Prologue

Sehr’s POV:

21 years, energetic and unpredictable, with moods that can swing as fast as the seasons change. I don’t do attachments. Not anymore. Life’s taught me that lesson the hard way. I don’t need anyone. And I sure as hell don’t need Ruhaan. He’s everything I avoid: rich, arrogant, emotionally distant. The kind of guy who thinks everything and everyone is beneath him, including me. I tell myself it’s just the usual—push him away, keep my walls high.

And yet… every time we argue, every time I see that annoying smirk of his, there’s this spark of something I don’t want to acknowledge. I push him away, build walls higher than ever. But for some stupid reason, he just keeps slipping under my defenses. I should be disgusted by him, but I’m not. I’m confused—angry. The closer I get to him, the more I realize that I’m not so sure I want to stay guarded anymore. But I’m not stupid. I know better than to let someone like him in.

After all, it’s not as if I don’t even allow people to get close to me, become friends with me. I do. Having fewer friends doesn’t mean you’re any less valuable. In fact, the fewer friends you have, the stronger the bond you share. Like I always say, I might push you away, but if I care, my love will crash over you like the sea—

Grief is a funny thing. People think it fades with time, that eventually you just move on. But for me, it never really went away. There’s this one dream I see every night. It starts the same way, like a faded photograph coming to life. I’m not me—not me I know. I’m someone else, in a family I don’t recognize. A mother with kind eyes holds my hand, a father with a deep laugh ruffles my hair, calling me “my little warrior,” and there’s a little boy—my brother—his giggles filling the air. We’re happy. It’s peaceful and warm. But then, the dream shifts. The warmth turns to dread.

Grief is a funny thing. People think it fades with time, that eventually you just move on. But for me, it never really went away. There’s this one dream I see every night. It starts the same way, like a faded photograph coming to life. I’m not me—not me I know. I’m someone else, in a family I don’t recognize. A mother with kind eyes holds my hand, a father with a deep laugh ruffles my hair, calling me “my little warrior,” and there’s a little boy—my brother—his giggles filling the air. We’re happy. It’s peaceful and warm. But then, the dream shifts. The warmth turns to dread.

I’m sitting in a car. The laughter dies, replaced by the deafening sound of screeching tires and shattering glass. My heart pounds as the world spins, chaos engulfing us. I try to scream, to move, but I can’t. The faces of the people I don’t know—the family I somehow belong to in the dream—are frozen in terror. And then, silence. The kind of silence that presses on your chest, suffocating.

I always wake up with my heart hammering, a cold sweat clinging to my skin. For a few moments,

I lie there, trapped between the horror of the dream and the strange joy that follows. Because when I open my eyes, It feels so real, like I was there, desperate to hold onto them, to freeze that moment. But just as quickly as it came, it’s gone. I’m awake. The room is quiet, it’s just me and the ache in my chest is back.

The dream, though—it feels like someone’s memories, like a story I wasn’t meant to see but somehow got pulled into. I climb out of bed and head downstairs to check on my family. I hear Nina’s voice calling me for breakfast, her soft, familiar tone grounding me. I see my mama and dad bustling around the house, and I push the feeling away. It’s just a bad dream, I tell myself, nothing more. It has to be. A relief floods through me.

It’s just a bad dream, I remind myself. One I can’t seem to escape. I’ll keep smiling, keep studying, and keep pretending that everything’s fine. It’s not. But no one needs to know that. For me, I’ve always preferred to keep things simple, avoid drama, and stay in my lane.

The smell of chai brewing in the kitchen, the faint hum of my Nina reciting prayers in the morning, and the sound of my younger brother laughing in the backyard—this is home. It’s not perfect, and it’s not quiet, but it’s mine. My family is loud and chaotic, but they’re also the one constant in my life.

You know why I call my Nani “Nina”? When I was little, I couldn’t say “Nani” properly. Every time I tried, it came out as “Nina” instead of “Nani.” No matter how much she corrected me, I’d stubbornly stick to “Nina” and yell it even louder just to annoy her. Eventually, she gave up, and the name stuck. Now, everyone in the family calls her Nani, but for me, she’s always Nina. She likes to grumble about it sometimes, saying, “Only you could mess up such a simple word,” but deep down, I know she loves it’s just ours.

I don’t believe in fairy tales or fate. People come and go, and I don’t expect anything more than that. Love? Please. It’s just a distraction, and I’ve got bigger things to focus on. My life is already complicated enough without someone barging in and messing it all up.

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Nani and I were sitting in the living room, her knitting needles clicking away as I flipped through a magazine. She was making a sweater, or at least that’s what she claimed. To me, it looked more like a tangled mess, but I wasn’t about to tell her that.

“What are you making, Nina?” I asked, trying to stifle a laugh as one of the needles slipped from her hand.

“A masterpiece,” she replied, squinting at the mess in her lap. “Don’t laugh, Sehr. You’ll be begging for this sweater when winter comes.”

“Begging?” I raised an eyebrow. “Nina, I don’t even think that’s wearable. It looks like a trap for squirrels.”

She gasped, clutching her chest like I’d just insulted her cooking. “This is the problem with your generation. No respect for art.”

“Art?” I teased. “It’s got more holes than a fishing net.”

“Shut up,” she said, smacking my arm lightly with a knitting needle. “You’re lucky I don’t use this on your head. Ungrateful child.”

I laughed, leaning back into the sofa. “Fine, Nina. I’ll be the first to wear your… uh, masterpiece. But don’t blame me if people ask if I got attacked by a cat.”

She glared at me, but I could see the corner of her mouth twitching, trying not to smile. “Very funny, Sehr. Keep it up, and I’ll make your wedding dress next.”

That shut me up. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

I shook my head hugging her firmly, laughing again. “You win, Nina. You always do.”

“And don’t you forget it,” she said, grinning as she picked up her knitting again.

“I won’t” I assured her, with a firm shake of my head.



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Ruhaan’s POV:

Love? That’s a load of crap. I don’t give a shit about it. Never have, never will. It’s a distraction, something people cling to when they’re too weak to handle the real world. Yeah, that’s a joke. A convenient lie people tell each other to make their sad little lives bearable. Love is a distraction. It weakens you, messes with your head, makes you soft, and leaves you vulnerable. Not me. But if you Love me some, I’ll love you more than a thousand suns!

Emotions? They’re the worst of it. They cloud your judgment and make you do stupid things. It’s a weakness, and I don’t have time for weaknesses.

And feelings? They don’t last.

People are predictable. They all want the same things, attention, and validation. But me? I don’t need anyone, and I don’t owe anyone anything. It’s been that way for years, and I’m not about to change now.

“My rules, my way.’ That’s how I’ve always lived, and it works. I keep control, I don’t let anyone too close. Sorry? Please. Sorry for people who care. And I—don’t care. About love, about feelings, about any of that bullshit.

Best of all, I like challenges. I like pushing myself, and seeing how far I can go. Whether it’s on the field, in business, or with girls, I make it a game. See how fast I can get what I want, how easily I can turn things my way. With girls? It’s a matter of timing. Some take days, some weeks. But in the end, they all fall in line. And when they do, I move on. Simple. Clean. No mess, no feelings.

I’ve got better things to worry about. Building my empire, playing the game the way I want to. Life’s easier when you don’t let emotions get in the way. That’s my secret. No emotions, no distractions. Just me, my goals, and the thrill of winning.

I’ve always kept people at arm’s length—kept my distance, my control. People only want one thing from me, and I don’t have time for their games. But somehow, Sehr Hussain—that woman—keeps showing up in my thoughts, like a damn catchy song you can’t get out of your head. She’s not afraid to speak her mind, to challenge me when no one else would dare. It’s irritating, but I can’t deny that it keeps me coming back. I’ve built a life where I’m in control of everything, but with her…? I lose my grip. So I keep my distance, keep things casual, keep her at arm’s length… But with every damn moment, it gets harder to pretend I don’t care.

I’ve got it all—money, fame, power—and I’ve never needed anyone. Except…her. She tells herself she doesn’t do attachment. But I can see it in her eyes—she’s lying to herself. And I hate how it feels like I’m the one who’s been lied to. She’s the fire that threatens to burn everything down—and I’m the fool who can’t resist playing with it.

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When I stepped into the house, I could feel it—the tension, thick and suffocating, like a storm brewing in the distance. It didn’t matter how late it was, how exhausted I felt, or how much I had accomplished that day. Nothing was ever good enough here.

I kicked off my shoes near the entrance and loosened my tie, rolling my neck to shake off the stiffness. Before I could make it to the staircase, I heard his voice. His voice. Cold, sharp, and laced with irritation.

“Ruhaan! Come here.”

I stopped in my tracks, jaw tightening. For a brief moment, I debated ignoring him, pretending I hadn’t heard. But I knew better. Ignoring Mr. Malik wasn’t an option.

I turned around and walked toward his study. The door was open, and inside, I could see him sitting on the leather armchair, surrounded by a couple of his business associates. They were all impeccably dressed, sipping whiskey and laughing at some joke I’d missed. But the moment he saw me, his expression hardened.

“Finally decided to show up?” he said, leaning back in his chair with a sneer. His tone was loud enough to draw the attention of everyone in the room.

I stayed silent, standing near the doorway, my fists clenching and unclenching at my sides. “I was at practice,” I said, keeping my voice even, measured.

“Practice,” he repeated mockingly, the corner of his mouth curling up in disdain. “Practice for what? Running around chasing a ball? How exactly is that going to help you in life? Do you think any of this—” he gestured around the room, at the expensive furniture, the crystal decanter, the walls adorned with paintings worth more than most people’s annual salaries, “—came from playing games?”

I felt the familiar heat of anger rising in my chest, but I swallowed it down. “Football is important to me,” I said, my voice firm. “It’s not just a game. It teaches discipline, teamwork, strategy—”

“Discipline?” he cut me off, laughing bitterly. “Don’t make me laugh. You’re undisciplined. You can’t even show up on time for dinner with your family, and you’re talking about discipline?”

His words hit like a punch to the gut, but I didn’t flinch. I couldn’t. Not here, not in front of him.

“Maybe if you gave me a chance to explain—” I started, but he waved me off, his face turning red with frustration.

“Shut up, Ruhaan,” he snapped, his voice cold and final. “Just shut up. Don’t embarrass me further in front of my friends.”

“Why did you start it in front of them in the first place?” I asked, but he looked too angry to respond.

The room went silent. His words hung in the air like a thick fog, and I felt the weight of every eye in the room on me. Embarrassment crawled up my neck, but I refused to show it. I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.

I clenched my fists so tightly that my nails dug into my palms. My jaw ached from the effort of keeping my mouth shut, of holding back the string of curses that begged to be let loose.

“Useless,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as if I was some monumental disappointment. “You’re just like your mother—soft, emotional, weak.”

That was it. The final straw. But instead of exploding, I forced myself to breathe, to keep my face blank. I wouldn’t give him the reaction he wanted. I wouldn’t let him win.

I glanced at his friends, who were now looking anywhere but at me, pretending they weren’t witnessing this train wreck of a father-son interaction. Cowards. They didn’t dare say anything, not to him. No one ever did.

Without another word, I turned on my heel and walked out. I could feel his eyes boring into my back, but I didn’t stop. I climbed the stairs two at a time, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over.

When I reached my room, I slammed the door shut and leaned against it, exhaling a shaky breath. My hands were trembling, and my head was pounding.

I walked to the window, looking out at the city lights. They always looked so far away, so out of reach, like everything else in my life. No matter how much I achieved, no matter how hard I worked, it was never enough for him.

It wasn’t just about football. It never had been. It was about control. Mr. Malik didn’t want a son; he wanted a puppet, someone he could mold and shape into his image, someone who would follow his orders without question. But that wasn’t me. It would never be me.

That’s why I called him Mr. Malik. Not “Dad,” not “Father.” He didn’t deserve those titles. He wasn’t a dad. He was a boss, a dictator, a man who thought love was something you could buy with money and power.

I clenched my fists again, trying to shake off the memories of every time he’d belittled me, every time he’d told me I wasn’t good enough, smart enough, strong enough.

But I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t soft. And I sure as hell wasn’t useless.

I sat down on the edge of my bed, running a hand through my hair. My jaw was still tight, my body still tense. But as much as I hated him, as much as I wanted to scream at him, there was a part of me that craved his approval. It was pathetic, really. After everything, I still wanted him to see me, to acknowledge me.

But he never would.

This wasn’t some fairy tale where the distant father suddenly realized the error of his ways and made amends. This was real life, and in real life, people don’t change.

I grabbed my phone and opened the stopwatch app. Timing myself had always been a way to regain control, to remind myself that I was the one in charge of my life. I set it for a minute and started doing push-ups, my muscles burning with each repetition.

By the time I finished, my anger had dulled into something more manageable. But the bitterness lingered, a constant reminder of the man downstairs who would never see me as anything more than a disappointment.

I didn’t need him. I didn’t need anyone. I’d built walls around myself for a reason, and I wasn’t about to let anyone tear them down. Not him, not anyone. It was my life, my rules, my way. And that was all that mattered.