The Shah-registered black SUV sliced through the highway like a predator on a prowl. Inside, Bassam Shah lounged in the driver’s seat, his designer sunglasses still on despite the sunset. Heavy bass pounded through the speakers, drowning every thought but his own bloated pride.
Up ahead, red-and-blue barricades blinked across the road.
A lone constable stepped forward, palm raised.
Constable (sternly):
“License. Registration. Insurance.”
Bassam rolled the window down—halfway—and scoffed.
Bassam (arrogantly):“Do you even know whose car this is?”
Officer:“Sir, documents.”
Bassam smirked, fumbling through the dashboard until he found the insurance papers. They were expired. Very expired.
The officer’s brow twitched. Bassam, sensing the mood shift, slipped out his wallet and held it casually near the window.
Bassam (mocking):
“Chai-paani?”
Officer (flatly):
“Bribing an officer, sir?”
He snapped his fingers. Two more officers approached.The music still thumped inside the SUV.
Bassam (raising his voice):“You’re talking to Bassam Shah! Zubair Shah’s son-in-law!”
The officer’s face didn’t change.
Officer (calmly):
“Galti kar di, sir ji. Damaad aap sirf Zubair Shah ke hain… mulk ke nahi.”
Bassam raised his hand to slap maybe but
Crack.
Before Bassam could react, his arm was twisted behind his back. A fractured wrist. He screamed.
Seconds later, he was on the ground, handcuffed, humiliated, and shoved into the police jeep.
Scene: Police Station – Night
The police station was buzzing. Outside, media vans jammed the narrow street. Flashbulbs exploded. Headlines screamed. Inside, Bassam sat on a bench, hand in a sling, spewing threats at constables who barely looked his way.
News Anchor (voiceover):
“Zubair Shah’s son-in-law arrested. The law doesn’t bend, not even for blood.”
Scene: Zubair Shah’s Residence – Drawing Room
The antique phone rang. Zubair Shah was unbothered. He stood by the window, sipping kehwa from a brass cup, eyes on the moonlit courtyard.
Officer (over phone):
“Sir… we followed protocol. But he’s threatening us. Abusing power. Pressuring transfers…”
Zubair (quietly):
“Good work.”
Officer (surprised):
“Sir?”
Zubair (smiling):
“Feed him mutton. Treat him like a guest. I’ll bring him home by Monday.”
He paused, voice sharpening.
Zubair:
“Officer transfer is inevitable...tou usse mat dariye.”
Zubair sits calmly in his leather chair, the only sound in the room is the ticking of the antique clock on the wall. On the screen in front of him: news tickers flash “Bassam Shah Behind Bars”, “Insurance Fraud or Political Trap?”, “The Shahs Crumble?”
But Zubair Shah is composed. There's a glint in his eye, the calm of a man who knows chaos bends to him.
PA (stepping in nervously):
"Sir, should I prepare a statement? There’s heat—"
Zubair (cutting him):
"No. Let the silence grow. When they ask why I'm not defending him... they'll remember I'm not one of them."
PA:
"But he is your nephew"
Zubair (smirking):
"And that makes it all the more believable. The Shahs aren't above the law. That’s the story."
He gets up and walks to the window.
Zubair (softly):
"One scandal. And I become the reformer. The man who doesn’t shield corruption, even in his own house."
Scene: Newsroom Montage
Clips flash across the screen:
“Zubair Shah distances himself from son in law's arrest.”
“Public responds to Zubair’s integrity—approval ratings spike.”
“Shah camp takes moral high ground.”
🎭
Scene: Zubair on a Call with His Media Strategist
Strategist:
"Sir, this move has given you an edge no development could. You're not just winning votes… you’re rewriting your legacy."
Zubair (smiling):
"Let them think I sacrificed blood for power. That’s what a leader does."
Scene: Cut to Waleed Shah’s Study – Just After the News Breaks
Waleed stares at the screen, blood boiling. He pours himself kehwa. Zubair walks in silently.
Waleed:"You turned your own blood into your campaign."
Zubair:"Learning from the best."
Waleed slams the glass down.
Waleed:"I raised a son, Zubair. I didn’t groom a predator."
A long pause.
Zubair (calmer):"Manal par aankh bardasht nahi kar sakta wo haath uthaane laga"
Waleed sighs—anger dulled by the taste of truth.
Waleed:
"Still... he was family."
Zubair:"He still is. But this house can’t afford more rot."
🎭
Scene: Police Station – Same Night
The corridor was dim. A ceiling fan spun lazily above. Bassam sat, one leg stretched out, arrogance still intact.
The door creaked open.
Nayel Durrani stepped in—tailored grey shirt, sleeves rolled, face unreadable.
Bassam (smirking):
“Well, well. Mr. Genius. Mr. Morality.
You were seventeen when you first saw this place, right?
Nayel (mildly):
“Turned late. But turned right.”
Bassam:
“I should’ve known it was you. This reeks of your style—quiet, clean, just enough mess to humiliate.”
Nayel (calm):“This is life...my past your present "
Bassam (leaning in):“But it still hurts, doesn’t it? Your past my present”
A flicker in Nayel’s eyes. But no blink. He stepped forward, his voice cold steel.
Nayel:
“If she were mine…
I’d have killed you for taking her name.”
A pause.
Nayel (smiles faintly):
“But because she’s yours now…
I don’t care.”
Bassam’s smirk faltered. Indifference stung deeper than rage.
He turned. Walked out.
Bassam slammed his fist against the wall. The sound echoed, hollow.
---
Scene: Durrani Mansion – Study Room
Screens glowed with disaster. News tickers screamed:
> “Durrani’s Pine Project FLOPS!”
“What Even Is ‘Pine’? Investors Confused”
“Zubair Shah’s Silence Raises Eyebrows”
Faheem Durrani paced like a lion caged.
Faheem:“You spent everything on the Shah constituency! And for what?
And this earphone—‘Pine’? Who names tech after trees?!”
Nayel entered like mist—quiet, precise. No apology. No panic.
Faheem:“The media’s eating you alive!
You’ve lost everything in a day!”
Nayel sat calmly, crossed his legs.
Nayel (to PA):“Who named the product?”
PA (nervous):
“You did, sir. Last spring. You said… it felt personal.”
A pause.
Nayel (dry smile):
“Right. Personal.”
He stood, brushing off his sleeves like he’d just been dusted by irrelevance.
Nayel:“Book a meeting with Zubair Shah.”
Faheem (stunned):“Now? After everything?”
Nayel:“Exactly now.”
He turned to the window, the headlines behind him flickering like dying embers.
Nayel (muttering):
“They think I’ve lost the board.Chess maine zubair shah ke saath khel kar seekha hai...aap bhool gaye mujhe yaad hai.”
Scene: Shah Residence – Waleed’s Room
The old patriarch sat in the shadows, television flickering across his hollowed features.
The door creaked open.
Manal entered. Regal yet quiet. She bent down and kissed his hand.
Waleed (gruffly):
“Its been a day and Bassam hasn’t returned.”
Manal:“Dayyan hasn’t returned in five years.”
A beat.
Waleed:“Your father jailed him for politics.”
Manal:“And you exiled him for pride.
Both of you destroyed him.”
Silence.
Waleed (softly):“I’ll call Azah. You look lonely.”
Manal (quietly):“Let someone live, Baba.
This house is cursed.
Some end up in prisons.
Some… in their own minds.”
Waleed:“Bassam is a lion. He can’t be caged.”
A knock at the door.
Maid:“Bibi… Nayel Durrani is in the hall. With Shah Sahib.”
Manal looked at her grandfather. Measured. Calm.
Manal:
“The city’s full of elephants now, Baba.And when the ground tremble…it’s better for a lion to be caged…than crushed.”
Scene: Shah Mansion – Private Office
Zubair Shah sat behind his desk. Alone. Majestic. The air was still. The silence heavy.
Nayel Durrani entered, untouched by scandal. He sat opposite Zubair without invitation.
Zubair:
“This isn’t a courtesy call.”
Nayel:“Courtesy is for dinner tables.This is timing.”
Zubair (half-smile):“Your timing’s been off lately.”
Nayel:“Depends who’s holding the clock.”
Zubair:“You invested in my constituency without consent.
That’s arrogance.”
Nayel:“Or foresight.
Elections are coming.
People don’t vote on intentions. They vote on roads.”
Zubair:“Someone has to hold the shovel.”
Nayel:“Exactly. You need progress.I need clearance.The public needs hope.We all win.”
Zubair:“‘We,’ huh? Now we’re a team?”
Nayel (smiles):“We’re not enemies, sir.Just two men who think beyond the personal...Aur baaki aap zameendar hum dukaandar yaad aaya kuch”
Zubair studied him—cool, unreadable.
Zubair:“And what makes you think I’ll give you the tender?”
Nayel:“Because you’re not looking for loyalty.You’re looking for delivery.And I don’t fail twice.”
Zubair rose, walking to the window.
Zubair:“You understand narrative, Nayel. But you’re obsessed with being flawless. Even your failures look rehearsed.
NAYEL
(smiles)
You call it obsession. I call it design.
ZUBAIR
Design doesn’t move masses. Emotion does.
(pours himself a drink of water, sets the glass down)
ZUBAIR (CONT’D)
Let me give you a lesson. When I lost my wife and sister in law, I spoke to media the next morning. Not as a grieving man... as a leader with red eyes. People didn’t vote for strength. They voted for pain that spoke like power.
(Nayel listens intently, the wheels in his mind turning.)
ZUBAIR (CONT’D)Sometimes, let the world see you bleed. It terrifies them more than your perfection.
(A beat. Silence.)
NAYEL
(quietly, to himself)
It’s okay to be undone...
(Zubair catches it but doesn’t comment.)
ZUBAIR
You’ll have the tender. But don’t thank me. Play it well. Play it like it’s both our win.
NAYEL
That’s exactly how I planned to play it.
(Nayel stands. He nods with just the right humility.)
ZUBAIR
Don’t fall for power, Nayel. Become it.
NAYEL
Tonight, I did.
He turned, sharp as a guillotine.
Ek advice mai bhi aapko dun sir...agle tenure par jail ka budget badhaa dijey...Bhejne waale kab jaane waale banjaayen pata kahaa chalta hai.
Zubair(smiled knowing as if admiring him)Bacche ho tum abhi.They stood facing each other—not friends, not foes.Just two men who knew how to win.
The streets of the city were quiet, the kind of silence that wrapped around the city just before dawn broke its slumber. He sat still in his black SUV, the night’s storm still raging behind his eyes. Then, without emotion, he picked up his phone.
"Tell them I’m here," he said coldly to his PA. "Make it look like the paps caught me off-guard. I want drama. I want ruin. Make it believable."
He ended the call without waiting for a response.
He leaned back, eyes closed for a second. Then turned to the driver.
“Give me a cigarette.”
The driver hesitated — Nayel Durrani never smoked in public.
But this wasn’t the Nayel Durrani anyone knew.
He unbuttoned the top of his shirt, let his tie hang loose, and ran a rough hand through his hair until it was deliberately disheveled. He looked like success had betrayed him. Like ambition had cost him everything.
And then he stepped out.
The flashing began almost instantly.
Paparazzi, who once feared even breathing his name, were now treated to the rarest spectacle — The Untouchable, broken.
“Mr. Durrani! Is everything alright?!”
“Do u consider pine your first failure ?”
“was it a product of arrogance or ignorance?”
Nayel looked at them — a calm wreck, a storm disguised in heartbreak.
He smiled faintly. "It’s not a product... it’s a tribute to a dream. A dream I can never fulfill."
That line hit like a bullet. The cameras went wild. The footage spread like fire.
#TheBrokenBillionaire started trending within an hour.
Girls posted videos crying over him.
Sales of Pine surged by 47% overnight.
It wasn’t just a brand anymore. It was a sentiment. A movement. A man wrapped in pain and perfume.
THE NEXT MORNING
Durrani Mansion
His father — the ever-pragmatic tycoon — was glowing with pride.
“The Shah deal is ours. We’re back in the game. Pine is a legacy now,” he said, sipping his tea like it was champagne.
But his mother... she just watched her son.
Nayel entered late, visibly exhausted but unfazed.
She asked softly, "Was this really for Manal?"
He paused.
Met her gaze with that familiar cold smile. “Who Manal?”
She smiled back too, painfully. She knew. Everyone knew.But no one dared speak.
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