Jaan-e-Azlan❤

43

The sound of the bolt sliding into place was like a physical blow to her chest. Mantasha slumped against her restraints, her body trembling so violently the heavy chair rattled against the damp concrete. Her mind was a chaotic storm—the man's poisonous words about Azlan's "possession" clashing with the memory of the way Azlan had tucked her hair behind her ear just yesterday morning.

"He's wrong," she whispered to the shadows, her voice thin and raspy. "He doesn't know you, Azi. He doesn't know us."

But the darkness was a cruel companion. It whispered back. It reminded her of the cold, the hunger beginning to gnaw at her stomach, and the stinging reality of the blood drying on her wrists.

The Breaking Point of a King

Back in the city, the "Great Azlan Khan" was indeed breaking.

He was back in his private command center, but he wasn't sitting. He was pacing like a caged predator, his suit jacket discarded, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal the strained muscles of his forearms. On the wall-sized monitors, a map of the city was lit up with red dots—every asset he owned was on the move.

"Sir," Jawad said, stepping into the room with a tablet. "We've finished the deep dive on the 'Secret Door' reference in the note."

Azlan turned, his eyes so bloodshot and intense that Jawad instinctively took a half-step back. "Talk."

"It's not a business reference, Sir. It's personal. Twenty-five years ago, before the Khan Group became an international conglomerate, your father and his brothers owned a series of brick kilns and tanneries in the old district. There was a foreman... a man named Haider Malik. He was caught embezzling, but more than that, he was accused of putting workers' lives at risk for profit. Your father didn't just fire him. He dismantled his life. Haider went to prison; his family was disgraced."

Azlan's jaw tightened until the bone looked ready to snap. "Haider Malik died in prison five years ago."

"He did," Jawad nodded. "But he had a son. Zaryab Malik. He vanished after the funeral. We thought he went abroad. But the architectural blueprints for the farmhouse? They were originally drawn by a firm that Zaryab worked for as an intern under a false name."

Azlan slammed his fist onto the glass table, a spiderweb of cracks blooming under the impact. He didn't feel the pain in his hand. He only felt the agonizing image of Mantasha—his innocent, vibrant Misha—paying the price for a grudge that was born before she was even alive.

"He didn't take her because of me," Azlan whispered, his voice trembling with a terrifying realization. "He took her because she is the heart of this family. He knows that if I lose her, the Khans are finished."

His phone buzzed. An unknown FaceTime request.

Azlan swiped it instantly.

The screen flickered, grainy and dark. For a second, he saw nothing. Then, the camera adjusted.

He saw her.

Mantasha was slumped in the chair, her face pale, her beautiful eyes clouded with exhaustion and fear. The lilac dupatta he had found earlier was gone, and she looked so fragile in the flickering light of the cellar.

"Misha!" Azlan's voice was a raw, broken plea. "Misha, look at me! Look at the screen!"

At the sound of his voice, Mantasha's head snapped up. She squinted, her eyes filling with tears as she saw his face on the phone held by her captor. "Azi..." she sobbed, the sound tearing through Azlan's heart. "Azi, it's so cold... please..."

"I'm coming, Misha! I swear on my life, I am coming!"

A gloved hand entered the frame, grabbing Mantasha's hair and pulling her head back to expose her throat. The camera panned up to show a pair of eyes—cold, vengeful, and laughing.