a man possessed.
Every step to the car was fire beneath his skin.
His mind raced, every scenario worse than the last.
He threw open the car door, sliding in violently.
Engine roared to life.
Tires screamed against the asphalt.
Where are you, Inaya?
His fingers curled around the steering wheel, knuckles white.
You don't get to scare me like this.
His mind replayed her last moments at the palace—the way she had stood there, calm, untouchable.
Was she running from someone?
Or from me?
He gritted his teeth.
"You listen to me," he muttered aloud, almost as if she could hear him through the distance.
"Do not go anywhere.
Not now.
Not ever.
Don't even think about checking something without telling me.
Understand?
You hear me?" He exhaled sharply, leaning back against the seat for a brief second, trying to calm the wild rhythm of his heart.
But it didn't work.
She's mine.
I don't care what anyone says... The streets blurred past as he drove, each red light ignored, every turn faster than the last.
Panic clawed at him, but underneath it was something deeper—worry, fear, something he didn't like to admit.
God, Inaya... if anything happened to you... He gripped the wheel tighter, jaw clenched, his own voice almost a whisper:
"I can't lose you.
Not now.
Not ever.
Do you hear me?" His thoughts were a storm—anger at himself for letting her go, fear for her safety, guilt for the accident years ago, and an almost desperate need to protect her, no matter what.
He knew one thing with perfect clarity:
if anyone or anything had dared to touch her, they would answer to him.
And if she had wandered off... he would find her before she even realized she was in danger.
Unknown Person pov
Across the city, my pen snapped mid-signature
Ink bled across the paper.
I didn't swear.
Didn't react.
I was staring at the live footage of Inaya's living room.
The morning replayed on the screen — the accident, the panic,
the way she stood there trying to look strong while something inside her was clearly breaking.
I saw everything.
The way her hands trembled.
They didn't notice.
But I did.
My chest tightened sharply, breath hitching like someone had pressed fire against my heart.
"No," I whispered instinctively.
I stood so fast my chair crashed backward.
The room shrank around me.
The footage glitched for half a second. Then— Empty.
The living room camera still streamed.
But she wasn't there.
I switched to her bedroom feed. Empty.
My eyes sharpened.
Where are you?
I grabbed my phone, already unlocked.
My thumb hovered over her contact.
Inaya.
I never saved it properly.
Never allowed myself that weakness.
I opened her tracking access.
Location
loading...
Loading...
Loading—
Error.
I froze.
No.
I pulled up her device feed.
Still inside the bedroom.
Her phone was on the table.
She left it behind.
For three full seconds, I didn't breathe.
Then something inside me snapped.
"You left your phone?" I whispered, disbelief twisting into something darker.
"Without protection?" My jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
Do you have any idea what that means?
You're invisible now.
Unprotected.
your not safe.
The thought made rise fear inside me.
Without wasting another second, I stormed out of the office.
Staff members jumped aside.
No one dared speak.
By the time I reached the car, my hands were already shaking—not with fear.
With rage.
The engine roared to life.
"She doesn't get to disappear," I muttered, slamming the accelerator.
"Not from me." I dialled my PA.
he answered on the second ring. "Sir?"
"Lock everything down," I said, voice ice-cold.
"All city exits.
Highways.
Airports.
Private terminals.
I want surveillance on every major road within five minutes."
There was a pause.
"Sir... is something wrong?"
"She's missing." The words tasted lethal.
I hung up before she could respond.
Cars blurred past as I drove like a madman.
Red lights meant nothing.
Speed limits meant nothing.
All that existed was one thought— Where are you, Inaya? My mind replayed her face from the footage.
The exhaustion.
The quiet strength.
The way she always tried to carry everything alone.
"You think you have to fight alone," I said through clenched teeth.
"You think no one sees when you're breaking." My grip tightened on the steering wheel.
"I see." A dangerous calm settled over me.
If someone touched her— If someone even frightened her— I would dismantle their world piece by piece.
She doesn't belong to the streets.
She doesn't belong to fear.
She doesn't belong to chaos.
She belongs under protection.
Under control.
Under my watch.
My phone buzzed.
"No confirmed sighting yet," my PA said nervously.
"Keep looking," I ordered.
"Check traffic cams.
Toll booths.
Every hospital.
Every police scanner."
I ended the call and exhaled sharply.
For the first time since I started watching her years ago— I couldn't see her.
And that terrified me more than anything.
Because obsession thrives on vision.
And now?
I was blind.
"Inaya," I murmured, voice dark, almost breaking beneath the weight of it.
"You don't get to vanish."
The city stretched endlessly ahead of me.
Somewhere in it— She was walking alone.
And for the first time— I wasn't the only one who could be hunting
inaya ali shah pov
The car slowed near a quiet stretch of road—far from the palace, far from people who looked at her like a ghost.
Her vision blurred.
The world tilted. She pulled over clumsily, barely managing to park before her hands slipped from the steering wheel.
Her chest burned.
Her breaths came out shallow, sharp—each one harder than the last.
"In... out," she whispered to herself, gripping the dashboard.
"Just breathe."
But the pain didn't listen.
The palace.
Her father's silence.
Her grandmother turning away.
The glass of milk.
Zoya.
Zoya.
Her vision darkened at the edges.
"Inaya Ali Shah," she murmured weakly, pressing her forehead against the steering wheel,
"you're strong... you don't break." But strength had limits.
Her door opened with trembling hands.
She stepped out—and the ground shifted beneath her feet.
The sky spun.
Her knees buckled.
And just like that— Inaya collapsed on the side of the road, pink fabric pooling around her like spilled petals, hair falling loose as her body finally gave in to the weight it had carried for too long.
A passing breeze brushed her face.
She didn't feel it.
At that exact moment— Zeeshan's chest tightened sharply, his breath catching for a reason he couldn't explain.
A violent, suffocating instinct that something was wrong.
His hand pressed against his chest as if he could physically stop whatever was slipping away.
"Inaya..." he breathed, her name leaving his lips like a prayer he didn't believe in.
On the other side of the city—the Unknown Person was unravelling.
Each passing second without her location, without her voice, without visual confirmation— was driving him closer to the edge.
His mind spiraled.
His control—his precious, calculated control—fracturing with every tick of the clock.
"Find her," he growled into the phone.
"I don't care how.
Just find her."
His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
For the first time in years— he couldn't see her.
And that absence was madness.
And beneath the vast, open sky—Inaya lay unconscious.
Still.
Fragile.
Unaware of the chaos her absence had created.
A soft breeze moved her hair across her face, the world continuing as if nothing had changed— As if she wasn't the center of two storms colliding at once.
Two very different men.
Two very different kinds of darkness.
Yet at that same exact moment—they felt it.
That sharp, terrifying pull in their chests.
That instinctive fear.
That unbearable realization.
Something precious was slipping out of reach.
And neither of them knew—if they were already too late.