CHAPTER 1
The city gleamed like a promise just beyond the glass—skyscrapers etched in gold by the sinking sun, the world below buzzing with a rhythm that no longer overwhelmed her.
Raneya Qureshi sat alone in the plush CEO chair, her manicured fingers tracing the edges of the sleek wooden desk, the smooth mahogany surface of the desk that now bore her name. This office—furnished, powerful, silent—was a kingdom she had built with bare hands and bleeding heart.
But even now, victory tastes bittersweet.
The reflection staring back at her from the glass wall was no longer that of a girl. Her eyes wandered over the city skyline that stretched out before her. The soft hum of the office around her was a stark contrast to the noise that had once filled her childhood home. She spun the chair slowly, while her hair cascaded in tight, defined curls, pulled high into a sleek ponytail swished as she turned.
The reflection staring back at her from the glass wall was no longer that of a young, naive girl, but of a woman who had fought tooth and nail to get here. A woman who had learned that strength was forged not only in ambition but in the silence of the battles that no one saw.
Her curls framed a face carved by experience, not time—a face that had learned to smile without softness, to weep without tears. She had arrived. But the journey here was paved with silence, scars, and secrets.
She leaned back, gaze drifting past the skyline, past the glass, into a past that still breathed at the edges of her success. There, in a smaller, dimmer world, ambition had been a crime. A world where she was mocked time and again that her dreams were too big, too loud, and too impossible—seemed like a distant memory now.
But those memories were never far away. As she stared out the window, her mind slipped back to the time when a girl who dared to dream of something more than the life that had been set out for her was called selfish, ungrateful, and even foolish. Back when she was just Raneya—the dutiful eldest daughter of the Qureshi household.
In that house, tradition wasn't just a belief;it reigned supreme. It was the law. Her mother, Fazeela, presided over their world with iron certainty disguised as maternal love. A woman forged by sacrifice and steeped in submission, Fazeela had one vision for her daughter's life—and it did not include lectures, libraries, or dreams.
"A woman's worth," she often said, her tone as sharp as her gaze, "is not in chasing after frivolous dreams like degrees or trophies. It's in how well she kneads the dough, folds the laundry, and endures."
Every word was a weight Raneya had to carry. Every day, a slow suffocation under the guise of care.
And then there was Aanya. Her younger sister, her mirror in looks but never in spirit. While Raneya poured over books under the dim bulb until dawn, Aanya floated through her days—carefree, mocking, untouched by the need to prove herself. When Raneya tried to pull her closer, to inspire her, Aanya recoiled. She laughed, sneered, called her "too much," a "show-off." Her words, though casual, carved deep wounds.
Yet none cut as precisely as those from her father—Qureshi Sahab. His love was warm, yes, but always conditional. His gentle affection was always tinged with an unspoken price,a tender hand that never truly let go of the reins.
"I'm proud of you, beta," he would say, stroking her hair gently, "but remember—no achievement compares to a good marriage."
And just like that, her victories shrank beneath the shadow of expectation.
He didn't mean harm. He didn't even see it. He lived with one foot in pride, the other chained to tradition. He wanted to protect her, yes—but only within the world he knew, the world where daughters were decorations, not revolutionaries.
But Raneya had tasted rebellion too young. She had buried her rage in books, her tears in silence. Every night spent studying instead of sleeping was an act of war. Every mark on her report card, a small revolution. And when the scholarship came—bright, golden, real—it felt like the gates of the cages had finally cracked open.
She could breathe. She could be.
She returned home glowing, clutching the trophy like a lifeline. She climbed the stairs to her room, her heart pounding not with fear, but hope. Perhaps this time, they would see her. Perhaps this time, they would be proud.
Aanya was sprawled across the bed, giggling into her phone, her laughter slicing through the moment like a blade. Raneya waited. Then cleared her throat.
"Aanya," she said softly, holding out the certificate. "Look. I topped in college. Full scholarship. They even gave me this."
Aanya's eyes widened—for a second. Her lips parted in surprise—but twisted too quickly into a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Well, congratulations madam," she smirked. "Guess someone really wants to be better than the rest of us."
And just like that, the warmth drained from the room.
Raneya clutched the trophy tighter. The applause from earlier echoed faintly in her mind, already fading.
She turned back to the door, her heart heavier than when she'd walked in. The world might have finally opened its arms to her—but home... home still had its back turned.