The morning light crept through the thin curtains of her apartment, soft and harmless. But Fatima woke with that same heaviness in her chest.
Something felt… off.
She opened the door to collect the newspaper, barefoot and half-asleep. And froze.
A single white rose lay on the doorstep.
No note. No name. Just the flower, fresh, deliberate, waiting.
She glanced down the hallway. Empty. Quiet.
Her fingers hovered before picking it up, almost afraid to touch it. There was something about it—too perfect, too precise. It didn't feel like a romantic gesture.
It felt like a message.
She dropped it into the dustbin and shut the door. Locked it. Twice.
Back in his private office, Arham Shah sat in silence, watching the playback from a hidden camera.
Her reaction was exactly what he expected.
Fear. Confusion. That little pause before she touched the rose—that was what he lived for.
"Dar lag raha hai na, Fatima?" he murmured, a small smile touching his lips. "Achha hai… darr aur mohabbat ka faasla bohot chhota hota hai."
He leaned back in his chair, the footage looping again. Watching her was like breathing—constant, necessary, addictive.
She had no idea she was already inside his web.
And he had no plans of letting her go.