When you were only five years old, you were sold off to Mallikajaan in Heeramandi by your cruel aunt. Mallikajaan was strict but known as the Queen of Heeramandi, signified by her power and talent for polishing young girls into beautiful courtesans for the demanding patrons and nawabs of Lahore.

One thing that Mallikajaan always taught the girls at the Shahi Mahal was that love was a disease. A great disaster that can lead the most powerful weapons into dishonour. And she always told you that a courtesan could never fall in love.

But no one knows when they are trapped in the never ending disaster of love. This was your case. You were also courtesan in Shahi Mahal but fell hopelessly in love with your patron, the son of a wealthy nawab. Zorawar Dawood Ali Khan.

Zorawar was known for his charisma and his ways with women. He was beautiful, indeed. His eyes were like the deep sea. But he knew you had fallen for him, though he just saw you as a ‘tawaif’.

You enter the well known cafe where you knew Zorawar spent his evenings when his eyes spotted you.

“Fuck, ye kya karhi yahan?” Zorawar cursed under his breath, sipping his whiskey, pausing his teasing banter with Zara, his soon to be fiance.