𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧 — 𝟔:𝟑𝟎 𝐀𝐌
The city was just beginning to wake up when the morning light reached the luxurious penthouse. Soft sunlight slipped inside through the wide glass windows, slowly spreading across the white walls and polished floors. The light felt gentle, almost careful, as if it respected the quiet of the place.
The penthouse looked calm and perfectly controlled. Everything was in its place—clean lines, expensive furniture, and a silence that spoke louder than noise. Nothing here felt accidental. Every detail reflected wealth, discipline, and a life built on success. It wasn't warmth that filled the space, but certainty.
Outside the glass, London moved at its own pace. The roads below were slowly filling with cars, traffic lights blinking awake, and tall buildings standing proud against the pale morning sky. The city felt alive, ambitious, and restless—yet from this height, it all looked distant and quiet.
𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌
Inside the penthouse room, soft morning light was slowly spreading everywhere. Sunlight entered through the large window and fell gently on the bed. White curtains moved lightly with the air, and golden rays reflected on the shiny floor. Everything inside the room was calm, silent, as if time itself had paused there.
She woke up slowly. Her eyes opened, and she began to look around. The soft light touched her face, making her look calm yet distant. For almost half an hour, she remained lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling wall, lost in her own thoughts. The silence of the room felt heavy, but familiar.
Breaking that silence, she finally got up. She began to gather the things around her, Her movements were unusually slow, each step taken with hesitation. She walked a few steps, then stopped, as if a thought had suddenly pulled her back. While arranging the things on the table, her fingers slipped, and she almost lost balance, catching herself at the last moment. She stood still for a second, steadying her breath, before continuing again.
Every small task took more time than it should have. She folded something carefully, then unfolded it again, fixing what didn't really need fixing. It was as if her hands didn't agree with her mind. Her actions carried restlessness—quiet, but visible. Anyone watching could tell she was deeply troubled.
She moved across the room, paused near the window, then turned back, unsure. Running from something for years changes a person. And just when someone tries to escape, fate has a way of placing them right back in front of it. She had been running for so long... and now, standing there, it felt like destiny was slowly catching up, taking its time, watching her every move.
When her eyes fell on the things placed around her, old memories began to return on their own. Before she could stop herself, tears quietly slipped from the corner of her eyes—and she didn't even realize when it happened. She took a few steps forward, her vision blurred with tears, when a faint shine on the floor caught her attention.
She looked carefully. Near the side of the back table, something small was reflecting light. Moving closer, she bent down and gently pushed the table aside. There it was—a pendant. It was shaped like a watch. One look was enough for anyone to guess its value. It was delicate, beautifully crafted, with tiny diamonds set into it, shining softly.
She picked it up with great care. For a brief moment, anger flashed through her. She closed her eyes tightly, letting the tears fall freely, as if she had been holding them back for too long. Then, slowly, she opened her eyes again and held the pendant carefully in her palm.
She didn't know how many days she had searched for it. She had looked everywhere, again and again, but it was never there. And now, suddenly, it had appeared—at a time when there was no longer any reason to keep it.
Her gaze stayed fixed on the pendant for several minutes. She didn't blink. She didn't move. She stood there like a statue, lost in the emotions and memories tied to it—the memories she had tried so hard to forget, but never truly could.
"𝗞𝘂𝗰𝗵 𝘆𝗮𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗶𝗻 𝘄𝗮𝗾𝘁 𝗸𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝗮𝘁𝗵 𝗻𝗮𝗵𝗶 𝗷𝗮𝗮𝘁𝗶... 𝗯𝗮𝘀 𝘄𝗼𝗵 𝗱𝗵𝗲𝗲𝗿𝗲-𝗱𝗵𝗲𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗱𝗵𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗹𝗶 𝗽𝗮𝗱 𝗷𝗮𝗮𝘁𝗶 𝗵𝗮𝗶𝗻."She murmured under her breath, as if those words were not meant for anyone else, but only for her.
After a while, she carefully placed the pendant inside the locker of her wardrobe. Closing it gently, she turned and walked toward the balcony. Sliding the glass door open, she stepped outside.
The view was breathtaking—wide roads stretching endlessly, tall buildings standing proud, and a city full of life and movement. Sunlight fell directly on her face, softly enhancing her natural beauty. Without any makeup, her face still stood out—calm, effortless, and striking in its own quiet way. Her presence carried peace.
She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the fresh morning air against her skin. Taking a deep breath, she slowly looked up at the sky.
"Sab kuch itna perfect hai na, phir andar se itna perfect kyun nahi hota hai..."
At that moment, her eyes held too many emotions. There was anger, maybe pain, or perhaps an old memory—one she had refused to let reach her lips. She stood there for hours, unmoving, letting the wind carry her silence, lost in thoughts she neither questioned nor answered.
Outside the penthouse, five or six bodyguards stood on duty. Their faces were strict and serious, eyes alert to every movement around them. They never entered the penthouse unless it was absolutely necessary. For them, guarding this place wasn't just a job—it was routine.
The clock had already crossed 8:00 a.m.
Inside the room, the silence was suddenly broken by the soft sound of footsteps.
"Papa!" A small child's voice echoed through the space.
She snapped out of her thoughts instantly and turned around.
She stood there, frozen for a second, emotions flickering quietly across her face. Her brown eyes—wide and expressive—held a softness, almost childlike in their innocence. There was something pure about the way she looked, as if the world hadn't managed to harden her yet. When she moved, dimples appeared gently on her cheeks, adding to that natural, effortless charm.
Her brown hair fell loosely around her shoulders, touched with subtle red highlights that caught the morning light. She didn't need anything extra to stand out. There was a calm beauty in her—simple, real, and quietly mature. The kind that didn't demand attention, yet couldn't be ignored.
The child's voice was still echoing throughout the room... and she was just looking at him in a normal, quiet way.
The little boy stood close to him, tugging at his clothes. His school bag was slipping off his shoulder, his hair messy as always, and his eyes carried a playful, mischievous sparkle. He bent down, lifted the boy gently into his arms, and placed him standing on the bed.
"Good morning, baccha," she said with a soft smile, ruffling the boy's hair.
At that, the boy's face twisted into a clear expression of displeasure, as if he really didn't like that gesture at all.
"I've told you so many times—don't do this," the boy said, fixing his hair with a serious expression.
"Aacha bachu,You're barely two feet tall and already arguing with your mother?"she said, once again messing up his hair on purpose.
"Papa, come on... you're 28 years old. Have some shame according to your age," the boy said, giving advice like a grown man. "You don't tease people like this. It's bad manners, okay?"
"Oh wow," she replied while adjusting the little boy's school bag, "now you'll teach me? You've only been on this earth for five years and you're already acting like my life coach."
"Papa, with the kind of behavior you have, even an eight-year-old kid doesn't act like this. I don't know when you'll mature. And honestly, I don't even have much hope that you'll ever get a grown-up brain—but don't worry, I'm here. I'll handle everything," the boy said confidently.
"First of all, stop calling me Papa. Only then is there any chance of change," he said, puffing his cheeks in mock anger. "I'm your mother—so call me maa."
"Haan haan, pata hai aap meri maa ho," he said with a cute little smile,
"par maa, mummy, mumma aap par suit nahi karta. Like aap par suit karta hai uncle, aunty, papa and many more."
She glared at him in anger,"Tum chhote se piddi se bachche,aise mujh jaisi khubsurat apsara ki beizzati nahi kar sakte.
Then, after a second, realization hit her. She narrowed her eyes and added,"And how dare you call me Papa again? Have some shame."
"Oh come on," he said with a mischievous grin, "if I start feeling shy, then what will the rest of the girls do?"
She made an annoyed face and replied,"Tum piddi se bachche,—now you've started flirting with girls too? Kids these days, I seriously don't know what will become of you," she said, puffing her cheeks in mock anger.
He straightened himself proudly and spoke with full confidence,"Ab app aise is khubsurat se chhote bacche ko najar mat laga do, "Girls are already crazy about my innocence. You have no idea how much effort it takes to give this perfect smile."
She looked at him from head to toe, clearly amused but trying not to show it, and replied in the same tone,"Aaj kal ke piddi se bacche kuch jyada hi jaldi bade ho rahe hai."
He crossed his little arms, acting far too mature for his age, and said seriously,"You're the one who's still stuck being childish," he continued seriously.
"That's why you don't understand grown-ups' talks at all. So don't put too much pressure on your brain."
Hearing this, her cheeks instantly puffed up in anger. She stared at him, completely offended, her expression clearly showing that his words had hit the right nerve.
"Now you don't need to react like that," he said gently, noticing her expression. "I know how you are, and that's exactly why I'm here. You don't have to take any tension. I'll handle things."
She looked at him for a moment, her eyes still sharp, then asked while staring at him, "You didn't come to me at this time just for this, did you?"
He stopped, blinked once, and then a sudden look of realization crossed his face. He tapped his forehead lightly and smiled.
"Oh! I almost forgot why I came here."
"Papa!" he said excitedly, looking like he might jump with happiness at any second.
"Today is my swimming class."
"That's good," she said with a soft smile, gently fixing his collar and neatly straightening his uniform. "Isn't this your first class of the month?"
"Yes, exactly," he replied quickly, nodding his head.
She looked at him with affectionate eyes. "You do like swimming, right?"
"Yes," the boy nodded proudly, lifting his chin a little. "I'm the fastest. Even the coach agrees. I learned swimming much faster than the others. In the last class, he was praising me too."
She laughed softly, clearly happy to see his confidence. With a gentle, playful touch, she patted his shoulder.
"I'm sure you'll learn everything easily," she said warmly.
"So you don't need to worry at all," he added confidently. "I have a sharp mind and a strong body."
"Alright, alright, that's enough self-praise," she said, smiling but pretending to be strict. "Just remember to always listen to your coach. There's no need to bring pride into it so early."
Hearing this, a wide smile spread across the boy's face. The room suddenly felt much lighter. What had once felt quiet and empty was now filled with warmth and happiness—an easy, comforting feeling that could be sensed without a single word.
The boy's eyes moved around the room quickly — the watch on the table, the files near the sofa, the phone screen lighting up with a notification. He noticed everything, even if he never commented.
"Papa," he asked casually, "will you come home late today?"She paused for half a second.
"Maybe," she replied.
"Why, Krish?" she asked gently. "Why did you ask?"
"You shouldn't come so late," he said quietly. "You hardly have time for me anyway."
"Alright... okay," she said, trying to keep her tone light.
Krish shrugged."I was just asking because I get bored without you. That's all."
But his eyes said something else.He always understood more than he showed.
She leaned forward and kissed his forehead.
"There's no need to get so emotional. Go now. Breakfast must be ready. I'll come after getting ready too."
Krish smiled and started walking out. Then he suddenly stopped.
"Papa," he said without turning back,
"you should change your hairstyle."
She raised an eyebrow.
"It looks weird," Krish continued seriously. "Like some ghost has entered you. And also... it's too old-fashioned for you."
"And don't wear black today."
"Why?" she asked again.
"Because I'm bored of seeing you in the same dress," he replied casually. "And wear those earrings you keep safely in the cupboard."
She sighed. "I always wear basic ones."
"Not those," Krish said innocently. "They won't match today. Blue will look better... and wear those shoes."
Before she could reply, Krish ran away, his laughter echoing through the quiet penthouse.
She stood there for a moment, surprised.
Then she smiled.
For a few seconds, everything felt... normal.
At the dining table, Krish ate quietly. He chewed slowly, his eyes doing more observing than his mouth did eating. His gaze drifted once toward the empty chair across the table—but he didn't ask anything. He had learned early in life that some questions never get answers.
She watched him carefully.
This child was different.She didn't know why he had to be so different—why he couldn't be like other normal children.
Too aware
Too sharp.
He understood people.
He understood silence.
Sometimes she wondered why he had to understand so much at such a young age.
Around them, four or five staff members stood quietly, attentive to every small need, making sure nothing was missing. Yet despite all the presence, the space felt oddly quiet.
Krish looked at his mother. He knew she wasn't weak—just unaware of many things. And he never judged her for that. There was so much he wanted to know, so many questions living quietly inside him, but he never asked them out loud. Because he understood that not everything needed words.
And because he understood his mother's pain more than she realized.
As Krish finished eating and stood up, ready to leave for school, he suddenly leaned closer to her and whispered,
"Papa... aap khush rehne ki acting achhi kar lete ho. Mat kiya karo, bakwas lagte ho."She froze.
She was usually very good at hiding her emotions. The world believed her calm. But in front of some people, that ability simply disappeared. And he was one of them.
Krish smiled softly and walked away, as if he hadn't said anything important at all.
She remained seated at the table—heart heavy, eyes distant.
Maybe she had fooled the world.
But not her son.
And that truth scared her...and healed her at the same time.
Inayat stepped out of the penthouse fully ready, exactly the way Krish had asked her to be.
Her hair was neatly styled, changed from before—polished and effortless. She wasn't wearing black. Instead, the colors she chose suited her perfectly, calm yet elegant. The blue earrings Krish had specifically told her to wear were in place, adding a soft touch to her look.
Her face was clean, without heavy makeup—simple and natural. Calm on the surface, composed for the world, her expression remained unreadable.
She looked complete.
Just the way Krish wanted.
The car moved through London's streets, two or three black vehicles following closely behind it. Inside them were her bodyguards—silent, alert. Inside her own car, she sat still, yet her face told a different story. Her expressions kept changing—anger, control, restraint—over and over again.
After nearly two to three hours of driving, the clean, shining buildings of the city were long gone. The roads slowly grew narrower. Broken. Uneven. Streetlights became rare, and when they appeared, they flickered weakly. This area felt dead—so empty and dangerous that even an ordinary person would hesitate to step here once.
This was the part of the city where criminals lived. Goons. Thieves. Drug dealers. Men who survived by destroying others.
Finally, her car stopped near a place that looked completely ruined.
A small warehouse stood there, half-collapsed, surrounded by drunk men and addicts lying carelessly on the ground. Empty liquor bottles, cigarette packs, and drug remnants were scattered everywhere. The building itself wasn't very big, but it was obvious that many people came and went from here. The walls were stained with neglect—peeling paint, rusted metal, damp marks spreading like a disease. Graffiti covered every surface. Looking at the structure, it felt like it could collapse any moment.
This was not a place where normal people came.
This was a place where people were brought.
She stepped out of the car with pure attitude and control. The sharp sound of her heels echoed loudly on the deserted road. Somewhere in the distance, rough laughter floated in the air—careless, filthy, fearless. Her bodyguards followed, but she stopped suddenly.
They stopped too.
She lifted her eyes and scanned the area calmly. The bodyguards watched her closely, understanding without words.
From inside the warehouse, loud laughter echoed—dirty jokes, careless voices, the kind of shameless talk that made the walls feel polluted. The sound bounced around the empty space, heavy and unpleasant, as if this place had forgotten what silence or decency meant.
Inside, a man stood casually leaning against a cracked wall, phone pressed to his ear. He was laughing loudly, completely relaxed, unaware that danger had already entered the room. His back was turned, his attention lost in his own voice.
Inayat walked in without hesitation. Her steps were steady, controlled. She didn't rush. She didn't hide. Her presence itself carried weight.
Something shifted in the air.
The man suddenly sensed it. His laughter stopped mid-sentence. He turned around, confused, his expression changing the moment his eyes met hers.
"Hey—" he started.
He never finished the word.
She moved in a single, sharp motion. She grabbed him by the collar, her grip tight and unforgiving, and slammed him hard against the wall. The impact echoed violently through the warehouse, silencing every other sound.
Before he could recover, her fist crashed into his face.
Once.
The sound of bone meeting skin filled the room.
Twice.
His head snapped to the side, blood already forming at his lip.
Again.
This time there was no resistance. No strength left. Only shock and fear.
There was no mercy in her movements—only rage held under tight control. Each punch carried years of restraint, fear, and fury released all at once. And in that moment, it was clear—this wasn't just anger.
His face was unrecognizable by the time she finally stopped. The careless confidence he once carried had vanished completely, replaced by raw, shaking fear. His eyes no longer held arrogance—only the desperate need to survive.
For a brief moment, something unsettling happened.
Her face went still.
Too still.
An unnatural calm settled over her features, the kind that comes just before destruction. Then, without warning, that calm shattered.
"How dare you?" she roared, her voice sharp enough to tear through the walls of the warehouse.
The men inside froze instantly. Conversations died mid-sentence. Some stumbled back, others rushed toward the exits, panic spreading fast.
"How did you even think of touching my child?" she screamed, each word heavy with rage.
The man's knees gave in. He slid down helplessly, his body no longer able to support itself. But she didn't let him fall. Her hand shot forward, gripping his hair, and she yanked him back up violently. Blood poured from his lips, dripping onto the cold concrete floor.
"I—I didn't know—" he stammered, his voice trembling, fear choking every word.
She didn't hear him.
Or maybe she chose not to.
Her fingers tightened painfully in his hair as she forced his face upward, making sure he looked at her. His face was completely ruined now—swollen, bleeding, broken.
"The day I found out," she said slowly, her voice dropping to a deadly calm,
"that you people put men behind my child..."
Her words slowed, each one deliberate.
"...that was the day I started counting your breaths."
"You think it's that easy," she continued coldly, "to touch my people?"
Her rage was powerful enough to shake the entire warehouse, yet there was control in it—tight, restrained, terrifying. She was holding herself back, and that made it worse.
The warehouse fell into complete silence.
No laughter.
No jokes.
Only fear—thick, suffocating, heavy in the air.
Her bodyguards had now surrounded the place, blocking every path, making sure no one dared to come any closer.
Everyone there understood one thing clearly.
This was no ordinary woman.
"You tried to kill a child," she continued, her voice cold and steady, far more frightening than a scream.
"Do you even know whose child you dared to touch?"
She leaned closer, reducing the distance between them to nothing. Her eyes burned with a fury that needed no words.
"You tried to touch Inayat Mehta's child."
The color drained from his face the instant he heard her name. Fear settled deep into his bones, heavier than the pain in his body.
"You should have asked about me first," she said, her tone sharp with controlled rage.
"If you had... you would never have had the courage to do this."
Her words broke him more completely than her fists ever could.
And in that moment, everyone standing there understood one thing clearly—
This place was dark But she was darker.
"Do you even have the slightest idea what this means?"
Inayat shoved him down with brutal force. His body slammed against the concrete floor, the impact knocking the breath out of him. Panic flooded his senses as he struggled to inhale, his chest rising and falling in broken, uneven gasps. The cold floor scraped against his skin, but the pain barely registered—fear was louder.
"How dare you set your eyes on Inayat Mehta's son?"
The instant he heard her name, everything inside him went still.
Shock froze his body.
His eyes widened.
His blood seemed to drain from his face.
Fear spread across his features, raw and uncontrollable.
He had taken the job for money—good money. For him, it was routine. Watching someone. Following a child. Making calls. Sometimes threatening. Sometimes taking people. It was all the same in his world. No faces. No emotions. Just work.
But he hadn't known.
He hadn't known whose child it was.
Inayat Mehta...The name carried weight.The kind that crushed people.
A woman known for her cruelty.
A woman people spoke about in whispers, never too loudly.
A woman who had wiped out an entire mafia network—and left no trace behind. Men who had simply vanished, as if they had never existed.
And now...
he was lying on the floor at her feet.
At her mercy.
His hands shook as he tried to push himself back, his eyes fixed on her—not seeing a woman anymore, but something far more dangerous. Someone who didn't need weapons to destroy him.
In that moment, he understood one thing clearly—This wasn't a job,This was his end.
"Enough."The word didn't echo—it cut through the warehouse.Sharp. Calm. Powerful.
The tension in the air split open, like metal under a blade.
Inayat froze mid-movement. For the briefest second, something unfamiliar crossed her face—surprise, maybe restraint, maybe memory. She didn't turn around. She didn't have to.
She knew that voice.
Slow, measured footsteps echoed across the concrete floor, each step deliberate, unhurried. The kind of steps that didn't rush into chaos—they controlled it.
A woman stepped into the dim light..Around thirty. Confident. Composed.
She wore a white dress beneath a long brown coat, the fabric moving lightly as she walked. Her hair fell loose to her shoulders, framing a face that was calm but unreadable. Her eyes were steady—quiet, sharp, the kind that made people uncomfortable without ever raising her voice. The way she stood carried authority. Not loud. Not forced.Undeniable.
Dhara Malhotra.
"Stop it, Inayat," Dhara said firmly.
The name alone shifted something in the room.
"And who told you to come here?" she continued, her voice controlled, then sharpened slightly.
"Or have you started believing you're some kind of iron lady these days?"
Inayat turned slowly.
The rage was still there—raw, burning—but the moment her eyes met Dhara's, her expression settled into something far more dangerous: calm.
Her gaze dropped to the man bleeding on the floor. And the fury surged back.
"So now you're stopping me?" Inayat snapped, her voice tight.
"After what he did?"
She took a step forward, breath uneven, control hanging by a thread.
"Do you even realize what could have happened if I had been late by one second?" she continued, her voice shaking—not with fear, but with rage.
Dhara didn't flinch.She met Inayat's gaze without blinking.
"I'm stopping you from destroying yourself," she said quietly.
Inayat let out a bitter, hollow laugh.
"Myself?" she repeated.
She pointed toward the man collapsed on the floor, blood smearing the concrete.
"He tried to touch my child."
For a moment, Dhara's jaw tightened. She looked at the man, then back at Inayat.
"And he's already been punished," she said.
"Look at his face. You made sure of that."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice.
"But the rest of his punishment will come. Just not like this."
Inayat moved forward again, her voice dropping—low, lethal.
"Don't tell me how far I'm allowed to go," she said.
"I'm furious right now. I'm capable of burning someone alive."
"You don't have the courage to cross me like this," Dhara replied, matching her tone without raising it.
Then, calmly—almost gently—she added,"If you hit him one more time, this won't stay inside this warehouse. And you know that."
Their eyes locked..Two storms colliding in complete silence.
Inayat's fists trembled—not from fear, but from restraint so tight it hurt.
Finally, she stepped back, chest rising and falling as she fought for control.
The man collapsed fully now, coughing weakly, barely conscious.
Dhara lifted her hand slightly.
Two men appeared immediately and dragged him away.
Around them, the others who had been watching—criminals, traffickers, men who feared nothing—stood frozen. Their confidence had drained away.
Not because of guns,Not because of threats,But because of these two women.
The warehouse fell silent.
Dead silent.
Dhara looked at Inayat, her voice softening."It's only been two days since you left," she said.
"And you've already destroyed yourself."
She paused.
"You shouldn't have come here alone."
"I wasn't alone," Inayat replied coldly, her mask sliding back into place.
"I just came to cool my head."
Dhara allowed herself a faint, knowing smile.
"So," she asked quietly,
"what did you find out this time that made you come all this way?"
Inayat turned away sharply.
"Nothing," she said too quickly, already walking toward the exit, her heels striking the ground with controlled urgency.
Dhara didn't let her go that easily. She followed, matching her pace.
"Wait. I'm coming too," Dhara said, then added lightly, almost teasing,
"No, no... something definitely happened. You don't come to places like this for nothing. Tell me."
Inayat stopped mid-step and turned around, her glare sharp enough to cut.
"You're far too interested," she said coldly.
"If you're that curious, find out yourself."
Dhara didn't argue. She stayed where she was, watching Inayat closely. Her eyes traced the small details—the tight line of Inayat's jaw, the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her fingers rested on the car door as if gripping control itself. Dhara had seen this look before. Not often. But enough to recognize it.
"Looks like you already know," Dhara said slowly, letting the words settle.
Inayat's hand froze on the handle of the car door.
For a brief, dangerous second, her control cracked. Not enough for the world to notice—but enough for someone like Dhara. Her jaw tightened, muscles shifting beneath calm skin, and she drew in a slow breath, steadying herself.
"What news?" she asked at last. Her voice was flat, carefully empty, as if emotion had been locked away on purpose.
Dhara's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. Not cruel. Not kind. Just aware.
"About him," she said simply.
"He's getting married."The words hit.
Something flared inside Inayat—sharp and sudden, like fire touching skin. Anger. Hurt. A rush of emotions crashing together so fast they stole the breath from her chest.
But her face remained still.
Not even a flicker.
She leaned back against the car casually, crossing her arms as if the conversation bored her.
"People get married every day," she replied coolly. "What's new about one more?"
Dhara tilted her head slightly, studying her the way one studies a lie spoken too smoothly.
"Really?" she said, a faint smirk playing on her lips.
"Doesn't look like it doesn't affect you."
For a moment, the silence between them grew heavy—filled with everything Inayat refused to say, and everything Dhara could already see.
"Marriage," Inayat repeated, a hollow smile touching her lips—one that never reached her eyes.
"Good for him. I hope he's happy."The words sounded casual, almost careless, but the pause before them betrayed her.
Dhara stepped a little closer, lowering her voice, careful not to push too hard—yet unwilling to step back either.
"You'll let him be happy?" she asked quietly.
Inayat drew in a slow, deep breath. The air felt thick in her lungs, like it was pressing down on her chest. For a moment, she closed her eyes, as if steadying herself against something rising inside.
"Don't do this, Dhara," she said softly, her voice stripped of its sharpness.
"There's nothing left now."
"You don't care?" Dhara asked gently, almost sadly.
"And that's exactly why you're angry with yourself. That's why you came here—to hurt someone else instead."
Inayat's eyes burned.
Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms.
Anger..Pain...Jealousy....
All colliding at once, leaving no space to breathe.
"What he did," Inayat said slowly, every word dragged out with effort, her voice cracking despite her control,"and then watching him move on like nothing ever happened..."
A bitter laugh escaped her, sharp and empty.
"Sometimes I feel like dancing," she said, her eyes darkening,
"and sometimes... like burning the entire world."
Dhara didn't interrupt. She only watched her—carefully, closely—as if afraid that one wrong word might shatter what little balance remained.
"And when he gets married," Dhara asked at last,
"what will you do?"
Inayat didn't answer.
She turned her gaze toward the cracked wall of the warehouse. Deep fractures ran through it, rough and permanent—damage that could never truly be fixed.
Just like the damage inside her.
Somewhere far away, sirens wailed, faint but persistent, reminding her that the world outside was still moving.
Slowly, deliberately, Inayat straightened her shoulders.
The softness vanished.
The hesitation disappeared.
The mask slid back into place.
"This story ends here," she said calmly.
She opened the car door and slipped inside, her movements precise and controlled. The engine started, and within seconds the car pulled away, disappearing down the road without a single backward glance. Whatever she was leaving behind, she refused to carry it with her any longer.
Dhara stayed where she was, standing alone in the fading silence. Her eyes followed the car until the tail lights vanished into the distance. Her expression gave nothing away—no anger, no concern, no answers. Only quiet thought.
After a few moments, she turned, walked to her own car, and got in. The door closed softly, almost thoughtfully. Then the engine came to life, and she followed the same road Inayat had taken.
Because some stories don't end there.
They don't fade...They don't close...They begin exactly from that point—where everything seems finished,and nothing has truly begun yet.
This was the First Episode.
I hope you all enjoyed reading it 🤍
If you liked it, don't forget to comment and share your thoughts — even a single line of feedback means a lot and motivates me to write the next episodes 🖤(aur jaisa ki maine pahle bhi bola tha Nashe ki bahut jyada jarurat hai mujhe 🤧)
👉Please vote / take part in the poll so I can know how many of you are connected with this story.
The next episode will be even more intense, emotional, and full of twists.
So stay tuned...
Because this story hasn't ended yet.
It has only just begun. ✨🔥
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