The night hangs heavy over the Hussain estate, where chandeliers glitter like lies and shadows crawl deeper than secrets. The silence isn't peaceful-it's the kind that watches, listens, waits to swallow someone whole. Mishaal Abbas stands at the center of it all, draped in muted silk that whispers around her ankles like frightened breath. Her eyes-wide, glassy, full of unanswered questions-don't meet anyone's gaze. She doesn't speak unless spoken to. She doesn't flinch unless touched. She is the kind of quiet that makes men think they can own her. But her silence hides a storm. A false name. A running past. And the scream she never dared to let out. Then he enters. Zahid Hussain doesn't walk-he claims space. Every step is slow, deliberate, dragging darkness behind him like a tailored suit. His eyes, black as midnight sins, don't roam. They lock. On her. She doesn't look up, but she feels it. The heat. The danger. The way the air bends when he's near. He circles her like a predator with a secret: He already knows who she is. But he won't say it. Not yet. Instead, he smiles-sharp, cruel, knowing. A man who doesn't want her heart. He wants her fear. Her surrender. Her soul. And she, trembling in silence, still dares to wonder... Is it safer to stay, or to run again-this time from a man who looks like sin and holds her fate between his fingers?