The room fell silent as Zara's name slipped from Arman's lips. He hadn't meant to say it aloud. He hadn't meant for Ayaan to hear it. But it came out anyway—raw and sharp, like a splinter in his throat.
Ayaan stared at him, one brow arched in quiet judgment. "Zara?" he repeated slowly, testing the name like a poison he wasn't sure he wanted to swallow. "As in... that Zara?"
Arman ran a hand through his messy black hair, his jaw tightening. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Well, too late now," Ayaan snapped. "We're in a goddamn mess because of your 'I don't want to talk about it.' You've been acting weird ever since we landed this deal. And now you're telling me Zara is involved in this project? You knew this and didn't say anything?"
Arman didn't respond. He turned away and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling window of his penthouse office, staring out at the skyline. The city glittered in the night like scattered fragments of broken glass—beautiful, chaotic, and dangerous.
"Arman!" Ayaan's voice cracked through the silence. "Talk to me."
He exhaled, long and slow. "Yes," he finally said. "It's her."
Ayaan paced the room, fists clenched. "Do you even understand what this could mean? She's not just some girl from your past. She's the girl who nearly ruined you."
"I didn't tell you because I wasn't sure she'd even show up," Arman replied. "And I wasn't ready to explain why I still... dream about her."
"You're out of your mind," Ayaan muttered. "She left you, humiliated you in front of the entire media, vanished for five years, and now you still—what? Feel something?"
Arman's voice was hollow. "You never forget your first betrayal."
There was something about Zara that haunted him. The way she had walked away without looking back. The way she'd smiled like nothing had ever happened. The way she had always known how to get under his skin.
Elsewhere in the city, Zara sat alone in her new apartment, high heels kicked off, her phone resting on the table. Her dark hair was messily tied in a loose knot, and her black dress clung to her like regret. She had seen him today. After five years of exile, five years of building herself up from the ruins of what once was, she had finally stood face to face with Arman again.
He hadn't changed much. Still devastatingly handsome, still arrogant, still cold. But there was something different in his eyes—a hardness, a tiredness, as if the world had chipped away at his soul.
She poured herself a glass of wine and sat down, her fingers trembling slightly. The deal she had taken—the merger between her startup and the powerful Raheja Enterprises—had not been accidental. She had known who owned the company. She had known Arman would be there.
She had wanted him to see her. But she hadn't expected the ache. The way his eyes burned into hers. The way her heart betrayed her with every beat. She wasn't supposed to feel this way anymore.
Not after everything.
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
"You looked good in that black dress. – A"
Her breath hitched.
Arman.
The next day dawned colder than expected. Zara stepped out of her car in front of Raheja Enterprises, her heels echoing against the polished marble of the lobby floor. Her assistant followed behind with files in hand, unaware of the hurricane twisting in Zara's chest.
She had barely made it to the boardroom when she saw him.
Arman stood at the far end, dressed sharply in charcoal gray, leaning casually against the conference table like he owned the air around him. Which, in a way, he did.
"Miss Rahman," he said, with a glint of irony. "I hope your first day at the merged company has been... enlightening."
Zara smiled, sharp as a blade. "Mr. Raheja. It's nice to see you're still indulging in your little power plays."
He chuckled. "Some things never change."
She raised an eyebrow. "Some things do."
Their eyes locked—past and present clashing like thunderclouds. Neither spoke about what mattered. Neither acknowledged the elephant in the room: that five years ago, they were in love. That five years ago, she disappeared without a word.
Arman gestured to a chair. "Shall we get started?"
The meeting ended with polite applause and fake smiles, but the tension between Arman and Zara remained unspoken, thick enough to choke on. As the others filed out, Arman stood and moved toward her, his voice low.
"Why are you really here, Zara?"
She didn't flinch. "For business. Why else?"
"You expect me to believe that after everything you did?" he said bitterly.
She met his gaze head-on. "I didn't come here to beg for forgiveness."
"You didn't even come to explain," he said, the sharpness returning to his voice. "You disappeared. No calls. No notes. Nothing."
"I had my reasons," she said quietly.
He stepped closer. "Then tell me. What reason could possibly justify breaking my heart and walking away like I was nothing?"
Silence.
Zara turned, picking up her bag. "Not everything in life has easy answers, Arman."
He grabbed her wrist—not hard, but firm enough to stop her. "Try me."
She paused, then slowly pulled her arm away. "One day," she whispered. "But not today."
And with that, she left.
That night, Arman sat alone on his balcony, a glass of scotch in hand. The city below moved on, uncaring, as it always did. But he was stuck—trapped in the memories of a love that had ended too soon and a pain that never really faded.
Zara was back.
And he didn't know if that was a blessing—or a curse.