Zavian's POV

But I wasn't done.

Not even close.

As I stepped outside, the night air cooled the heat simmering in my veins, but it did nothing to dull the sharp edge of irritation thrumming through me.

Josh.

I pulled out a cigarette, rolling it between my fingers before tucking it behind my ear. I didn't even want to smoke. I just needed something to do before I walked back in there and ruined whatever little distance she was trying to create.

She thought she could avoid me. Ignore me.

She thought wrong.

I leaned against my car, eyes flicking up to the dimly lit window of her hostel room. The curtain shifted slightly, a flicker of movement.

So she was watching.

I smirked, pulling out my phone.

Me: Who's Josh?

Three dots. Then nothing.

I chuckled darkly, tilting my head back against the car.

Smart girl. But not smart enough.

I exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around my phone.

She wanted space.

I'd give her space.

Until she realized she never really had any to begin with.

And then her message came.

Iman: You're worse than a stalker, Zavian. Are you obsessed or something?

I stared at the screen, my smirk growing.

That wasn't her.

Too direct. Too bold.

She wouldn't say it like that—she'd hesitate, dance around the words, try to act indifferent while her fingers trembled over the keyboard.

No, this was someone else. One of her little friends, probably snatching the phone from her hands, trying to be brave on her behalf.

Amusing.

I leaned against the car, rolling my tongue over my teeth before typing back.

Me: You tell me, Mashal-e-Mehtaab. Am I?

I hit send, picturing her reaction—her eyes widening, lips pressing into a thin line, fingers tightening around the phone as her so-called friends fumed around her.

She could pretend all she wanted.

But we both knew the truth.

She was just as affected as I was.

Her reply didn't come immediately.

I leaned back against the car, the glow of my phone screen illuminating my smirk. Waiting.

Three dots appeared. Paused. Disappeared.

Oh, sweetheart. Hesitating, aren't we?

I could almost see her now—fingers hovering over the keyboard, heart pounding, her little friends whispering around her, telling her what to say.

Then, finally, my phone vibrated.

Iman: Stay away, Zavian. I don't want you close to me.

A chuckle rumbled in my chest. Stay away?

If I had any sense, I would.

But I never did what I was told.

I tapped my fingers against my phone, considering. She wanted me gone. She wanted distance.

But if she truly wanted me to stay away...

She wouldn't have responded at all.

Me: Liar.

I didn't expect an answer this time, and I didn't get one.

Instead, I pocketed my phone, my smirk fading into something darker. She could ignore me all she wanted. She could put up walls, pretend I didn't get under her skin.

But I wasn't the type to be ignored.

And sooner or later, she'd realize that herself.

Iman: I don't want to get into any trouble because of you. I... You don't understand. You're not a good man for me, and even you know that. I don't know what your problem is.

I stared at the message, jaw tightening.

Not a good man for her?

She wasn't wrong.

But that didn't mean I'd let her push me away.

I exhaled slowly, rolling my shoulders before typing, my fingers moving with ease.

Me: You think too much, Mashal-e-Mehtaab. You don't need to understand me. You just need to know one thing—I don't walk away from what's mine.

I hit send.

The dots appeared instantly. Stopped. Started again.

I could almost hear her sharp intake of breath, see her hands clenching the phone like it might explode.

Then finally—

Iman: I'm not yours.

A slow smirk curled at my lips.

Me: Yet.

Silence.

I let the moment stretch, staring at the screen.

Then, I pocketed my phone, a dangerous glint in my eyes.

If she thought she could push me away with words, she had no idea who she was dealing with.

I got in the car and drove back home.

Ting.

I glanced down at my phone.

Iman: What is your problem? First, you wanted me to stay away, and I'll gladly do it. But now? Are you even serious?

Was I?

I exhaled, running a hand down my jaw, my grip tightening on the phone.

Yes.

But why?

Why did I want to be close to her?

I didn't know. And that should've been reason enough to stop.

But it wasn't.

It never was.

Me: I'm always serious, Mashal-e-Mehtaab.

I leaned back against the headboard, staring at the message. I didn't expect a reply. Not yet. She needed time to process, to convince herself I didn't mean it.

I did.

The room was dark, save for the glow of the streetlights filtering through the curtains. The silence pressed down on me, heavy, but not suffocating.

Not until my mind wandered—to her.

To the way she looked at me that night, panic and something else flickering in her gaze.

To the way she avoided me, as if distance could erase the pull between us.

To the way my name sounded from her lips, hesitant, accusing, breathless.

I closed my eyes briefly.

This was a bad idea.

A reckless, self-destructive, inevitable idea.

But when had I ever walked away from something dangerous?

She was mine the moment I saw her at twenty.

Beautiful. Innocent. Untouched by the filth of the world I lived in.

That smile—Allah—it had no business being so perfect. So unguarded. It was a light that didn't belong in my darkness, yet it drew me in like I had no choice.

Maybe I didn't.

Maybe the moment I saw her, the moment those wide, curious eyes locked onto mine, something inside me decided—she was it.

Even when I told myself I had no right. Even when I let my silence stretch between us like a warning.

It didn't matter.

I wanted her.

And what I wanted? I always found a way to have.

I stared at my phone, the screen still dark. No reply.

She was running. Avoiding. Trying to keep me at a distance.

It was almost amusing.

Didn't she know by now?

There was no distance between us.

Not really.

I leaned back, a slow smirk tugging at my lips as I typed, my fingers deliberate, unhurried.

Me: I'm the possessive kind, Mashal-e-Mehtaab. I hope Josh is just your research partner.

And it better stay that way.

There was no need to hide it now.

Did she really think ignoring me would change anything? That I'd suddenly forget the way she looked at me when she thought I wasn't watching? The way her breath hitched whenever I got too close?

No.

She felt it too.

The three dots appeared. Disappeared.

Then—

Iman: Don't start, Zavian. He's just here for work.

I exhaled through my nose. Work. Right.

My jaw tightened as I typed.

Me: Good. Because I don't share.

A few seconds passed before her reply came in.

Iman: You don't have to share, because there's nothing for you to claim.

I let out a low chuckle, running a hand down my face.

So she wanted to play this game?

Fine.

I'd let her pretend.

For now.

_

This weekend, she was finally coming over for dinner.

Mama bustled around the kitchen, instructing the housemaid on how to handle the delicate utensils, while she stirred a simmering pot herself. The scent of warm spices filled the air, rich and familiar. She always insisted on doing things herself when it mattered.

I sat in the living room, one hand resting on my laptop, fingers moving swiftly over the keyboard as I typed out a few emails. I wasn't just a racer, now was I?

There was a world beyond the track, beyond the adrenaline rush of speed and danger. A world I had built with my own hands, one that didn't rely on the roar of an engine or the scent of burning rubber. Investments. Business. Power. Things I rarely spoke of, but things that made men twice my age call me 'sir.'

And yet, none of it compared to the anticipation curling in my gut now.

She was coming.

After weeks of avoiding me, dodging my messages, hiding behind her excuses—she was finally stepping into my world.

A slow smirk tugged at my lips as I leaned back, stretching my arms behind my head.

Let's see how long she could keep up the act.

I clicked open the encrypted file, the familiar interface flashing across my screen. A list of names appeared—men with too much money and too little sense, all eager to throw their wealth into the flames for a taste of the rush.

The high-stakes gamble at the racing track headquarters.

I scrolled through the list, my gaze narrowing at a few particular names. Powerful men. Dangerous ones. Some I tolerated. Others? Well... let's just say not everyone would leave with their wallets—or their dignity—intact.

Then my eyes landed on one name, and a slow smirk curved my lips.

Just perfect

Leaning back, I exhaled, tapping my fingers against the desk. This week was going to be interesting. Very interesting.

And if fate was on my side?

It would be just the beginning.

_

I remained on the couch, fingers still moving over the keyboard, but my focus had already shifted.

The bell rang.

A slow smirk tugged at my lips, but I didn't move. Not yet. I let Mama open the door. Let her be the first to greet my Mashal-e-Mehtaab.

Her voice floated in, polite and warm as always. "Ah, Iman, beta, come in."

I could picture it—Iman shifting on her feet, offering that hesitant smile, one hand clutching the strap of her bag like it was some kind of shield.

I leaned back, exhaling slowly.

Footsteps.

Soft, familiar. The kind I could recognize even in a crowd.

And then she appeared in my peripheral vision. My eyes flicked up, locking onto her.

She looked... nervous. Uncertain. But still so damn beautiful.

I tilted my head, watching as she avoided my gaze, her posture stiff. "Finally decided to stop avoiding me?" I murmured, voice low, almost teasing.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her fingers tightening around her bag. "I'm here for your mother, not you."

My smirk widened.

Of course, she was.

I didn't push further. Not yet.

Instead, I leaned back into the couch, shifting my focus back to the laptop, fingers moving effortlessly over the keys. The sound of typing filled the room, a steady rhythm, but my awareness never strayed from her.

She hesitated before sitting across from me, tucking her feet neatly under her, posture stiff. Defensive.

Mama excused herself, muttering something about checking the food, leaving us alone in the thick silence.

I glanced up briefly. Iman was staring at her hands, her lips pressed together, brows slightly furrowed—deep in thought, or maybe just uncomfortable.

I smirked. "You look like you'd rather be anywhere else."

Her eyes snapped up, a flicker of annoyance breaking through the hesitance. "I would be."

I chuckled, shaking my head. "Liar. You came, didn't you?"

Her jaw tightened, but she didn't reply.

I tapped my fingers against the laptop. "Still thinking about that message?"

She sucked in a breath, her fingers curling into the fabric of her bag.

Bingo.

I exhaled, leaning back into the couch, my fingers swiftly going through the final set of documents before deleting them. Sensitive information wasn't meant to be left lying around.

When I glanced up, I found her already watching me.

A slow smirk tugged at my lips. Caught you.

"Surprised I work?" I asked, voice lazy, amused.

She blinked, then gave a small nod. "Yeah."

I chuckled, low and deep. "Don't be. Racing is just a side hobby."

Her gaze sharpened, narrowing slightly, but she stayed silent, as if choosing her battles wisely. Smart girl.

I shook my head with a faint smile and turned back to my laptop, fingers gliding over the keys. The silence stretched, thick and charged, until I spoke again, voice softer this time.

"You shouldn't be afraid of me, Mashal-e-Mehtaab."

She stiffened at the name, but I continued, my eyes locked onto hers. "I would rather die than do something dangerous around you."

Her lips parted slightly, surprise flickering across her face.

I leaned forward, forearms resting on my knees, gaze unwavering. "Excuse me for my reckless driving that day. I'm sorry."

There. It was better to make things right.

Because she should be comfortable. She had to be.

Or what kind of man was I?