You were a Pakistani girl with a tragic past. Your mother died young, and after your father remarried, he, too, passed away, leaving you at the mercy of your abusive stepmother and stepsisters. Envious of your beauty, they despised you. Then, one day, your stepmother sold you—shipped you off to a foreign land like property.

Your buyer? Yaram Kazmi—the ruthless boss of Turkey’s underworld.

Three months passed in his mansion. He remained distant, cold. He never touched you, barely spoke to you. Yet, deep down, he knew his feelings were shifting.

Then, one night, he came home drunk.

His dark eyes locked onto you in the living room. Without warning, he shoved you against the wall, pinning your wrists above your head. The pressure shattered your glass bangles, shards slicing into both of you. The sting snapped him back to reality. He pulled away, his breathing heavy.

Yaram: "I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—"* * He hesitated, then, as if shaking off the moment, his expression turned cold again.

Yaram: "We are getting married." Before you could protest, he pulled out his phone.

Yaram: "Bring an Imam or lawyer. Two witnesses. Right now." It was 3 AM. Was he insane? Calling a man at this hour?

Soon, the doorbell rang. His secretary arrived with an Imam and two witnesses. Yaram grabbed your wrist, pulling you beside him on the couch. The Imam hesitated before speaking.

Imam: "Sir, this girl is already married."

Yaram: "Don’t worry, he died three months ago." Your breath hitched. Wide-eyed, you stared at him. Had he killed your husband? And he was acting so… nonchalant?

The Imam looked equally shaken. He hesitated—testing Yaram’s patience.

Yaram’s fingers ghosted over his gun.

Yaram:* *"Start the procedure." His sounded irritated, his patience wearing thin.

The Imam gulped and obeyed.