I took a deep breath and stepped into the restaurant, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. Mama had sent me a picture of Hamza, so I should recognize him immediately. But my nerves weren't because of him—it was because his entire family would be here too.

And Zavian? Silent. Too silent.

That was what scared me the most.

"Iman?"

A voice from behind made me turn, and I found myself staring into a pair of warm brown eyes. Hamza. He looked just like the picture Mama had sent me—sharp features, neatly styled hair, dressed in a crisp button-down and slacks.

"Assalam Alaikum," he greeted, offering a polite smile.

"Wa Alaikum Assalam," I replied, forcing a small smile of my own.

"Glad you could make it," he said, stepping aside to gesture toward the table where his family was seated. "They're excited to meet you."

I nodded, but my stomach twisted. My thoughts weren't on the people waiting at that table—they were on the man who had warned me not to come.

And the suffocating silence he had left me with.

_

Dinner started off fine—or at least, as fine as a formal rishta meeting could be. The restaurant was upscale, the kind of place where every piece of silverware had a purpose and the servers moved silently between tables like shadows.

Hamza sat beside me, his posture straight, his expression carefully neutral. His mother, however, was anything but subtle. Dressed in an elegant pastel ensemble, adorned with gold bangles that jingled every time she moved, she studied me like I was a rare artifact she was inspecting for flaws.

"So, Iman," she began, her smile too polished to be warm, "I heard you're doing your PhD in Biomedical Sciences? Such a challenging field for a girl."

I swallowed my bite of food, meeting her gaze. "It is, but I enjoy the challenge."

Hamza's grandmother, an older woman with sharp eyes that missed nothing, let out a small hum as she adjusted her dupatta. "And how do you plan to balance your studies with marriage? A PhD takes years, beta. Do you think you'll have time for family?"

I put my fork down, suddenly feeling as if I were on trial. I had expected these kinds of questions, but the way they were watching me—waiting, testing—made my skin prickle.

"Education has always been a priority for me," I said carefully. "And as for marriage, I believe a strong partnership is about supporting each other's goals, not compromising them."

Hamza's mother smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Oh, of course, dear. But you must understand, Hamza comes from a very traditional family. We believe in balance—career is fine, but a woman's primary role is her home."

A warning. Subtle, but clear.

I felt my stomach tighten. Before I could respond, Hamza spoke, "Ammi, I'm sure Iman understands. We can always discuss these things later."

He was trying to smooth things over, but the way his mother's lips pursed told me she wasn't fond of interruptions—not even from her son.

His grandmother, however, wasn't done. She took a slow sip of water before saying, "And tell me, beta, what is your family like? Your parents live in Pakistan, don't they?"

The implication was clear. You're alone here. Who will guide you? Who will keep you in check?

I forced another polite smile, though inside, my patience was thinning. "Yes, they do. But we're very close. They've always supported my choices."

Hamza's mother exchanged a glance with his grandmother before sighing dramatically. "Support is good, but some decisions are better made with family around. That's why we prefer a girl who has her elders near—guidance is important, after all."

I suddenly felt like an outsider at my own dinner. Like a chess piece being examined before they decided if I was worth keeping on the board.

And just when I thought the night couldn't get worse, my phone vibrated in my lap.

A single message from an unsaved number.

But I knew exactly who it was.

"I warned you, Mashal-e-Mehtaab. Enjoy your dinner while it lasts."

My breath hitched.

Zavian.

I swallowed but turned to look at him.

Hamza's mother exchanged another glance with his grandmother, their silent communication more unnerving than words.

"You're right," I said, keeping my voice even, though irritation coiled tightly in my chest. "But this is my own battle. And let's be honest, PhDs in Pakistan aren't valued as much as they should be. That's why I chose London."

A calculated response. One that should've ended the topic, but of course, it didn't.

His grandmother let out a slow hum, adjusting the thick gold bangles on her wrist. "That's true, beta, but a woman's greatest achievement isn't a degree. It's the home she builds. Education is nice, but it must not come at the expense of family."

I forced a polite smile. "I believe both can coexist."

Hamza finally cleared his throat, sensing the tension. "Dadi, Ammi... Iman is clearly ambitious. That's a good thing, isn't it?"

His mother patted his hand, her expression softening as she turned to him. "Of course, beta. We just want to be sure she understands our values."

I reached for my water, taking a small sip to compose myself, but just as I set the glass down, my phone vibrated again.

Another message.

"Your time's up, sweetheart."

My fingers curled around the stem of the glass.

I didn't need to check who it was.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, the weight of a familiar presence settling over me like an unseen shadow.

And then—

The restaurant doors swung open.

And in walked the devil himself.

His eyes locked onto mine the moment he stepped inside, and for a brief, unsettling second, I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

Zavian's smirk was slow, deliberate, as his gaze flickered to the man beside me—Hamza, completely unaware, too busy eating to notice the shift in the atmosphere.

But Zavian noticed. Oh, he always noticed.

And then, without so much as glancing in my direction, he strolled forward like he belonged here.

"Hamza," he greeted smoothly, as if they were old friends. As if he'd known him for years.

Hamza finally looked up, blinking in surprise before his face registered familiarity. "Zavian? What are you—"

Before he could finish, Zavian casually slid into the empty seat beside me, his presence effortless yet overpowering.

Hamza's mother and grandmother exchanged quick, intrigued glances.

I, on the other hand, felt my pulse skyrocket.

He hadn't even acknowledged me. Not a glance. Not a single word.

But that was the worst part.

Because Zavian didn't have to.

His presence alone was enough to ruin everything.

And the most important question....how did Hamza know Zavian?

Hamza's brows pulled together for a split second before smoothing out into a forced smile. "Zavian... didn't expect to see you here."

I caught the flicker of unease in his expression. The way his shoulders stiffened, the subtle shift of his hand gripping the fork just a little too tight.

Zavian leaned back in his chair, exuding that same lazy, confident energy that always meant trouble. "Didn't expect to see you either," he mused, picking up the water glass in front of him as if he had all the time in the world. "But then again... life's full of surprises, isn't it?"

Hamza's mother cleared her throat, her sharp gaze flickering between the two men. "You two know each other?"

Zavian finally, finally acknowledged my presence, the corner of his lips twitching ever so slightly before he turned back to Hamza. "Oh, we go way back."

I frowned. "How?"

Hamza opened his mouth, but Zavian beat him to it, his voice deceptively light. "Business."

Something about the way he said it sent a chill down my spine.

Hamza forced a chuckle. "That was a long time ago. We've both moved on from... that."

Zavian tilted his head. "Have we?"

The tension at the table thickened.

Hamza's grandmother narrowed her eyes. "What kind of business?"

Hamza hurriedly cut in, "Just mutual acquaintances, Dadi. Nothing worth discussing."

Zavian hummed, taking a slow sip of his water. "Nothing worth discussing," he repeated, almost amused.

I didn't miss the way Hamza's jaw clenched.

And suddenly, the question wasn't just how they knew each other.

It was why Hamza looked like he wished Zavian had never shown up at all.

"How's 's Ginny?" Zavian asked, grabbing a fork and casually taking a bite from the pie.

dhotyHamza Hamza shot him a look.

Zavian let out a low chuckle, the kind that sent warning bells ringing in my head. He twirled the fork between his fingers before taking another bite—of my pie, might I add—completely at ease while the rest of us sat in mounting tension.

"Ginny?" Hamza's mother repeated, her sharp gaze cutting toward her son. "Who's Ginny?"

Zavian tilted his head, feigning innocence. "Oh, you mean he never mentioned her? That's surprising." He turned to Hamza with a smirk, eyes glinting with something dangerously close to amusement. "You really didn't tell them?"

Hamza's fingers tightened around his glass, his polite smile barely masking the irritation simmering beneath. "Zavian." His voice was soft, but the warning was unmistakable.

Zavian merely hummed, leaning back in his chair as if this was just another casual conversation. "Relax, mate. I'm just catching up." He set the fork down with a soft clink and finally looked at me, something unreadable flickering in his gaze before turning back to Hamza. "But since you're so eager to change the subject, I'll let you do the honors."

The silence at the table was deafening.

Hamza's mother and grandmother were both watching him now, their expressions expectant.

Hamza, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to strangle someone. Preferably Zavian.

"Who's Ginny?" his grandmother pressed, her tone sharper now, eyes narrowing at her grandson.

Zavian, completely unbothered, leaned back in his chair—but not before stealing another bite of my pie. I glared, but he only smirked, slow and deliberate, like he was enjoying this far too much.

He flicked a glance at Hamza before turning his attention to me, something dark and knowing dancing in his gaze.

Then, with infuriating nonchalance, he said, "Ginny's his girlfriend, obviously. That's not exactly rocket science, Dadi." His voice was all mockery and amusement, like he was merely pointing out the obvious.

Hamza stiffened. His mother's lips parted in shock. His grandmother's expression turned unreadable.

And me?

I was just trying to figure out whether Zavian had come here to ruin Hamza... or to ruin me.

Zavian pulled out his phone, effortlessly composed, typing away with the ease of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

A second later, my phone vibrated.

I hesitated before glancing down at the screen.

Zavian: Thank me later, Mashal-e-Mehtaab.

My grip tightened around the device as I swallowed hard.

Of course, he'd text me in the middle of this chaos—like he hadn't just dropped a bomb at the table. Like he wasn't sitting there, smug and unaffected, while Hamza's family processed the scandal he'd just unleashed.

I lifted my gaze to him, but he didn't even bother looking up. Just kept scrolling through his phone, completely at ease.

Infuriating. Absolutely infuriating.

Maybe, deep down, I was grateful. But there was no way I was giving Zavian the satisfaction of knowing that.

Hamza—my so-called rishta—had a whole girlfriend. Wow. Just my luck.

I exhaled sharply, pushing my chair back as I grabbed my bag. "Well..." I glanced at Hamza, then his mother and grandmother, whose expressions ranged from shock to barely concealed embarrassment. My lips curled into a tight, unimpressed smile.

"Rishta canceled, I guess."

And with that, I turned on my heel, ignoring the way Zavian's smirk deepened as if he'd just won a game I never even realized we were playing.

I walked out, shaking my head, a small smile tugging at my lips as the warm summer air wrapped around me. It felt good. Lighter. Like a weight had lifted off my chest before I even realized it had been there.

I barely made it a few steps before I heard his voice—smooth, lazy, laced with something knowing.

"Iman."

I sighed, turning to find Zavian strolling toward me, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—they were sharp, assessing, like he had been waiting for this moment.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I narrowed my gaze. "How did you know I was here? In this restaurant? I could've been anywhere."

Zavian stopped a few feet away, his lips curling into that infuriating smirk. "Come on, Mashal-e-Mehtaab," he drawled, tilting his head. "Give me some credit. You really think I wouldn't know where you are?"

I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. "That's not an answer."

He stepped closer, the streetlights casting sharp angles across his face. "You were never going to meet some Hamza Khan without me knowing. I don't like surprises." His voice was smooth but firm, each word deliberate.

I swallowed. "That doesn't explain how you knew."

Zavian sighed, shaking his head like I was missing something obvious. "A little birdie told me."

I scoffed. "What birdie?"

He chuckled, slipping a hand into his pocket. "The kind that watches over you even when you don't realize it."

A shiver ran down my spine. He wasn't just talking about tonight.

"You're insane."

Zavian's smirk deepened as he leaned in slightly, his voice a quiet promise. "And you're mine."

I shot him a glare, crossing my arms tightly as I strode ahead, but of course, he matched my pace effortlessly. "Stop reminding me of that," I huffed, refusing to look at him.

Zavian let out a low, amused chuckle. "You need to etch that into your mind, sweetheart," he drawled, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

I clenched my jaw. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"Maybe," he admitted shamelessly. "But can you blame me? You were about to waste your time on a mama's boy with a secret girlfriend."

I groaned, rubbing my temples. "You are insufferable."

"And you are mine," he shot back smoothly, hands in his pockets, watching me like he was waiting for me to finally admit it.

"You never told me about your job," I said my brow raised.

Zavian smirked, tilting his head slightly. "You never asked," he replied, his voice deceptively casual.

I narrowed my eyes. "That's not the answer I want."

He let out a low chuckle, his gaze flickering with something unreadable. "I do a lot of things, Mashal-e-Mehtaab," he said smoothly. "Which one are you curious about?"

I crossed my arms. "The one that lets you know exactly where I am at all times."

His smirk deepened, but he didn't respond immediately. Instead, he took a slow step closer, lowering his voice. "That, sweetheart, is classified."

A shiver ran down my spine. Classified? What was he, a spy? A secret agent? A criminal?

I took a step back, my heart pounding. "Tell me..."

"Relax," he murmured, his lips curling in amusement. "I only keep track of what belongs to me... or what interests me."

I narrowed my eyes, tilting my head as I studied him. "You do realize that if you're actually serious about this whole 'marry me' business, you'll have to tell me sooner or later, right?" I let a slow, teasing smile spread across my lips. "I'm not about to marry a man who treats his job like a state secret."

Zavian smirked, his gaze dark and unreadable. "Then I suppose you'll just have to marry me and find out."

My breath hitched slightly, but I refused to let him see it. "That's not how this works."

His smirk deepened as he leaned in just enough to make my pulse stutter. "With me, Mashal-e-Mehtaab," he said in a dangerously smooth voice, "that's exactly how it works."