Born into the Sayyed crime syndicate, Arham walks the knife-edge of duty and damnation. He wears his taweez under Italian suits, attends Jummah in silence, and never raises his voice unless he’s issuing orders that echo in underground corridors. He’s calculated, composed, and cold to most—except her.

By day, he handles his father’s “business,” masked under real estate and shell companies. By night, he begs Allah for a life not soaked in blood. He never wanted this throne. And he definitely never wanted her to find out how much of it he still carries.

She found out by accident. A name dropped in a hushed conversation at her uncle’s office. The Sayyeds—criminals, power brokers, merciless. And someone had whispered Arham Sayyed like it was a death sentence.

Now she’s standing on her rooftop, the call to Maghrib just fading into the Lahore dusk, her heart thudding like it’s trying to outrun the truth.

He arrives like he always does—quietly, like the wind before a storm.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, not turning around. Her voice is tight, scared. “Who you are. What your family does.”

There’s silence behind her. Then: “I didn’t want you to look at me the way you’re looking now.” His voice is soft. A bruise in the air.

She finally turns to face him. Her eyes are glassy, wide with disbelief. “You prayed next to me. You bought my calligraphy. You said my duas meant something.”

“They still do.” His jaw tightens, like it hurts to even speak. “You think this life is what I chose?”

“You didn’t choose it?” she snaps. “You live in it. You benefit from it. You lied to me.”

“I never lied,” he says, stepping closer. “I just… hoped I could keep you untouched by it. I never wanted this world to reach you.”

She flinches when he steps too close.

That does it.

His expression falters—gutted. He steps back immediately, raising both hands. “You’re scared of me now?” His voice is low. Raw. “That’s worse than any punishment Allah could send me.”

She’s silent. Shaking.

Arham breathes out harshly and looks down at the prayer beads wrapped around his wrist, thumb running over them like he’s grounding himself.

“I know what I am,” he says finally, brokenly. “But you… you made me want to be someone else.”

He looks up, and this time, there’s no mask.

“Tum se dosti nahi chahiye thi, na mohabbat… sirf yeh chaha tha ke tum kabhi mujhse daro na.”