AUTHOR POV
A quiet sound—someone clearing their throat—came from the other side.
Inaya paused.
She turned her head slowly.
On the sofa sat Qaseem Ali Shah—[her father]. Beside him was Omar Khan, [Zeeshan's father]. In front of them sat Zahra Khan, [Zeeshan's grandmother], and beside her, Inaya's grandmother.
All of them were staring at her.
Stunned.
As if they were seeing a ghost they never expected to walk back into this house.
Before anyone could speak, soft footsteps echoed.
From the kitchen emerged Sana Qaseem Ali Shah—[Inaya's mother] . Behind her came Hina Omar Khan, [Zeeshan's mother], a gentle smile playing on her lips.
The moment Sana's eyes landed on Inaya—
they filled with tears.
She didn't say a word.
She dropped everything in her hands and rushed forward, pulling Inaya into a tight embrace. Her arms wrapped around her daughter as if she were afraid she might disappear again. Tears fell freely down Sana's face, soaking into Inaya's shoulder.
She didn't care who was watching.
Inaya's eyes closed instinctively.
She inhaled deeply.
Her mother's scent.
Her warmth.
For ten years, she had yearned for this hug—for this feeling, for this love she had been forced to live without.
Her arms slowly wrapped around her mother.
Just for a moment—
she let herself be weak.
After a few moments, Sana pulled back slightly, wiping her tears with trembling hands. Her voice cracked as she spoke,
"It's been ten years… ten years since I last saw you. You never called. Not even once."
Her lips quivered. "Didn't you miss us?"
Inaya's heart clenched painfully.
Her throat tightened. She opened her mouth to speak—
but before she could say anything, footsteps echoed from upstairs.
Hamid Ali Shah, her elder brother, descended the stairs with his wife, Haya Hamid Ali Shah, beside him.
Hamid stopped the moment he saw her.
For a second, he just stared—unable to believe his eyes.
Then he crossed the distance in long strides and pulled Inaya into a fierce hug. She stiffened in shock for a heartbeat—then melted into him, hugging him back just as tightly.
Hamid pulled away, cupping her face gently, then kissed her forehead.
"How is my baby sister?" he asked softly.
His eyes were wet, shining with unshed tears—but he didn't let them fall.
Inaya's lips trembled. She wanted to cry.
But she didn't.
Taking a deep breath, trying to hide the storm inside her, she said quietly,
"I'm fine, brother."
Then Haya stepped forward and hugged Inaya tightly. This embrace was different—warm, familiar, safe. Haya was more than a sister-in-law.
She was her best friend.
"I missed you," Haya whispered.
Inaya smiled softly through the ache in her chest.
"I missed you too, Haya."
Suddenly, Saad Ali Shah, her cousin brother, rushed out of his room. The moment he reached her and hugged her, he broke down completely.
"Didi," he cried like a child, clinging to her. "I missed you so much. Please don't go back again."
Inaya's chest ached. She stroked his hair gently, holding him close.
After a moment, she pulled back, ruffled his hair playfully, and said,
"I missed you too, my little monkey."
Hearing the word monkey, everyone laughed softly.
For a brief moment, the heavy atmosphere lightened.
She moved forward and greeted her uncle, who patted her head lovingly.
"Welcome back, our princess," he said warmly.
She bent slightly to touch her grandmother's hands, then greeted Zeeshan's mother and father respectfully.
Just as she was about to step toward her father—
he turned his back to her.
Tears shimmered in his eyes, memories of the past flashing before him—but he showed no love, no acknowledgement, to his own daughter.
Her grandmother and aunt turned their faces away as well, deliberately ignoring her, blaming her for Zoya's death.
Seeing that—
Inaya felt suffocated.
Her chest tightened. The palace that once felt like home now felt like a cage.
Noticing the pain on her face, everyone grew silent again.
To break the tension, Saad stepped forward, grabbed Inaya's wrist, and dragged her toward the dining area.
"Come, Didi," he said cheerfully. "You must be hungry."
Everyone met her.
Everyone embraced her.
Everyone—
except her father.
Except her aunt.
And from the other side of the room—
Zeeshan stood silently, watching everything.
Every hug.
Every tear.
Every crack in her strength.
His eyes never left her.
And Inaya didn't notice—
that some wounds in that palace were still waiting to be reopened.
Dining Table — The Decision
The dining table was set perfectly.
Crystal glasses. Polished cutlery. A meal prepared with care.
No one touched the food.
Inaya sat straight-backed at one end of the table, fingers resting calmly on her lap, expression unreadable. Across from her sat her grandfather—commanding, unmoved. Around them, family members filled the seats, stiff with expectation.
The air was heavy.
Deliberate.
Her grandfather cleared his throat.
"We've decided," he said, voice calm, absolute. "Your marriage has been fixed."
Inaya looked up.
"With Zeeshan Khan."
The words landed like a slap.
For a second, the room seemed to tilt.
Then Inaya smiled.
It was slow. Controlled. Dangerous.
"You decided," she corrected softly. "Without asking me."
"This isn't a discussion," her grandfather replied. "It's an arrangement. One that should have happened ten years ago."
Inaya's jaw tightened.
"I built my life without your permission," she said evenly. "I won't hand it over now."
A chair shifted.
Her aunt leaned forward, eyes sharp, voice laced with old resentment.
"Still the same arrogance," she said coldly. "As if you didn't destroy enough already."
Inaya turned to her.
"What did you say?"
Her aunt didn't flinch.
"Zoya would be alive if it weren't for you."
The room froze.
A sharp inhale escaped someone's lips.
Inaya felt it then—the familiar tightening in her chest, the pressure behind her eyes. But her voice, when it came, was steady.
"Don't," she warned quietly.
"You pushed her," her aunt continued, bitterness spilling freely now. "You were always reckless. Always selfish. And when she fell—"
"I DID NOT KILL HER."
The words rang across the table, sharp and raw.
Inaya stood up so abruptly her chair scraped loudly against the floor.
"She slipped," Inaya said, voice shaking despite herself. "She fell. And I have paid for that moment every single day since."
Silence swallowed the room.
Her aunt scoffed. "That's what you tell yourself."
Inaya's hands curled into fists.
"Say her name one more time," she whispered, eyes burning, "and I swear I'll forget who you are."
A sudden movement broke the tension.
Her father pushed his chair back.
Slowly.
Painfully.
He stood, eyes fixed on the table—not on her.
"Enough," he said, his voice hoarse.
Everyone turned toward him.
He didn't look at Inaya.
Didn't defend her.
Didn't accuse her either.
He simply turned and walked away from the table, his footsteps echoing through the hall like a verdict no one wanted to hear.
The door closed behind him.
Final.
Inaya swallowed hard.
For a moment, the armor cracked.
Her grandfather spoke again, unshaken.
"This marriage will happen," he said firmly.
Inaya laughed—soft, broken.
"So this is justice?" she asked. "Punishment disguised as tradition?"
Her grandfather's gaze hardened.
"This is order."
Inaya picked up her napkin, placed it neatly beside her untouched plate, and straightened.
"Then understand this," she said, voice cold as steel. "You can force me into a marriage."
She looked around the table—at every face that refused to meet her eyes.
"But you will never own me again."
She turned and walked away.
Behind her, the food went cold.
And something else shattered quietly at that table—
the last illusion of family.
Zeeshan remained focused on his food.
His movements were precise, unhurried—knife cutting cleanly, fork steady. He neither reacted to the tension at the table nor looked up when voices rose. To anyone watching, he appeared composed, almost indifferent.
Across from him, his parents sat restless.
His mother barely touched her plate, fingers tightening around her napkin, worry shadowing her face. His father's gaze kept drifting toward their son, concern etched deep into his features. They weren't thinking about alliances or legacy.
They were thinking about their son's future.
About the kind of man this marriage would turn him into.
Zeeshan noticed none of it—or pretended not to.
He took another bite, calm as ever, while the storm gathered quietly around him.
The dining hall slowly emptied.
Laughter faded. Voices softened. One by one, people drifted away, leaving behind half-finished conversations and emotions hanging in the air.
Dinner ended without warmth.
Zeeshan stood first, pushing his chair back calmly. He offered a polite nod to the elders—respectful, distant And he follows inaya outside.
Outside, he noticed her standing in the garden, completely lost in her thoughts.
Inaya stood in the garden, her back straight, fingers curled tightly fist . From the outside, she looked calm—untouchable.
Inside, everything was loud.
She felt it before she heard it.
Footsteps.
Slow. Measured. Familiar.
She didn't turn around.
Zeeshan stopped a few feet behind her.
The silence between them stretched—thick, uncomfortable, loaded with things neither had said for years.
"You haven't changed," he said finally, his voice low. "Still pretending you don't hear what hurts."
Her jaw tightened.
She turned slowly, meeting his gaze for the first time.
"Neither have you," she replied coolly. "Still saying things that aren't your right to say."
His eyes darkened—not with anger, but something deeper. Regret. Guilt. Long-buried pain.
"You left," he said. "Without a word."
She let out a small, humorless laugh.
"And you decided you understood everything," she shot back. "Without asking."
The air between them snapped.
Zeeshan took a step closer. "Do you have any idea what it was like here after you left? The blame, the whispers, the silence—"
"Don't," she cut him off sharply.
Her voice trembled—just slightly.
"Don't talk to me about silence. I lived in it for ten years."
His expression faltered.
For the first time, he really looked at her—not the powerful woman everyone feared, but the girl who had carried too much too young.
"You think I didn't suffer?" he asked quietly.
She met his eyes, unflinching.
"I think," she said slowly, "you survived with people around you. I survived alone."
That hit him harder than any accusation.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Zeeshan said harshly, "but Zoya's death was your fault."
Her breath caught.
Just for a second.
Then she masked it perfectly.
"Everyone in this house disagrees," she said, her tone distant. "Including your grandmother. Including mine."
"And including your father," he added gently.
Her eyes flickered away.
That was the crack.
Zeeshan stepped closer—too close now. "Inaya… if I could go back—"
She raised a hand.
"No," she said firmly. "We don't rewrite the past. We survive it."
She picked up her phone from the bench beside her.
When she passed him, her shoulder brushed his arm—electric, brief, dangerous.
She stopped beside him without looking back.
"This palace," she said quietly, "looks beautiful from outside. But you and I both know what it does to people inside."
Then, almost in a whisper—
"And this time, Zeeshan… I won't break."
She walked away.
Zeeshan stood there, unmoving, watching her disappear down the corridor.
For the first time in years, he realized—
The girl he once knew was gone.
And the woman who returned?
She was a storm.
Zeeshan stood there He offered a polite nod to the elders—respectful, distant. His parents followed, exchanging brief goodbyes that felt more like obligations than farewells.
The main door closed behind the Khans with a soft but final thud.
And just like that—
the house felt heavier.
Inaya stood outside her father's study.
Her hand hovered near the door.
For ten years, she had avoided this moment.
Now—she pushed the door open.
Qaseem Ali Shah stood near the window, his back to her, hands clasped tightly behind him. The room smelled of old books, authority, and unresolved pain.
He didn't turn around.
"I know you're here," he said quietly.
Inaya stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
The sound echoed louder than it should have.
"Why didn't you look at me?" she asked, her voice calm—but fragile underneath.
Silence.
Then—
"Because if I do," he replied, voice heavy, "I won't be able to stay angry."
Her chest tightened.
"You punished me for something I didn't do," she said slowly. "You watched everyone tear me apart… and you let them."
He flinched.
Just once.
"You left," he said sharply. "You ran away."
"I was pushed," she snapped, control slipping. "I was sixteen. I lost my sister. I lost my home. And that day—I lost my father."
Finally, he turned.
Tears burned in his eyes, but his face stayed hard.
"Zoya died," he said hoarsely. "And you were there."
"And I was innocent," Inaya whispered. "But you never asked. Not once."
Her voice broke then.
"Did you ever miss me?"
The question hung between them like a blade.
Qaseem looked away.
"I buried one daughter," he said. "because of other daughter
Inaya laughed bitterly, tears spilling now.
"You lost me the day you chose silence."
She wiped her tears roughly, straightening her back.
"I didn't come back to beg," she said firmly. "I came back to face you."
She turned toward the door.
"Believe me or don't," she added. "But this time—I won't disappear quietly."
She walked out.
And behind her—
Qaseem Ali Shah sank into his chair, covering his face with shaking hands.
For the first time in ten years—
He realized his daughter was no longer asking for love.
She was done waiting for it.
she goes to her old room
The door closed softly behind her.
Her room.
Nothing had changed.
The same pale curtains.
The same carved wooden bed.
The same mirror that once reflected a girl who trusted too easily.
Inaya stood still for a moment.
Then slowly, her composure collapsed.
She placed her bag down, walked toward the bed, and sat at its edge. Her fingers trembled as they brushed the mattress.
So many memories lived here.
Laughter.
Tears.
Screams she had swallowed.
She lay back, staring at the ceiling, blinking rapidly.
You're safe, she told herself.
You're strong now.
But strength didn't erase pain.
A single tear slid into her hair.
She turned her face toward the window.
Outside, the palace stood tall and proud.
Inside, it was still a cage.
She hugged herself tightly, whispering to the empty room—
"I came back… but I won't stay the same."
The walls felt closer.
The air—thicker.
Her breaths grew shallow, uneven, as if the palace itself was pressing down on her lungs. The murmurs of the elders behind her, the unspoken accusations still hanging in the air, the weight of eyes that refused to look at her—
It was too much.
She stood up abruptly, the chair scraping softly against the floor.
Without saying a word, she turned and walked away.
Her steps were controlled, but inside, she was unraveling.
She pushed open the glass doors and stepped onto the balcony.
Cold night air rushed against her face, sharp and unforgiving, but she welcomed it. She gripped the railing tightly, knuckles whitening, as she leaned forward and inhaled deeply—again and again—trying to calm the storm raging inside her chest.
Below her, the palace grounds lay silent, bathed in dim lights and long shadows.
Above her, the sky was dark and endless.
Just like her thoughts.
For the first time since she returned—
her mask cracked.
A shaky breath escaped her lips.
And she didn't know that from within those shadows…
someone else was watching her breathe.
Armaan meer pov
Armaan leaned against his car across the street, hidden behind tinted glass.
His eyes never left the balony of inaya room .
Then—
She appeared.
Inaya Ali Shah.
standing. Chin lifted. Confidence wrapped around her like armor.
His lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile.
"There you are," he murmured.
He had waited years.
Watched from a distance.
Followed her growth.
Learned her habits.
Memorized her silence.
Every article.
Every photo.
Every appearance.
She didn't know it yet—
But she had never been alone.
"She thinks she's strong now," he whispered, fingers tapping against his steering wheel. "That makes it more interesting."
His phone buzzed in his hand.
A draft message glowed on the screen—unsent.
Welcome home, sweetheart.
He watched the palace doors close behind her.
"They don't see you like I do," he said softly.
"They don't understand you."
His smile widened—possessive, unhinged.
"But I do."
He started the engine slowly.
The hunt had begun.