Meanwhile, the sun had barely clawed its way past the sullen clouds over the Qureshi estate when the sound of shattering glass split through the hall like a gunshot.
A crystal tumbler, hurled with all the rage of a man unraveling, exploded against the marble wall. Shards rained down like judgment.
"She got away?!" Zaryab's voice was a beast's roar—raw, trembling with disbelief and fury.
The veins in his neck pulsed, jaw clenched tight as he paced the marble floor like a rabid animal. His eyes were wild—bloodshot and rimmed with darkness. His expensive shirt clung to his sweat-drenched skin, unbuttoned halfway, stained by the ghost of last night's failures. The man who once dripped charm now looked possessed—broken pride clothed in silk.
Qureshi Sahab didn't even blink.
He remained seated, poised like a king in a war chamber, his tea steaming gently as he crossed one leg over the other with practiced calm. His silver watch glinted under the chandelier's light—a silent reminder of power measured in seconds.
"I told you not to underestimate her," he murmured, his voice like oil on cold water—calm, yet unsettling. "She isn't weak. That girl has fire in her blood."
Zaryab whirled around sharply, his voice cracking. "She was a trembling little girl—scared, submissive!"
Qureshi Sahab's eyes sharpened. "And now she's a trembling little girl with the law on her side," Qureshi Sahab cut in sharply, setting his teacup down with a loud clink, "That makes her more dangerous than ever."
A tense silence settled in the room like a shroud.
From the kitchen doorway, Fazeela Begum stood stiffly, her features tight with contempt and lips curled in disdain. She had overheard enough.
"That ungrateful snake," she hissed, unaware of the true rot beneath her own roof. "We gave her a name. A roof. Respect. And she repays us with betrayal? That wretched creature is no daughter of mine."
She believed her outrage was noble, maternal. She had no idea she was a pawn on a bloodstained chessboard as she remained oblivious of the schemes against Raneya.
Qureshi Sahab's lips curved into something grotesque—a slow, sinister smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Perfect," he said softly, rising to his feet like a vulture drawn to a dying breath. "Then let's treat her as she truly is—an outsider. No family honor. No protection. No rights. No moral obligation."
He turned toward the large window overlooking the estate. Beyond the walls lay a city he had owned for decades. A city that obeyed his whispers more than its laws. His eyes were glinting with something far more dangerous than anger—strategy
"She's gone to the police. But she has nothing—no proof, no backing, no status. And this is our city. Our system. And in this system," he said, voice dipping into a quiet snarl, "truth means nothing without power. Do you think some half-dead girl running in with a sob story is enough to shake my empire?"
Zaryab's chest rose and fell rapidly, his anger slowly morphing into cold dread. "What do we do now?"
"We do what we've always done," Qureshi Sahab said smoothly as he turned to the window, gazing out like a general surveying a battlefield. "Control the story. First, we make her hysterical. A mentally unstable runaway, abandoned by her husband, paranoid, suicidal—perhaps even violent."
He waved his hand dismissively. "Our media people will know how to twist it. One headline is all it takes."
"And the second?" Zaryab asked, leaning in, breath catching, throat dry.
Qureshi Sahab turned. His gaze was deadly still.
"We hunt her down. Quietly. Permanently. And this time—no amateurs. No loose ends."
Zaryab scoffed bitterly. "Don't send those buffoons you did last night. They couldn't even catch a barefoot girl with cracked sandals."
Qureshi Sahab chuckled—low and cold. "Relax. I'll send professionals this time. The kind who don't fail. Or speak."
Then, his tone shifted, deadly and commanding.
"You will play the grieving husband. Smile. Cry. Attend gatherings. Let people pity you. Let them mourn with the "poor man" over his 'lost' wife. Paint her as the delusional, lying witch who ran from a man who loved her. Maybe even suicidal. Let public opinion eat her alive."
Zaryab nodded slowly, the weight of the game settling into his bones. He swallowed, a shadow of doubt flickered across his face.
"And if she has backing?" he dared to ask. "What then?"
Qureshi Sahab stepped closer, eyes now aflame with something darker than fury—certainty.
"She doesn't," he replied flatly. "And if someone's protecting her, they'll regret it. The girl will learn what every idealist learns eventually—truth means nothing without power."
Outside, the clouds thickened. The wind moaned through the corridors like a warning.
Elsewhere in the city…
In a crumbling room behind reinforced doors and peeling paint, Raneya sat stiffly on a creaking bed, unaware that the people she once called family were now engineering her erasure like clockwork.
The room was small—barely more than four walls, one flickering light, a ceiling fan that creaked with every turn, and a bed that groaned under the weight of her exhaustion. And silence that suffocated.
It was a safe house, they said. But she had lived in too many cages to mistake one just because the bars were painted differently.
Her fingers dug into the thin mattress. Her bag—the last trace of her former life—sat quietly beside her. Her degrees. Her savings. Her escape plan.
Everything she'd built had been turned to ash… but this?
This was the ember still burning.
Nights were the worst.
Every hour stretched into the next with the same eerie rhythm. Every creak of the fan above felt like a countdown. Every shadow that slithered across the floor made her flinch. Every flicker of the faulty tube light. Every dog barking in the distance—it all became a symphony of fear in her mind.
She wasn't sure if it was peace… or just a prettier kind of prison.
Her meals were left outside like she was some quarantined disease. No faces. No voices.
The constable who'd taken her statement had been kind in his own hardened way. He'd arranged for her to be moved to this undisclosed location—an old safe house used for victims and witnesses in danger. Temporary, he said. Quiet. Off the radar.
And God, was it quiet.
Too quiet.
She hadn't cried since that night.
Not when she fled. Not when she found out her father wanted her dead. Not when her so-called mother disowned her like she was filth stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
But here… alone with her thoughts, the tears came like a dam breaking.
Not when she fled. Not when she found out her father wanted her dead. Not when her so-called mother disowned her like she was filth stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
But here… alone with her thoughts, the tears came like a dam breaking.
She covered her mouth with her palm, sinking to the floor as sobs racked her body—quiet, breathless sobs. Like she didn't want even the walls to hear how broken she was.
She was exhausted, but sleep refused her. Even with the door locked, even with the assurance of protection—she never felt alone.
She always felt… watched.
Maybe it was the trauma. Maybe it was her survival instincts refusing to turn off. But her body stayed alert. Hyperaware. Every second.
She barely touched the food left at her door each day. She'd peek through the curtains before allowing herself to breathe. And at night, she kept a metal rod—a broken curtain rod she'd found in the corner—by her side like a sword. She'd been hunted once. She wouldn't be caught off-guard again.
And yet… on the fourth night, something shifted.
A knock.
Not gentle. Not routine. But harsh. Heavy. Intentional.
Her heart leapt.
She crept to the door, rod in hand, her breath held like a secret. Pressed her ear to the wood.
Silence.
Then—a faint scratch. Paper slipping in.
A note.
She stared at it like it might explode.
Her hands trembled as she unfolded it.
They know where you are. Don't trust anyone. Keep the light off. Wait for my signal. – A
She read it once. Twice.
A?
Aanya?
No. Never. That snake wouldn't warn her.
So… who?
A trap?
Or someone else in this twisted game?
She didn't know.
But instinct overruled logic.
She turned off the light.
And sat down again, in the dark.
The safe house was no longer safe.
The war had followed her into the shadows.
And Raneya… wasn't sure anymore if she was the prey.
Or the beginning of something far more dangerous.