Inaya’s POV

Walking toward the stairs with the trophy clutched tight in my hand, I swear I was floating. My heels were probably still clicking against the floor, but I couldn't hear a thing over the excitement buzzing in my head.

Best student award… me. Me!

If someone had told me during my first year—when I could barely keep my eyes open in lectures, haunted by stress and my sister’s disappearance—that I’d be standing here today with this honor, I’d have laughed in their face. Heck, I’d have cried first, then laughed.

And the performance? Oh god. I hadn’t danced in years. Not since didi vanished. I'd shut that part of me down completely, like flipping off a light switch. But Aleena… that girl is a literal storm. She didn’t just convince me—she shoved me into the dressing room and threatened to blackmail me with my most embarrassing childhood photos if I didn’t get on stage.

And thank god she did. Because not only did I dance, I owned the stage.

“Best performance of the day,” they said. And then—boom—a trophy in my hand. Who would've thought?

I was still high on that feeling when I remembered something.
Wait. Where was Aloo?

She’d said, “One minute yaar,” and disappeared. That was fifteen minutes ago. Knowing her, she either got lost looking for the food stalls or started a lecture on the psychological damage caused by bad stage lighting.

Still, I scanned the crowd.

Also… Adnan Zayed Malik.

The chief guest. The billionaire. The walking iceberg in a black shirt and cream pants.

I’d like to pretend that I wasn’t noticing him. But when I was dancing, I saw his eyes on me. Not the creepy type of stare, no. More like the kind where someone is trying to figure you out—like a puzzle they never saw coming.

Even now, I could feel his gaze—like a spotlight I didn’t ask for but couldn’t ignore. I turned to look, and yep. Eye contact. Immediate butterflies. Stomach went whoosh like it forgot how digestion works.

He was walking toward me. And he was looking… intense. I braced myself for whatever he was about to say—

CRASH!

A loud noise echoed from the entrance.

“Was that…?”

That was Aleena’s voice. I’d recognize that screech even if I were unconscious in the ER.

I rushed toward the noise and skidded to a stop—staring at a scene that looked straight out of a soap opera.

“Aloo! What happened?! And why is your dress—why does it look like Starbucks exploded on you?”

There she stood, fuming. And when I say fuming, I mean if she had laser eyes, someone would be toast by now. Her pale pink maxi dress—her favorite maxi dress, the one she saved up for months to buy from that limited-edition street boutique—was now baptized in what looked like a grande iced latte.

“I got a call from your mom,” she gritted through clenched teeth. “I stepped out to attend it like a decent human being. And then this Burj Khalifa came sprinting from nowhere, slammed into me like a bulldozer, and gifted me a full-body coffee bath!”

“Burj what?” I blinked.

Before she could answer, a deep, annoyed voice boomed, “Excuse me?! Who the hell is Burj Khalifa?!”

I turned and found myself staring at the human equivalent of a luxury skyscraper.

The man—probably around twenty-six or twenty-seven—stood at least 6’3, with a build that screamed, “I could bench press your dad.” His jaw was clenched, his fist gripping his phone so tight it looked like the poor thing might disintegrate.

Aleena didn’t flinch. She marched right up to him and jabbed a finger in the air. “You! With your oversized giraffe legs and zero peripheral vision! Can’t even see a girl standing in front of you?! Do you know the cost of this dress? I bought it from a limited edition boutique, okay? Not that you rich people care—you probably use Gucci shirts as napkins!”

He looked personally offended. “Excuse you, chintu. You were the one who ran into me. You should get your eyes checked before you enter public spaces.”

Aleena’s eyes widened. “Chintu?! Did you just call me chintu?!”

I backed away slowly. This was about to get violent.
And yep. Right on cue, Aleena snapped, “Do you think everyone below six feet is automatically blind? What kind of logic is that, Mr. Tower of Arrogance?!”

“Bhai…” the tall man turned toward the voice behind me. “This girl is a menace. I swear I was just walking when this half-human missile came flying at me.”

I turned—and there he was again. Adnan. Of course.

He stopped next to me, gaze briefly flicking to the coffee-covered Aleena, then the clearly irritated man. “Ameer,” he said, voice calm but clearly trying not to laugh, “what happened?”

So this was Ameer. His right-hand man. The infamous CEO of Zainab Industries. I suddenly understood why people called them the Deadly Duo.

Ameer crossed his arms, trying to appear chill but clearly two seconds away from exploding. “Bhai, I was just minding my business when this… pocket-sized fury ran into me. And she didn’t even apologize.”

“Excuse you!” Aleena barked. “Do you think being tall makes you the victim?! Maybe if you looked down once in a while, you’d stop stepping on people’s dreams—and their dresses!”

“I think you need a periscope to talk to me properly,” Ameer said dryly.

Aleena scoffed. “And I think you need a personality transplant. Being tall doesn’t give you a license to walk like you own the Earth!”

Their voices were rising. A small crowd had gathered. Someone whispered, “Is this a flash mob or a fight?” Someone else was recording. I swear I heard background music playing in my head.

“I told you!” Aleena shouted. “Rich people just can’t see anything below their nose!”

Ameer smirked. “And middle-class people can’t stop screaming.”

Aleena narrowed her eyes, fists clenched. “You know what? Keep your overpriced coffee and your attitude. Just pray we don’t meet in a dark alley. Because next time, I’m carrying hot soup.”

I was watching a full-blown roast battle happen live. And if I laughed, Aleena would un-sister me. So I kept my lips zipped, but my lungs were dying.

Adnan finally raised a brow, looked between them, then glanced at me with a smirk that said, Good luck surviving this mess.

Oh god. This was going to be interesting

Aleena’s POV

“How dare he call me Chintu?” I muttered under my breath, glaring at that tall giraffe standing like he owns the college.

Seriously, it’s not my fault that he’s got Burj Khalifa height but still can’t see what’s right in front of him. Useless tower.

And the audacity to spill coffee on my limited edition dress and smirk like he just did me a favour?

As if.

Also, who gave him permission to walk around with that so-called handsome face and think girls will fall like dominoes?

Okay fine, he's handsome... whatever. Focus, Aloo. The dress. Limited edition. Ruined. Make. Him. Pay.

I narrowed my eyes at him. Should I pour the coffee back on his shirt? Equal revenge?

Or better—let’s puncture his tyre.

“Control, Aleena. You’re a queen, not a criminal,” I muttered, taking a deep breath.

Right. Be classy, not crazy.

“Hey, Burj,” I called out, walking up to him, arms crossed, voice sweet but lethal. “You have two options. Either buy me this exact same dress or give me the money for it—with 300 extra.”

I saw the smirk forming on his face even before I finished.

Ameer raised an eyebrow, laughing. “See? All girls are the same. Gold diggers. Look at you, demanding money so smoothly.”

I gasped, loud enough for the people nearby to hear.

“Chi chi chi! Burj, listen carefully,” I snapped, pointing at my stained sleeve. “That 300 extra isn’t for gold digging—it’s for the coffee you lovingly gifted me without asking, ON my dress. I’m not begging for money, I’m billing you.”

Some students turned to watch. A few even nodded.

“And FYI,” I continued, louder now, “not every girl is a gold digger. Some girls are broke but independent. Some earn their own money with pride. Some don’t want your money—they want respect. Ever heard of that, Mr. Richboy?”

The smirk wavered just a bit.

“But you?” I raised an eyebrow. “You flirt, drop sweet lines, raise fake hopes, and vanish when bored. Don’t generalize all girls just because you’ve been rejected more than a YouTube ad.”
There was a pause. A tiny murmur of claps. Okay, not full applause, but enough to inflate my ego.

Ameer blinked. “So this is your style of asking for money?”

I tilted my head sweetly. “Nope. This is me giving you a chance to not be a walking red flag. But go off.”

He tried again, scratching the back of his head. “Why are you making such a big deal over a dress?”

I scoffed. “Because not everyone throws dresses after one stain. Some of us don’t have ten backups. We treasure our clothes. Especially when they’re not free.”

I walked over to the bench, picked up the empty coffee cup with dramatic elegance, and placed it neatly. Then turned to him with a dazzling, savage smile.

“So yeah, Burj,” I said. “Pay up—or get me the exact same dress. No duplicates. No bargaining. No disappearing act.”

He didn’t reply. Perfect. Let him marinate in that silence.
Inaya leaned over and whispered, “Queen move, Aloo.”

I flipped my hair, pretending to adjust my sleeve. “He wanted a reaction. I gave him one—not the one he expected.”

As I turned and began walking away, I heard him mutter behind me.

“Drama queen.”

I didn’t turn back. Just smiled.

“Thank you for the crown.”

Ameer’s POV

I swear I woke up this morning thinking it would be a productive day. Little did I know, the universe had signed a full-on comedy-thriller contract with my fate.

The first thing I heard after opening my eyes?

"Sir... woh basement waale bhaag gaye."
[The kidnappers we captured last night tried to escape.]

Just great.

So I ran—actually, I zoomed—out of that mansion like my shoes were on fire. I had to inform Adnan before this turned into another Oberoi-level disaster.

And guess what happened?

As if scripted by some dramatic Wattpad writer out for my blood...

Boom.

I collided with her.
That same girl from earlier. The one who called me "Burj Khalifa" like it was an insult.

Does she have a personal grudge against tall people or what?

And now here I am, sitting in the backseat of Adnan’s SUV, while he laughs like he’s watching a Netflix comedy special, and Sayyid—who’s supposed to be the sensible one—is barely controlling his steering wheel from laughter.

“Adnan, why the hell are you laughing like a seal with asthma?” I grumbled, rubbing my forehead from the residual stress of the day.

Adnan leaned his head back, wiping a tear of laughter.

“Bro, this is historic. The great Ameer Zainab, the man who once scared off an arms dealer with just his death glare… got roasted by a 5-foot-something girl in front of a crowd.”
Sayyid chuckled from the front, clearly enjoying the show more than his driving.

“Sir, she called you a playboy. And then added... something about poor girls and false hope.”

“Chup kar Sayyid!” I growled, sinking into the seat.
This was humiliating. Utterly, deeply, painfully humiliating.

“I didn’t want to make a scene, okay?!” I defended, pointing my finger like a child caught stealing cookies. “And that girl—she clearly doesn’t know who I am. If she did, she’d be shivering in her knock-off heels.”

Sayyid snorted. “You sure she wasn’t just shivering from how hard she roasted you?”
Even Adnan laughed harder at that.

This was not how my mafia mornings were supposed to go.
I was supposed to be feared, respected, silent... not going viral for getting verbally slapped by some ‘limited edition’ middle-class chintu queen.

“Sayyid, stop the car. I need fresh air. I’m suffocating from secondhand embarrassment.” Adnan wheezed, grabbing his chest.

“Chal be drama queen,” I muttered under my breath.

Once the laughter finally died down and Sayyid got the car back on track, Adnan’s tone shifted.

“Alright. Enough comedy. What did you find?”

Boom. Mafia mode activated.

I took a deep breath and dropped the bomb.
“The two guys we brought to the basement last night? They tried escaping. Guards caught them before they could run far. But... one of them cracked.”

Adnan’s eyes narrowed. Sayyid’s fingers tightened on the wheel.
I continued, “There’s a guy, mid-thirties, name’s Parvez. Said he wasn’t even fully part of the job. Just joined for some quick cash. Apparently, his wife’s five months pregnant. He swears he didn’t know about the kidnap plan, just needed the money for delivery bills.”

“So now he wants protection in exchange for info?” Sayyid asked, switching gears mentally.
I nodded. “He promised to spill everything. But begged that we don’t harm his wife or the baby.”

“And you trust him?” Adnan’s voice dropped lower. The kind of tone that made people confess their entire life’s sins.

I shook my head. “Not blindly. But he looks scared. Not the fake type. Desperate, not greedy. Could be useful.”
Adnan turned to Sayyid.

“Track their phone records. Check their bank transactions. Where they came from, who paid them, how recently. I want Oberois’ financial strings visible by tonight.”

Sayyid gave a sharp nod, already pulling out his second phone.
“On it. I’ll also dig into any connections Parvez might have with the Oberois or Damania group.”

A heavy silence fell in the car for a few seconds. The kind that usually precedes a thunderstorm.

But then...

“You know what’s weirder than all this?” I said slowly, frowning at nothing in particular.

Adnan raised an eyebrow. “What now?”

I leaned back slightly, voice thoughtful.

“That girl... her voice. I don’t know why, but it felt... familiar. Not like I’ve met her before. Just... somewhere, sometime... I’ve heard it.”

Adnan’s brows furrowed. Sayyid briefly looked at me through the rearview.

“Maybe in the background of a phone tap? A video? News clip?” Sayyid asked.

I shrugged. “Maybe. Could be nothing. Just... something about her tone felt like déjà vu.”

And then I went quiet.

Something clicked inside me, but the picture hadn’t formed yet.
Just a voice. Faint. Unplaced. And now stuck in my mind like an unfinished riddle.

[To be continued...]

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