Jaan-e-Azlan❤

38

Behind locked doors and familiar walls, everything felt safe—unchallenged. Guards took their usual positions outside. The street remained quiet, bathed in soft yellow light.

But safety, like comfort, could be deceptive.

Across the road, a car remained parked longer than necessary.

The engine was off. The windows were tinted. From the outside, it looked ordinary—easy to ignore.

Inside, a man sat still, watching the house.

He had seen her arrive.

The way the gates opened without hesitation.

The way she stepped out-and the house came alive around her.

The way people moved instinctively toward her, as if pulled by gravity.
He hadn’t needed to hear conversations.
Body language had been enough.

The extra care.

The teasing that carried protection.

The calm authority of the man who never once left her unattended.

Azlan Saleem Khan.

Powerful. Untouchable. Careful.

The man in the car let out a quiet breath.

“Everyone has a weak point,” he murmured to himself. “Even men like him.”

His gaze lingered on the upper floor, where one window still glowed faintly before the lights finally went out.
He smiled—not cruelly, not eagerly.
Patiently.

This wasn’t something to rush.

Inside the house, Mantasha turned in her sleep, unaware. The bracelet slid slightly on her wrist as her hand moved.

Across the hallway, Azlan paused at his door for no clear reason, glancing once more toward her room before going inside.

An instinct.

Old. Protective. Sharp.

Outside, the car finally pulled away, blending back into the quiet street.

No alarms rang.
No danger announced itself.

But somewhere beyond the gates, a decision had been made.

And the Khan house—warm, loud, loving—
Had just become a point of interest.

The first sign was so insignificant it could’ve been dismissed.

Azlan noticed it during a routine morning briefing.

One of the figures on the quarterly report didn’t align-not drastically, not enough to raise alarms. Just enough to be off. A delay in a clearance. A document approved later than scheduled. Nothing that screamed sabotage.

But Azlan had built his career on patterns.
And this didn’t fit.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly as he reread the file. The room was quiet except for the muted hum of the AC.

“Who handled this?” he asked calmly.
His assistant checked. “External liaison, sir. Same firm we’ve used before.”
Azlan nodded once, but made a note.

That was sign one.

The second came that afternoon.
Mantasha was in the lounge, sitting with Bushra, laughing over something on her phone when a delivery arrived—flowers. Simple. White lilies.

No name.
No card.

Bushra frowned slightly. “Kis ne bheje honge?”

Mantasha looked just as confused. “Shayad kisi ne ghalti se?”