Hidden Strings: Who's Playing Who?

5. The unwanted reunion

HAYAT'S POV:

The auditorium hummed with the restless energy of hundreds of first-year students, their nervous laughter and whispered conversations rising like static in the cavernous space. I adjusted my position near the railing, the cold metal pressing into my palms as I leaned forward, trying to focus on the empty stage below.  

Why was I even rushing here? The thought flickered through my mind, unbidden. I wasn’t late—in fact, I had arrived far too early, my nerves driving me to seek out my seat before the crowds swarmed in. But something had unsettled me the moment I stepped inside, a prickle at the back of my neck, as if the universe itself was holding its breath.  

I’m forgetting things again. The realization was bitter. "First my keys, then my notes, now even my own thoughts. What next? My own name?" A dry laugh threatened to escape me. "At this rate, I’ll be a senile grandmother by thirty—if I even live that long."

I shook my head slightly, as if the motion could dislodge the unease clinging to me. The ceremony wouldn’t start for another twenty minutes, and the wait stretched before me, endless and suffocating.  

Then—  

A shift in the air.  

A presence.  

My gaze, almost against my will, drifted toward the front row.  

And there—  

No.  

My breath stuttered.  

A man sat in the center of the front row, his broad shoulders cutting a stark silhouette against the dim lighting. Even from this distance, even with only the back of his head visible, I knew.  

Mohammad Ibrahim Khan.

Time slowed.  

The noise of the auditorium faded into a distant hum, muffled as if underwater. My fingers tightened around the railing, knuckles whitening.  

It can’t be him.

But it was.  

The way he held himself—unbothered, regal, as if the world itself bent to his will—was unmistakable.  

What is he doing here?

The question screamed in my mind, sharp and frantic. He should have graduated years ago. He should have been continents away, buried in his empire, in his power, in his life—one that had no place for me.  

Then it hit me.  

Whose college is this?  

My hands trembled as I pulled out my phone, my fingers moving on autopilot. A quick search—and there it was, flashing on the screen like a taunt.  

Owner: Mohammad Ibrahim Khan.

A choked sound escaped me.  

I asked him to get me into a good college. And he sent me straight into his own.

The irony was cruel.  

My chest constricted, my lungs refusing to cooperate. "I can’t be here. Not with him. Not now."

The urge to run surged through me, primal and desperate.  

RUN.

I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate.  

I turned on my heel and fled.  

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IBRAHIM’S POV: