Rog

Nayel enters his home late at night, his face pale and his eyes swollen. His mother, seated on her prayer mat, notices him.

Mother (concerned): Nayel...iss waqt?

Nayel doesn’t respond. He silently walks over to her and collapses at her feet, resting his head in her lap.

Nayel : 8 saal kitna Kam waqt hai na...kuch nahi badalta...

His mother gently strokes his hair, her own eyes misting with worry:Manal se milkar aarahe ho?

He gently places his hand on his chest wo yahaa hai Amma...you said it's just a teenage infatuation..no...it isn't.I thought I just needed a closure and once I will have it I would be free.Amma mai...mai haar gaya...phir se...uske aansu yaha girte hai...he again tapped his heart.

Mother (firmly): Tum nahi haare...hum haar gaye hai...wo bhi haar gayi... Zubair shah bhi haar gaye...bass unhe pata nahi chala.

Nayel looks up at her, his tears flowing freely and he murmured"wo bassam se shadi kar rahi hai."

Manal Shah stepped out of the Shah Mahal gates just as the sun dipped behind the clouds. She adjusted her dupatta, her phone already in her hand, when her heels came to an abrupt halt.

The front tyre of her black sedan was completely flat.

"Off course nayel"she murmured

Before she could even blink, a sleek silver car slowed down beside her.

The window rolled down.

“Either fate hates you,” came a voice soaked in dry sarcasm, “or someone slashed it.”

Manal didn’t need to look twice. Nayel Durrani. Of course.

She stared at him with caution, trying not to let her voice shake. “we are not kids anymore nayel u need to level up the game”

He tilted his head, eyes unreadable. “Why would I? You’re not worth that much effort.”

There was a slight smirk on his lips. The kind that made you feel like he knew something you didn’t. Manal hesitated. But the gate guards were watching. Bassam’s men too. She had no choice.

She sat inside.

The silence between them felt alive—coiled, waiting to strike.

Nayel finally spoke, his tone deceptively casual. “I once saw a politician in a club, completely drunk. He was losing every bet and flung his engagement ring at a dealer when he couldn’t pay.”

Manal frowned. “And?”

“I kept the ring,” he said, slipping a small velvet box from the glove compartment and offering it to her.

She hesitated

“Thought you might like it.”He said without looking at her.

Manal opened it.

A plain platinum ring...

She didn’t ask who the man was. But her throat was dry.

“Maybe his wife deserved it,” she muttered. “Karma doesn’t come uninvited.”

Nayel turned his head, eyes narrowing. “indeed”

Her breath caught. But she said nothing.

He smiled faintly. The kind of smile that left your spine cold.

As he dropped her outside Shah Mahal, she clutched the ring tighter, unsure if it was a gift, a warning—or both.

---

Inside the Palace

The breakfast table at Shah Mahal was heavy with silence.

Zubair Shah, in a beige kurta, read the newspaper while his soon to be son in law and heir Bassam kept scratching his fingers under the table. His jaw was locked. His phone kept buzzing.

“Contest the seat if you want,” Zubair said finally, not looking up. “But you still lack the temperament.”

Bassam’s eyes flashed. “I’m not a child, baba. I know how to win elections.”

Manal sipped her tea silently.

“And how to lose rings?” Zubair asked sharply, folding the paper. “You should know your fingers betray your lies.”

Bassam went pale. He stared at his hands.

Manal’s voice broke the silence. “Maybe he dropped it… somewhere very public.”

Bassam looked up, startled.

Zubair’s glare moved between both of them. He was connecting dots.

Bassam, rattled, changed topic. “I saw Manal with Nayel yesterday.”

The room tensed.

“So soon to be Mrs were u just missing ur ex or...” he said, trying to sound casual. “Some alliances can cost you more than just your car tyre.”

Zubair slammed his tea down. “Enough.”

Bassam stood, storming out, still scratching his hand.

Zubair turned to Manal. “Is it true?”

She shook her head slowly. “dont worry there were no cameras around”

But before he could probe, his phone rang. He picked it up and walked to the corridor.

Zubair returned to the dining room only to find Manal still seated, her face unreadable. She was staring at nothing.

“What does he want from you?” Zubair finally asked.

“Who?”

“Nayel.”

Manal looked at him, her eyes sharp. “What do you want from me, Abba?”

He froze.

She stood and rolled her sleeve just enough to show the faint purple bruise near her elbow. Zubair’s eyes widened.

“You let him do this?” he said, stunned.

“I let you win,” she replied. “And for that, I had to stay quiet. I paid for your image with my silence.”

Zubair Shah had no words.

“You’re the best politician, Abba,” she said. “And

the worst father.”

---

Zubair’s Corridor Call

“Secretary,” Zubair said sharply. “What do you do when a dog starts barking too much?”

The man on the other end chuckled nervously. “Depends on the breed, sir.”

“This one’s pedigree. But filthy.”

“Leash it, maybe?” the secretary suggested. “If it’s dignified, it will learn.”

Zubair smiled coldly. “Also… has Bassam’s car insurance expired?”

“Yes. Police can seize it if it’s on road.”

“Let them,” Zubair said. “Let the system work. If he misbehaves with the jailer, I’m told the officer is… tough. He may break his hand.”

The secretary didn’t reply. Just exhaled slowly.

---

Meanwhile: The Durranis

At a Durrani estate meeting, Nayel’s father reviewed the government tender files.

“We need MP Zubair Shah’s support,” he said, cautious. “The deal is worth millions.”

Nayel leaned back in his chair, legs crossed.

“Zubair is a man who raises politicians like pets,” Nayel said coolly. “He won’t say no to the hand that feeds him. But if he does…”

His father looked up.

“I’ll use his own dog against him,” Nayel whispered, smiling.

But his father didn’t smile.

“You can’t afford a fight with the Shahs right now, Nayel.”

Nayel’s brow twitched.

“Three of our ongoing contracts—Metro Line, Steel Corridor, and the Airport logistics—run through Shah-owned constituencies. Zubair might raise dogs, but he also controls leashes we can’t cut yet.”

Nayel’s smile faded, his fingers tapping once on the table.

“We’ve poured billions into those projects,” his father continued. “A single signature from Zubair’s office can stall six months of work.”

For a moment, silence.

Then Nayel said, voice lower now, “I built this empire so we wouldn’t have to beg politicians.”

“And yet, here we are.”

A beat.

“Zubair doesn’t forget slights,” his father added. “We embarrassed him last quarter over the property auction in Bhara Kahu. He’s waiting to retaliate.”

Nayel stood, walking to the window. The city below glittered—his, but not quite. Not yet.

“I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t have to. Just make him fee

l trusted.”

A long pause.