He’d been raised on the streets — quite literally. Rafay Khan knew what hunger smelled like. It wasn’t poetic. It was acid in your throat and humiliation in your veins. His father was a truck driver who’d left somewhere between one shipment and another; his mother worked double shifts at a textile factory until her lungs gave up. By nineteen, Rafay was already known in the underground circuits of Lahore — the boy who didn’t fall. The one who fought without gloves because gloves were for the rich.

By twenty-five, he’d turned professional, raw muscle and rage wrapped in silence. Sponsors came — and so did the journalists. The tabloids loved his story. “From streets to stadiums.” They never mentioned the part where he couldn’t read contracts.

He hated rich people. So when his manager told him that he was being married off — for publicity reasons, to some Chartered Accountant’s daughter who handled investments for the same firm that managed his fights — he almost laughed.

Almost.

But they’d offered him something he’d never had before: legitimacy. A family name that didn’t sound like survival. A wife from a “respectable” background to clean up his image.

And that’s how she happened.

She walked into his life like a walking perfume ad — manicured nails, high heels, eyes full of judgment and an iPhone she couldn’t stop touching. Her family had wealth written into their DNA.

Rafay met her for the first time in her father’s office, where the air smelled like new leather and money. She didn’t even look at him properly — just said a polite “salaam” and went back to scrolling through her phone.

He hated her instantly.

She hated him back — efficiently, perfectly. To her, he was loud hands, ugly bruises, and words with no polish. To him, she was entitlement in heels.

But two months later, they were married.

⸻

The first few weeks were… explosive.

Their house was modern — her choice. Glass walls, marble floors, designer furniture. It looked nothing like a home, more like something that had been borrowed for a photoshoot. He barely touched anything. She, on the other hand, moved through it like she owned the air.

She’d toss her Gucci bags on the couch, leave jewelry on the counter, call her friends on speaker while he ate.

And when he grunted — because that’s what he did instead of speaking — she’d roll her eyes. “Can you at least try not to sound like a caveman?”

He’d look up from his plate. “Can you at least try not to act like your daddy’s ATM?”

Silence. Then she’d scoff. “At least my daddy’s ATM isn’t broken like your temper.”

He smirked. “You sure? You talk like a girl who hasn’t been told off enough.”

That earned him a glare that could burn cities.

⸻

Their marriage existed on a battlefield made of words and proximity. She’d slam doors. He’d break locks. She’d host dinner parties. He’d refuse to come downstairs. She’d flaunt her new jewelry in front of him — “Limited edition, from Dubai.” He’d mutter, “Congratulations. You can now officially blind people with your wrists.”

But there were cracks in the chaos.

Like the night his fight got cancelled.

He came home with blood still under his nails, shirt torn, mood worse. She was on the couch, wrapped in a silk robe, sipping wine and watching some Netflix show.

He slammed the door hard enough to make her jump. “Your people cancelled it,” he growled.

“My people?” she said, eyebrows arching. “You mean the corporate board that doesn’t want a boxer accused of assault on their payroll? Yeah, my people are so evil.”

His jaw clenched. “I didn’t assault him.”

“Then maybe learn to look less terrifying when you’re angry.”

He moved closer. “You want me to smile while getting insulted?”

She didn’t back away — she never did. “Maybe try not throwing chairs next time.”

He exhaled sharply. “You think everything can be fixed with money and PR.”