AUTHOR POV
The road was quiet.
Too quiet.
Inaya lay crumpled near the edge of the pavement, her pink kurta stained with dust, her hair fanned around her like spilled ink. Her chest rose shallowly—barely. The world had gone distant, muffled, as if she were underwater.
Headlights cut through the stillness.
A black car screeched to a halt meters away.
The engine hadn't even fully stopped before the driver's door flew open.
A man comes out wearing black jeans and a black shirt, with a black leather jacket over it and a black cap.
He crossed the distance in long strides, shoes skidding on gravel as he dropped to his knees beside her.
"Inaya," he said—sharp, urgent.
No response.
His jaw tightened. His fingers hovered over her face, hesitating for the briefest fraction of a second—as if touching her without permission was a line even he measured.
He brushed her hair back gently.
Too gently.
Her skin was cold.
"Damn it," he muttered, the word clipped, controlled—but something wild burned beneath it.
He checked her pulse.
It was there.
Weak.
Relief slammed into him so hard his chest ached.
"Stay with me," he said quietly, leaning closer. "You don't get to leave like this."
A truck passed on the opposite lane, wind rushing over them. he positioned himself instinctively between her body and the road—shielding her without thinking.
He slipped one arm beneath her knees, the other behind her shoulders.
For the first time, he hesitated again.
"You hate being touched," he whispered, as if she could hear him. "But I won't let you bleed out on the road."
He lifted her carefully.
Her head lolled against his chest.
And that—
that nearly broke him.
Her weight was light. Too light.
"She doesn't eat," he thought grimly. "They starve her in that house."
He laid her gently in the back seat, adjusting her dupatta around her shoulders, tucking it in so the breeze wouldn't touch her skin.
Possessive.
Precise.
Controlled.
He slammed the door shut and rounded the car, hands steady despite the storm inside him.
As he pulled onto the road, his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror again and again—watching her chest rise. Counting breaths.
"Breathe," he said softly. "For me."
His phone buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
He ignored it.
Nothing mattered more than getting her somewhere safe.
The hospital lights came into view.
he parked crookedly, barely caring, and jumped out before the car had fully stopped. He opened the back door and lifted her again—this time without hesitation.
"Doctor!" he barked, his voice cracking, as he stormed inside. "She collapsed. She's unconscious!"
Nurses rushed forward, their movements urgent but measured.
"Please, she needs—" one began, but he didn't wait.
As they tried to take her from his arms, his grip tightened reflexively, panic and fear tangling together. "No! Don't—she's mine! She can't… she can't—" His voice faltered, choking on the words.
"Sir—" one nurse said, startled, gently but firmly easing her onto a stretcher.
He stepped back, chest heaving, feeling the helplessness gnaw at him like a living thing. His fingers twitched as though he could still hold onto her, could somehow stop the world from spinning without her in it.
"Please, just… just keep her safe," he whispered, almost to himself, his voice raw.
The moment they wheeled her away, something sharp twisted in his chest. Fear, guilt, dread—they all crashed together in a tide that left him frozen for a heartbeat too long.
He followed. Of course he did. Every step echoed with the thundering certainty that he couldn't—wouldn't—let anything happen to her.
"She's going to be okay," he muttered, more a plea than a statement. "She has to be… she has to be."
The hallway stretched endlessly before him, each second a lifetime, every door a potential barrier. And still, he followed.
unknown person pov
I told myself this wasn't ownership.
I told myself this was instinct.
But watching them take her away—
watching the doors close between us—
felt like losing something that was already mine.
And I hated the world for making her fall where I had to be the one to catch her.
Zeeshan khan pov
The road was empty.
Too empty.
Zeeshan's car screeched to a halt near the shoulder, dust rising in the air as he stepped out, heart pounding violently against his ribs. His eyes scanned the asphalt, the gravel, the stretch of silence—
Nothing.
No car.
No body.
No sign of her.
His breath caught.
"No…" he whispered, walking forward as if the ground might reveal her if he looked closely enough.
There—
tire marks.
Fresh. Sharp. Panicked.
Someone had stopped here.
His jaw clenched. His chest tightened painfully, an unfamiliar panic clawing up his throat. He pulled his phone out, dialing without thinking.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Nothing.
His hand fell to his side slowly.
Someone had reached her first.
The realization hit him like a blow to the chest.
And for the first time in years, fear—not anger, not hate—flooded Zeeshan Khan's veins.
He turned back to his car, movements sharp, violent.
"Find her," he muttered to himself as he slammed the door shut.
Because whatever war he thought he was fighting—
this was something else entirely.
INAYA ALI SHAH — POV
Waking
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The sound drilled into my skull like a hammer.
Light burned behind my eyelids. My body felt heavy—wrong—like it didn't belong to me anymore. When I tried to move, a sharp pain shot through my head, forcing a broken sound from my throat.
I groaned.
Immediately, a hand stilled my shoulder.
"Easy."
The voice was male. Calm. Too calm.
My eyes snapped open.
White ceiling. Blinding lights. Hospital.
Panic surged instantly, sharp and suffocating. I tried to sit up, but dizziness slammed me back against the mattress, my heart hammering.
"Hey—your fine now" the voice said again, closer now. "You collapsed. now You're safe."
Safe. That word felt alien, impossible.
I turned my head sharply—and froze.
A nurse.
She stood beside the bed, dressed in a crisp uniform, expression soft but professional.
"How… how did I come here?" I demanded, my voice hoarse and shaky. My throat burned.
She smiled gently. "Someone brought you when you were unconscious," she said simply.
The room tilted. My chest tightened.
"Who—" I swallowed hard. "Where is he now?"
"I don't know. He didn't give his name," she replied, eyes flicking briefly to the doorway. "And… he's gone."
My fingers curled into the bed sheet.
A thousand questions crashed into my mind, but one rose above the rest, heavy and terrifying.
"How long… was I unconscious?" I whispered.
"Whole day," she said carefully.
That didn't reassure me. That made everything worse. My pulse raced. I pushed myself up slightly despite the pain, ignoring the sharp protest in my head.
"Did anyone come from my family?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"I think… they don't know yet."
The room suddenly felt smaller, suffocating.
"You didn't call them?" I whispered, voice trembling.
"No," she said calmly. "We don't have their number."
Logical. But that didn't stop my heart from hammering, from panicking.
I stared at her. "Okay," I muttered, my voice barely more than a croak.
"I want to call my brother."
For a moment, she didn't move. The tension stretched, thick and suffocating.
Then she nodded once.
"Alright."
She stepped back, pulling out her phone—but my eyes never left her. My hand trembled as she handed me the device. I dialled Bhai's number, pressing it to my ear. The phone barely rang once before he picked up.
"Hello… who—?" His voice was confused, worry clear in every syllable.
"I'm in the hospital," I said, taking a deep, shaky breath.
"Ohh… damn it! I'm coming!" His voice was frantic, urgent.
After a moment, I returned the phone to her. She held it calmly, but I noticed her eyes flick toward the door, almost as if sensing something.
As she stepped out of the room, the door closing softly behind her, my chest finally shuddered with the breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
My hands trembled, shaking uncontrollably. And I didn't notice at first the faint shadow behind the glass pane of the door—someone standing there, watching, waiting.
A chill ran down my spine.
AUTHOR POV
The hospital corridor smelled of antiseptic and silence.
Hamid Ali Shah arrived breathless.
One look at Inaya—pale, exhausted, sitting upright with forced composure—and something inside him broke and hardened at the same time.
He went straight to his sister.
"Inaya," he said softly, crouching in front of her. "I'm here."
Her fingers tightened around his sleeve.
"Take me home," she said quietly. "Please."
Hamid nodded immediately.
Then she added, her voice firm despite her weakness, "And listen carefully. No one at home needs to know I fainted. Not dadi. Not aunt. Not anyone."
Hamid frowned. "But—"
"No," she cut in, eyes sharp now. "I won't survive their pity or their blame. Promise me."
He held her gaze for a long moment.
Then nodded.
"I promise."
He stood up and turned toward the nurse standing on opposite sides of the room.
"I'm taking my sister home," Hamid said clearly. "She doesn't need anyone else right now."
she nodded.
he got out the room.
Hamid's hands were shaking as he gripped his phone. He had just spoken to Inaya, and the panic in her voice hadn't left him for a second. He knew Zeeshan had to hear this—right now.
He pressed Zeeshan's number and waited, tapping his foot nervously.
The line clicked. "Hello?" Zeeshan's voice, calm but low, answered.
"Zeeshan…" Hamid's voice was sharp, almost breathless. "It's Inaya… she's in the hospital."
There was a pause on the other end.
Zeeshan's hand tightened around the phone. "Where is she? Which hospital?" His voice was low, urgent, almost growling through the line.
Hamid rattled off the details, his own panic rising. "City General. ICU. Room 317. She… she just woke up, He swallowed hard.
Zeeshan was silent for a heartbeat too long. Then he hissed, voice taut with controlled panic, "okay, I'm coming right now."
"okay," Hamid urged, heart hammering. "i m waiting."
"I'll be there." Zeeshan's words were quiet, but full of promise—and something else. Anger. Protective fury.
The line went dead, and Hamid exhaled shakily. He could only hope Zeeshan would get there in time.
zeeshan khan pov
The hospital doors slid open with a sharp hiss.
Zeeshan Khan walked in like a storm finally deciding where to strike.
His suit was immaculate. His posture rigid. But his eyes—dark, furious, and raw with a fear he hadn't allowed himself to feel in years—burned through the sterile corridor. Every step echoed, drawing glances from nurses and patients alike.
He didn't slow. Didn't ask politely.
"Where is Inaya Ali Shah?" His voice was low, lethal.
The receptionist flinched.
"Sir—her room number—"
He was already moving.
Room 317.
He reached it in seconds.
The moment he pushed the door open—he stopped.
Inaya lay on the bed, pale against the white sheets, an IV in her arm, eyes half-open but unfocused. His chest seized so hard he couldn't breathe.
She was alive.
Relief and fear collided in a way that made him dizzy.
Then he saw him.
Hamid Ali Shah stood near the window, arms crossed, posture relaxed—as if he belonged there.
Something inside Zeeshan snapped.
He crossed the room in long strides and grabbed Hamid by the collar, slamming him hard against the wall. The sound echoed sharp and violent.
"What the hell were you doing while all this happened?" Zeeshan snarled.
Inaya gasped.
"Zeeshan—stop!" she croaked, struggling to sit up.
Zeeshan froze.
Her voice. Weak. Shaken. Fragile.
He released Hamid instantly and turned to her, anger dissolving into something far more dangerous—fear.
"Are you okay?" he asked softly, gripping the bed rail. "Why didn't you answer my calls? Do you have any idea how worried I was?"
"I fainted," she said flatly. "Not… died."
The words cut deeper than a scream.
Behind the closed door, the unknown observer straightened his jacket, eyes cold and calculating.
"By the way," Hamid said evenly, "who brought her here? As Inaya said, she collapsed on the roadside."
Zeeshan's head snapped toward him.
"You're right," Zeeshan replied, voice controlled.
"Who was he… or she?" Zeeshan asked directly, turning to Inaya.
The air thickened, sharp and dangerous.
Inaya's fingers curled into the sheets.
"I… I don't know," she said weakly. "The nurse said he—he was gone before I regained consciousness."
Zeeshan stepped closer to Hamid again, voice dropping to a whisper that cut like steel.
"See you soon, friend."
Hamid didn't flinch.
"You're overreacting," he replied quietly.
Zeeshan laughed—a short, bitter sound.
"Overreacting?" he echoed, eyes flashing.
"Yes," Hamid said evenly. "Because you have no right over me. This time," Inaya said firmly, her voice stronger than he expected.
Zeeshan's eyes darkened. That did it.
He turned abruptly, chest heaving, then faced Inaya again, voice rough with emotion.
"I'm going to be your husband," he said. "I have all rights over you."
She looked at him—really looked—her gaze steady and fierce.
"No. You don't," she said harshly. "Forced husband."
Silence fell like a blade between them.
Zeeshan swallowed hard.
"I… I was wrong," he admitted finally, each word tearing through him. "You didn't deserve… care… love…"
She cut him off with a look sharp enough to silence him.
"Especially from you," she said. Her voice trembled, but only slightly. "I'm tired. I just want my brother. And right now, you should leave."
That hit him harder than any blow.
Zeeshan nodded once, jaw clenched, and stepped back.
Hamid glanced at her, unreadable, then moved toward the door.
"This isn't over," Zeeshan murmured, his voice low but filled with warning.
Inaya didn't reply.
She closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the bed, finally allowing her body to relax for the first time since the collapse.
Hamid stopped by her side, placing a hand on her shoulder.
"You're safe now," he said softly.
She let out a shaky breath. "I know… but I hate how scared I felt."
"I'll never let that happen again," he promised, his eyes scanning the room as if expecting the storm to return.
Outside, behind the closed door, the shadow lingered, silent and still, eyes calculating, waiting.
Ali Shah Palace
The car stopped in front of the palace gates just before sunset.
Inaya stepped out slowly, supported by Hamid. From the outside, she looked composed—calm, dignified, untouchable.
Inside, she was hollow.
The moment she entered the living hall—
her aunt's sharp voice sliced through the air.
"Well, well," she said coldly, standing near the sofa. "Look who's back."
Inaya froze.
Hamid stiffened instantly.
Her aunt walked closer, eyes raking over Inaya with barely disguised contempt.
"Gone since morning. No explanation. No manners," she scoffed. "Is this how a respectable girl behaves now?"
Inaya said nothing.
She didn't trust her voice.
Her aunt's lips curled cruelly. "Or were you busy creating another scene? God knows you're good at that."
Hamid stepped forward. "Enough."
But the aunt wasn't done.
"Every time there's chaos in this house," she continued venomously, "your name is attached to it. Zoya died, this family shattered—and now look at us. Shame follows you wherever you go."
That was it.
Inaya lifted her head slowly.
Her eyes were calm.
Too calm.
"You should stop," Hamid warned sharply.
But Inaya spoke before him.
"Say her name again," she said softly, "and I won't stay silent."
Her aunt laughed mockingly. "Truth hurts, doesn't it? You were responsible then, and you're responsible now. Your presence alone poisons this house."
The words struck like knives.
Inaya's chest tightened—but she refused to break.
Hamid moved in front of her completely now, shielding her.
"That's enough," he said coldly. "You don't get to speak to my sister like that."
"Oh?" the aunt snapped. "Am I wrong? Ever since she returned, nothing but tension—"
"She collapsed today," Hamid blurted out.
Inaya's breath caught.
Hamid realized his mistake instantly.
The aunt's eyes widened—then gleamed.
"Collapsed?" she repeated sharply. "So now she's pretending to be ill too?"
Inaya finally snapped.
"I fainted," she said, voice shaking but loud. "Not for attention. Not for sympathy. Because this house suffocates me."
The room went silent.
Her aunt scoffed. "Drama."
Inaya took a step forward, eyes burning.
"You blame me for Zoya's death," she said, voice cracking now. "But none of you were there when I screamed for help. None of you asked what really happened."
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"You just needed someone to hate."
Her aunt looked away—but didn't apologize.
Hamid placed a hand on Inaya's shoulder.
"We're done here," he said firmly. "She needs rest."
He guided Inaya away.
As they walked toward the stairs, her legs trembled—but she didn't look back.
Behind them, the aunt muttered bitterly, "She'll destroy us all."
Hamid stopped mid-step and turned slowly.
"If this family is being destroyed," he said coldly, "it's not because of her."
And with that—
he took his sister upstairs to her room
Inaya's door closed softly behind her.
But the damage?
That lingered in every corner of the palace.
Inaya's room was dim, curtains half-drawn, sunlight barely daring to enter.
The door closed behind them with a soft click.
That was all it took.
Inaya's strength shattered.
Her knees gave out and she sank onto the edge of the bed, fingers digging into the fabric of her kurta as if holding herself together by force.
Her breathing turned uneven.
Hamid stood there for a moment—watching his sister crumble in silence.
Then he crossed the room in two long strides and knelt in front of her.
"Inaya," he said gently, lifting her face with two fingers. "Look at me."
She tried.
Her eyes filled instantly.
"I didn't say anything wrong," she whispered, voice breaking. "Did I?"
Hamid's jaw tightened.
"No," he said firmly. "You didn't say a single thing wrong."
A tear slipped down her cheek.
"She looks at me like I'm a curse," Inaya whispered. "Like everything bad in this house has my name written on it."
Hamid exhaled slowly, controlling the rage rising in his chest.
"She's wrong," he said, voice low but steady. "And her words don't get to decide your worth."
Inaya shook her head weakly. "But they all believe her. No matter what I say… Zoya's name always comes back to me."
At that name, her lips trembled.
"I loved her," she cried softly. "She was my sister too. If I could trade my life for hers, I would. Why can't anyone see that?"
Hamid's eyes burned.
He pulled her into his chest without asking, wrapping his arms around her tightly—protectively.
She broke completely then.
Her sobs tore through the quiet room, fingers clutching the back of his shirt like a lifeline.
Hamid rested his chin on her head.
"I'm here," he whispered over and over. "I'm not going anywhere. As long as I'm alive, no one gets to hurt you like this."
She cried into his chest, voice muffled.
"I'm so tired, Hamid," she whispered. "I try so hard to be strong. But every day feels heavier than the last."
He closed his eyes, holding her tighter.
"You don't have to be strong with me," he said softly. "You're allowed to break. I'll hold the pieces."
She pulled back slightly, looking at him with red, swollen eyes.
"What if I really am the problem?" she asked shakily. "What if everything would be easier if I wasn't here?"
Hamid stiffened.
He cupped her face in both hands, forcing her to look at him.
"Don't ever say that again," he said fiercely. "You are not the problem. You are the one surviving everyone else's cruelty."
His voice softened.
"And listen to me carefully—if this house ever becomes unbearable, you come to me. Day or night. No explanations needed."
She nodded slowly, tears still falling.
"Promise?" she whispered.
"I swear on my life," Hamid said without hesitation.
He wiped her tears gently with his thumb.
"Now lie down," he said, standing. "You're exhausted. I'll sit here until you fall asleep."
She lay back slowly, eyes still wet.
As Hamid pulled the blanket over her shoulders, she whispered, barely audible—
"Thank you for believing me."
Hamid looked down at her, heart aching.
"Always," he said quietly. "Even when the world doesn't."
The room fell silent.
But for the first time that day—
Inaya wasn't alone.