Kashish (Completed) ✔️

The Beginning

Chaudhary Mansion stood like a silent emperor under the sunlite morning. Its white marble corridors gleamed like snow under sunlight, and behind the intricate glass doors, power breathed like a living shadow. "Sahir Azeem Chaudhary," C.E.O of Saiyarra Fashion House walked through those corridors with a storm in his eyes and poetry in his veins.

Tall and meticulously built, his posture is always straight, controlled—every movement deliberate, as if precision is second nature to him.His long hair brushed his jawline—kaale, mulayam, like velvet shadows. Dark, expressive eyes dominate his features—intense, calculating, and often hidden with unspoken thoughts.The world sees him as a sharp, precise businessman who has taken Saiyarra to new heights in a short span of seven years. But the truth is far more bitter—his ex-wife, Zeenath, still lies in a hospital bed, trapped in a coma, the very woman who once betrayed him. Her words remain etched in his memory:
“Aap business nahi sambhal sakti, Sahir. Aap kagaz par chitr banaiye, shayari kijiye—aur business rehne dijiye.”
That sentence became his war.

He built Saiyarra not from dreams, but revenge. 1000 crore tak laa kar rahunga, he had sworn. And today’s presentation—the royal wedding contract—was the battlefield that could change everything.

Behind him followed Jo, his personal assistant clipboard in hand, breathlessly trying to match Sahir’s commanding pace.

“Jo, Sahir’s voice held silk and steel together,presentation shaam mein hai… aur hum haarne ke liye khelte nahi.”
His Urdu rolled like slow thunder.

Jo nodded:Everything is ready, Sir.

Sahir smirked and uttered a "hmm".

His bedroom was nothing less than a vast space, a place that had witnessed the reflections of all his emotions. On the right side of the room lay a turquoise indoor swimming pool, its water calmly settled, mirroring the silence around it.

Sahir took a few strokes in the water. Then he stood at the edge, shirtless, the water clinging to his entire body. He stared into the pool, lost in his own world. Childhood abandonment, betrayal, and never being chosen flooded his mind—Alvira had brought Arzoo into the Chaudhary mansion for him, but she loved Zaki, and they married. He had hardened himself against losses that were never meant to be his.
He ran a hand through his hair, sweeping away the water droplets—calm, controlled. Jo had placed his suit on the bed: a classic black tuxedo that projected the intensity of his composure. He stepped out of the pool and slowly buttoned his shirt, as if hiding old wounds. He adjusted his cufflinks, and in his mind he thought, “Aaj mahino ki mehnat rang layegi.”

Across the city, in a penthouse with floor-to-ceiling glass windows, lived a woman forged of fire and ashes—Maya Mehrotra, owner of the magazine Fashion & The City. Her beauty was sharp and infectious. Pale skin that glowed like moonlight, eyes that were masters at hiding the deep pain beneath an armor of ambition and an undefeatable attitude. She concealed herself so well that even her own mother could not see through it.
She stood before the full-length mirror in silence, her eyes hiding an ocean of pain—until determination took over. Getting the sole publication rights for the royal wedding had become a necessity for her survival. She slipped into a white bodycon dress, elegance settling over her like a second skin. White and black—these were the colors that resonated with her life. Beirang.

She looked at the mirror one last time before leaving, her gaze falling to her stomach as her breath faltered. In a whisper meant only for the glass, she murmured, “Jaldi sab khatam ho jaayega… bas thoda aur.”

A sharp tremor of pain rippled through her—familiar and unhealed. Her past stirred, bleeding quietly beneath her skin. She turned away before the mirror could accuse her.