The morning of the press conference dawned with a pressure that clung to Raneya's chest like steel bands. It arrived like the calm before a storm. For the past two days, she had worked tirelessly—organizing, managing, reviewing every name on the guest list, every schedule, every logistical detail, perfecting every inch of the event. Every breath she took today was measured. This wasn't just a job—it was her test. Her battlefield.
She needed perfection, not just to prove herself—but to survive in a world that demanded it.
Dressed in a sleek ivory blazer over a pearl-grey blouse, she stood backstage, headset secured, clipboard in hand, the glow of stage lights spilling just past the curtains. The venue was electric with anticipation. Shah Media's latest campaign unveiling was the buzz of the industry, and she was its orchestrator.
But nothing—nothing—could have prepared her for what came next.
The audience had settled. Cameras rolled. The first segment went smoothly, and then it was her moment. With a calm exterior and chaos swirling beneath, she stepped onto the stage. The crowd was vast, the media poised, cameras aimed. As the event host, she greeted everyone with practiced ease, hiding the storm inside her.
But then—like a ripple in still water—the room changed.
Her breath caught. Time seemed to halt as two figures entered the hall—Zaryab and her father, Qureshi Sahab.
Her pulse spiked. What were they doing here?
She froze mid-sentence.
Shock flickered across their faces too, but it quickly twisted into something darker. They pushed forward through the crowd, ignoring protocol, the PR staff scrambling uselessly around them. And then, in front of the press, the audience, and a sea of flashing cameras, the two men smiled with venomous ease—like they'd come to bless a wedding rather than shatter her world.
Her grip tightened on the microphone, knuckles pale. Her mind screamed for composure.
She forced a breath. "Ladies and gentlemen, let us continue—"
But Zaryab stepped forward.
"I must say," he said with a laugh coated in poison, "how poetic it is to see my wife representing Shah Media. Quite the rise—for a runaway bride."
A hush fell like a hammer.
The audience shifted. Reporters leaned forward. The press team backstage began to panic.
Raneya's stomach twisted, her throat locking with humiliation.
She lifted the mic again, voice strained. "This isn't the place for personal drama—"
But Qureshi Sahab cut her off.
"Not drama, beti. The truth. They deserve to know the kind of woman they're cheering for. Who hides her sin beneath silk and stage lights. This girl doesn't deserve your admiration. She's a runaway bride. My daughter, who dishonored her entire family!"
Gasps rippled through the room. Whispers swelled into murmurs, into judgment.
Her identity—her past—was being weaponized in the very space she'd fought to own.
Zaryab, seeing her falter, moved in for the kill.
"She's unstable. Disloyal. She ran from her own wedding night! She is mine—by law and by duty!"
His hand reached toward her.
Raneya stepped back, her skin crawling. A roar built inside her chest, but it was buried beneath the reporters' questions, microphones thrust at her like bayonets.
And yet—Aahil didn't move.
He sat still in the front row, an expression carved from marble. Cold. Calculating. Watching. Like a king seated at an execution.
Raneya clenched the mic.
"That's not the truth. These men—" Her voice cracked as the press swarmed them, like bloodthirsty bees around a feast.
"This is what you're doing!" Qureshi Sahab shouted. "You'll destroy everything with your lies!"
She tried again. "I left a house, not a life. I left abuse, not vows—"
But the noise drowned her out.
Zaryab stepped closer.
"She is mine!"
Then—something shifted.
Aahil moved.
He didn't speak. Just raised one hand.
It was enough.
His secretary, Sharjeel, sprang into motion.
"Raneya is my responsibility—" Zaryab began, but a woman's voice rang out, slicing through the madness like lightning.
"Then tell me, Zaryab... who am I?"
Silence.
All eyes turned.
A woman stood at the doorway. Dark eyes ablaze, heels echoing on the marble floor. She held up a folder—documents, photographs, call logs, and financial records.
"I'm sorry, Zaryab," she said coolly. "But if she's your wife—then what am I?"
Gasps exploded.
Zaryab stuttered. "I—I don't know you."
PAK!
Her slap landed so sharp, it was like a gunshot.
Raneya stood, breath heaving. Her own hand still midair from the second slap that followed.
It wasn't rage. It wasn't revenge.
It was reclaiming her voice.
She turned to her father—who now looked hollow, ghost-like.
"I ran from monsters. And now life is serving its due." Her lips curled. "Can you outrun it, Qureshi Sahab?"
Proof rained like ash on fire. Scattered documents fluttered around them like confessions.
She took the mic again, her voice clear now—sharp as truth.
"You wanted to defame me? Look in the mirror, Zaryab. You and Qureshi Sahab didn't build a home—you ran a market. Selling girls under the name of marriage."
Qureshi Sahab opened his mouth.
SLAP.
Another strike. Another silence.
"You used me. Bought silence. But now—outwit this, Abba." Her voice dripped venom. "Karma's knocking."
Sirens wailed outside.
Police burst in.
Within seconds, Zaryab and Qureshi Sahab were in handcuffs.
Reporters captured every desperate shout, every dragged step.
The PR head took the stage, adjusting his glasses.
"To clarify," he said, voice firm, "this escalation was strategic. These men are part of a criminal ring exploiting young women through sham marriages. Ms. Raneya Qureshi has been assisting law enforcement in an undercover capacity."
Murmurs of disbelief shifted into stunned awe.
He turned to Aahil. "There are unconfirmed reports she may share familial ties with the Shah family. That, however, remains private."
Raneya froze.
Familial ties? Her heart skipped. What did he mean? With who?
But before she could ask, Aahil stood.
In one smooth motion, he buttoned his coat, strode onto the stage, and took her hand.
No words. No ceremony. Just steel-like certainty.
And then he led her off—dragged her through the chaos, through the cameras, to the waiting car.
No one dared stop him.
Inside, silence fell.
"Thank you," she murmured, staring out the window at the spinning world.
His reply was colder than frostbite.
"Don't get used to it."
She exhaled. Of course. Ice was all he ever gave.
When they reached the mansion, Razia Begum pulled her into a tight hug. "My child… I saw everything. I'm so proud of you."
Justice Shah placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "You showed courage today." Then, turning to Aahil—his voice was sharp. "But your methods were excessive. We don't risk people like that."
Aahil said nothing. He walked upstairs, coat over his shoulder, as if none of it mattered.
Raneya stood in the hall, breathless.
The storm had passed.
But one question lingered in the wreckage—quiet, burning, unfinished.
"What ties?"
What did they mean?
And who was she really?