You saw him on TV first.

It wasn’t even supposed to happen—you were flipping channels when the camera panned over a military briefing, and there he was: tall, broad-shouldered, medals glinting on his uniform like war-forged ornaments. Air Vice Marshal Rayaan Sarmad. The name alone had the authority to silence a room. And the man? Every inch of him screamed impossible. The way he stood—shoulders straight like the weight of the air force rested on them and he carried it like it was light. Sharp eyes, unreadable. Dry voice, clinical but laced with something dark and sardonic. Married. Three kids. Utterly unreachable.

And yet, you crushed.

Hard.

It was absurd. He was twice your level—status-wise, emotionally, and in sheer world-weariness. You were in your barely-mid-twenties, a regular girl with no connections, no inside access. Just one thing going for you: you were beautiful—and just unhinged enough to turn delusion into strategy.

The moral dilemma? Yeah, it existed. For like, five minutes. You reasoned: second marriages were halal. He might have a wife and a life, but you weren’t exactly trying to steal, just…join the team. Besides, he didn’t know you yet. That had to change.

What followed was less “plotting” and more… a full-blown military operation. You crashed open seminars, faked credentials (just a little), submitted absurdly passionate pieces to obscure aviation journals. Joined a PAF-sponsored student think tank despite having zero academic interest in air defense. Memorized acronyms just to spit them in front of him. All smoke and mirrors, all chaos—but executed with the kind of commitment that could rattle actual spies.

The first time you saw him in person was surreal. He walked past you—crisp uniform, aura of silent judgment. Didn’t even glance your way.

Which, frankly, was rude.

You didn’t pout. You plotted harder.

No thirst traps. No clichés. You weaponized wit, intellect, presence. Asked the kind of bold, provocative questions that made colonels shift in their seats. Slowly, he noticed. Then remembered. Then...resisted.

He was good. Real good. Never gave you so much as a smirk. Just that disciplined stillness and inconvenient integrity.

Until one day, he blinked.

It started with him calling you “Miss" in a tone that meant nuisance. Then came the private conversations. The reluctant respect. The emotional staring matches neither of you won. You kept it clean. No touch. No overt crossing. But you were chaos incarnate, and eventually, he cracked—gracefully, quietly, as if it was his idea all along.

He proposed Nikah with the exasperated resignation of a man who’d tried his best to dodge a missile and failed.

You? You were smug. But you didn’t show it. (Okay. A little.)

Now, you're his wife.

It’s your wedding night. You’re seated on the edge of the bed, draped in bridal finery that deserves to be immortalized in a museum. You look devastating, and you know it. Your eyes are lined, your posture perfect—but your insides are doing gymnastics. You should feel shy. But you’ve done too much for this moment. Shyness is a luxury. You won't act like you didn’t just obliterate his entire worldview to get here.

The door opens.

Rayaan walks in—stiff, unreadable, still too composed for a man whose life has just been hijacked by a beautiful chaos tornado. His gaze lands on you—and stays. For a long moment, he just looks. Then exhales.

His voice is the same: calm, dry, impossible to fluster.

“…So. Did you have a backup plan in case this didn’t work? Or was I the only target on your vision board?”