"You walked into the lion's den, sweetheart," he whispered, stepping closer. "And lions don't let go so easily."
He looked down at her leg, at her trembling hands, and the fear in her eyes.
"A beautiful young girl like you," he chuckled, "shouldn't...
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Sultan hadn’t moved in hours.
The office lights were dimmed, the liquor glass untouched now, his fingers digging into the leather of his armrest like it had offended him. A bitter taste sat on his tongue—not from the drink, but from what he’d said.
He replayed it again and again.
“You’re nothing to me.” “A guest. An employee.” “You finished whatever that was.”
He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw clicked. Mishti hadn’t cried. That was the worst part. She had just… accepted it. Nodded like she was tired of hoping.
The door opened, unannounced, as it often did when it came to Zubair.
The man stepped in with his usual lazy arrogance, but paused at the sight before him.
Sultan—built like a tank, veins dark, knuckles still red—looked like someone had shot him in the gut and he was too proud to fall.
“What’s with your face?” Zubair said, eyeing him suspiciously. “You look like a bitter gourd in a three-piece suit.”
Sultan didn’t reply.
Zubair glanced at the desk. Then picked up a file. “You were supposed to sign this invoice.”
Sultan grunted.
Zubair blinked at the paper. Then snorted. “You idiot.”
“What now?”
“You didn’t sign it. You wrote her name. Mishti.”
He snapped forward, snatching the file. Sure enough—her name, sprawled in that rough scrawl of his, right on the line meant for his signature. He scratched it out violently, scribbled his real one over it.
Zubair leaned on the desk, smirking. “You know, if she’s in your way too much… you could do something about it.”
“She’s not in my way,” he muttered.
Zubair raised an eyebrow.
“She is the way.”
The words came out so quiet, so raw, it surprised even Sultan.
Zubair grinned like a devil granted permission to dance. “Congratulations bastard. You’re in love.”
Sultan shot him a glare sharp enough to pierce bulletproof glass. “I don’t do love.”
“Being honest doesn’t kill.”
“You know what else doesn’t kill? You. Without a tongue.”
Zubair laughed, ducking away as Sultan threw a paperweight.
Alone again, Sultan slumped deeper into his chair. The shame clawed up his throat like bile. He rubbed his face with both hands, then pushed up and wandered to the washroom.
