The iron gates of the police station creaked open, metal grinding like old bones. Bassam Shah emerged, plastered arm heavy, eyes unreadable beneath the camera flashes. Questions flew, but he didn’t flinch. Every step was deliberate, measured, yet beneath the control, there was a storm ready to break.
Two constables lingered, uncertain.
The inspector, a wiry man with a hawk’s eyes, leaned against the gate. His voice was low, almost melodic, but carried menace:
“Nazar rakhna saale par.”
The younger constable blinked. “Sir… you never curse outside the cell. Something special about Bassam Shah?”
The inspector’s smile was a shadow, sharp as a knife. “Special? He’s more than special. He’s a storm… and storms leave ruin. Watch him. Learn. Some men are born to burn everything they touch.” His gaze didn’t move from Bassam, swallowed by the SUV. Then, to himself, almost a whisper:
“And by the way Saala is a relationship title...ye aajkal ke baccho ko hindi nahi aati.”
---
Back at Shah Haveli, the air was thick with smoke, old wood, and tension. Waleed—Dada to Bassam and Manal—sat in the grand hall, fingers interlaced like claws. His gaze flicked from Bassam to Zubair—Manal’s father—a man whose presence was a razor, calculating and sharp.
“This Friday,” Waleed’s voice rumbled like distant thunder, “you and Manal will marry. The house will not bleed further. Doors of shame will close.”
Zubair stepped forward, eyes narrowed, studying Bassam like a chessboard. “Baba… I see your intent.Aap mere baazu (hand)ko mere gale daal rahe hain. He is an emerging power. And you,” Zubair’s glance was cold, slicing, “feel it slipping. Do not pretend otherwise.”
Waleed’s lips curved in a slow, dangerous smile. “Old bones can sense power. And yes… this boy is fire. But fire, once caged, can burn the hand that fed it.”
Bassam rose, plastered arm dangling like a weapon, eyes steel. “Nikah ke liye aurat ki raza mandi zaroori hai. I will speak to Manal first. I will not take a prisoner as a wife.”
Waleed’s rumble was low, irritation flickering. “Consent?She was Yours the moment she came to life.This is a Shah house. Do you test me, boy?”
Bassam’s gaze didn’t waver. “I test nothing. I want her to choose me...I am done playing this powerplay...My marriage will be more than a political deal.”
Zubair’s half-smile was sharp, warning. “Bassam shah speaking sense...rare very rare...”
---
In Manal’s room, the glow of Kuch Kuch Hota Hai flickered across her face. She sat cross-legged, blanket around her shoulders, heart pounding. Bassam entered silently, sitting opposite her, eyes locked on hers.
“You should rest,” she whispered.
“I should,” he said, voice low, almost soft. Then, after a pause, steel edged into the words:
“Dada wants us married this Friday.”
Her head jerked up. “What?”
Bassam leaned forward, voice a dangerous whisper:
“I am not Aman, Manal. If I ever find you reaching for Rahul—for Nayel—I will shoot him first. And then… you. My wife is my honor. Do you understand?”
Her chest constricted. He radiated danger, obsession, and power. Then his voice dropped, almost intimate under the threat:
“One last chance. Choose me… or choose him. Do kashtiyo par sawaar log girr jaate hain. Hum mei se koi bhi tumhaara girna afford nahi kar sakta.”
The TV scene flickered, Aman letting Anjali go, but in the room, Bassam’s vow was steel, fire, obsession.
---
Later that night, Manal moved like a shadow. She slipped past the guards and the front desk, every step calculated, every heartbeat loud in her ears. Rain slicked streets reflected fractured lights as she drove to Nayel’s office—five kilometers away.
Her pulse thundered as she pressed against the corridor wall outside his office.
From inside, Nayel’s voice, clipped, predatory, filled the space:
“She will crawl back. She will apologize. And when she does… I’ll make her grovel. Mercy is not for her.”
Manal froze. Every word cut sharper than knives. She didn’t need to see him—she felt the monster behind the glass, precise, predatory, terrifying. The Nayel she had imagined was gone. The real Nayel, the myth, was far darker.
---
The next morning, Zain approached Nayel, careful, almost wary.
“Sir… I booked a session with a psychologist. For… last night.”
Nayel’s eyes were steel, but a flicker of something fragile passed through them.
“A psychologist… for me?” His voice was low, controlled but brittle. “Perhaps… the storm needs taming.”
Zain’s lips twitched. “She heard everything. Everything you wanted her to. And… sir, maybe you need help.”
Nayel’s jaw tightened, fury and fragility battling. “No. I need control. Those who cross me… will learn what it means to be powerless.”
---
At Shah Haveli, Bassam waited on the veranda, rain-scented night wrapping around them. Manal arrived, hands trembling, voice steady.
“One choice you gave me… one choice you have now.”
Bassam stepped closer, plastered hand brushing a damp strand of hair from her face. Obsession and danger radiated from him.
“Ask.”
“Me… or politics?”
“Yes,” he said, voice raw, obsidian under calm. “All my life, they fed me dreams of crowns and power. But my only dream… was you. London? We go. Life without blood, without politics? We walk away. Together.”
Her chest tightened. “And you… don’t hesitate?”
“No,” he said. “What use is a throne if you’re not beside me?”
“Dangerous, isn’t he? And utterly… hers.”💀
Manal realized: a
man who would kill for you is terrifying. A man who would burn his empire for you… is far worse.
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