Murtasim Khan stood silently at the edge of the room, his eyes sharp as ever, scanning the grand, dimly lit space where the crème de la crème of Karachi’s elite gathered. No one suspected the true nature of this gathering. Business moguls, politicians, and celebrities filled the hall, chatting and laughing over expensive whiskey and Cuban cigars. But behind this glitzy façade lay darker transactions—deals brokered in shadows, whispered threats passed between glasses.
And at the center of it all was **Meerab Malik**, the daughter of the deadliest gangster in Pakistan, **Sikandar Malik**.
As the heir to her father’s empire, Meerab’s presence demanded respect, admiration, and fear. She moved through the room with grace and poise, her long black hair cascading down her back like a silken curtain, her emerald-green gown shimmering under the chandeliers, contrasting sharply against the danger that followed her like a dark cloud. Every man’s eyes lingered on her, but no one dared approach her without permission.
Not with Murtasim Khan watching.
Murtasim was a man of few words. He had been handpicked by Sikandar to be Meerab’s personal bodyguard—silent, deadly, loyal. His reputation preceded him; a man trained in covert operations, skilled in every weapon known to man, and ruthless when it came to protecting his assignments. But what no one knew was the inner turmoil he faced each time he looked at Meerab.
Murtasim had fallen for her. And that was his greatest weakness.
From the moment he had been assigned to her three months ago, he had told himself she was just another job. Another person to protect. Another life to safeguard in exchange for the stacks of cash her father had promised him. But with every passing day, as he shadowed her movements, stood guard outside her room, and learned the small details of her life, Murtasim’s resolve had begun to crack.
He had noticed the way her eyes softened when she was alone, away from the watchful gaze of her father’s men. He had noticed the quiet sadness that clung to her, the way her laughter never quite reached her eyes, despite the world seeing her as a spoiled mafia princess. She wasn’t like the others in her father’s organization. She had a heart, and a vulnerability that she never let anyone see.
But Murtasim saw it.
He clenched his fists at his sides, forcing himself to remain impassive as his eyes followed her every movement. Meerab was speaking to a group of businessmen, her voice smooth, her smile calculated. Her father had taught her well, turning her into a weapon of charm and wit, but Murtasim knew she hated it. He could see it in the way her fingers trembled slightly when she raised her glass for a sip, the way her jaw tightened after every fake laugh she had to force out.
He wanted to save her. But how could a man like him—a man with blood on his hands—ever hope to protect someone like her?
Suddenly, his earpiece crackled to life.
“Trouble in the north wing,” a gruff voice warned, one of the guards stationed outside the building.
Murtasim’s eyes flickered toward the entrance to the ballroom. He saw two men—outsiders. Not part of Sikandar’s circle. They were trying to blend in, but their movements were too practiced, too purposeful. They were here for a reason, and Murtasim’s gut told him it wasn’t a friendly one.
He stepped closer to Meerab, his hand instinctively going to the gun holstered under his jacket.
“Stay close to me,” he murmured, his voice low and commanding.
Meerab glanced at him, her brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”
Murtasim’s jaw tightened. “I don’t like the look of those men.”
