ZORAVAR ESTATE

8 AM

Morning arrived at the Zoravar Estate in complete contrast to the night before.

Only hours ago the mansion had echoed with laughter, music, and the endless stream of guests who had welcomed the newlyweds home after their final wedding ceremony—the Hindu wedding. Before that had come the Christian vows and the nikah, each ceremony honouring a different part of the lives they had grown up with.

It had been an arranged marriage.

Their mothers had believed they would make a good match, and neither Zaid nor Ava had found a reason to refuse. They had entered the marriage the way countless couples before them had—two strangers tied together by faith, family, and the hope that love could be built with time.

Now, for the first time since the celebrations had begun, the estate was quiet.

Upstairs, the master bedroom was bathed in the soft glow of the morning sun filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows veiled with sheer ivory curtains. A king-sized bed with a dark walnut headboard stood at the centre, dressed in crisp white linen, while the polished wooden floors, Persian rug, and understated décor gave the room a warmth that reflected the man who lived in it.

On the bedside table rested a worn copy of Oliver Twist. A corner of one page had been folded neatly, marking where Zaid had stopped reading. Whenever life became overwhelming, he found himself returning to books. They quietened his mind in ways silence never could.

Standing before the mirror, he straightened the knot of his tie with the same care he seemed to give everything else.

Today was the day.

For the last five years, he had walked into those halls carrying one purpose that had never changed—to fight for children who had nobody left in the world. Children without families. Without protection. Without anyone willing to stand between them and the people who preyed on the weak.

There were never enough people willing to protect.

But there were always those willing to exploit.

He knew that because, once upon a time, he had been one of those children.

I know what it feels like to belong to no one.

To wonder whether anyone would ever come looking for you.

But I have a voice now.

And if Allah has blessed me with that voice, then I will spend my life using it for those who cannot speak for themselves.

Perhaps that was why something inside him had begun to heal over the years. Every child he helped felt like he was reaching back through time, offering that frightened little boy a hand he had never received himself.

He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve before glancing at his watch. There was still time before he had to leave.

His eyes drifted to the simple gold band resting on his finger. Married. Even now the word felt unfamiliar.

Less than a week ago he hadn't even known the woman who now carried his surname. Their engagement had taken place only days before the wedding festivities had begun, and yet somehow life had changed so completely in such a short span of time.

His gaze slowly lifted towards the bed.

There she was.

Ava.

His wife.

Ava Zaid Zoravar.

The thought settled quietly in his chest.

There had been a time when he himself hadn't possessed a name that meant anything. Before he became Zaid Zoravar, he had simply been an abandoned child waiting for someone to choose him.

Then Shahveer and Mahira Zoravar had found him.

They had given him a home.

A family.

A future.

Everything he was today began with two people who had looked at an orphaned little boy and decided he was already their son.

So when Mahira had told him she had found someone she believed would be his life partner, he hadn't questioned her.

He trusted her heart. It had never once led him astray. His eyes softened as they returned to Ava.

She was still asleep, curled slightly beneath the blankets, one chooda-clad hand tucked beneath her cheek. Her blonde hair lay scattered across the pillow, the morning light catching its golden strands. The sindoor at her hairline had smudged ever so slightly, her maangteeka had slipped to one side, and the intricate mehendi staining her hands remained beautifully dark.

Ya Allah...

She is beautiful.

Not only because of the face before him.

There was something about her he couldn't quite explain. Something in her quiet eyes whenever they met his. Something guarded. Something that made him wonder what stories she carried behind her silence. He had caught himself thinking about it more than once.

Maybe more than he should have.

He smiled to himself.

You're thinking far ahead, Zaid.

They had barely spent a moment alone together. They were still strangers learning how to share the same roof.

Yet somewhere between seeing her for the first time and watching her sleep this morning, he had begun hoping for something more than a successful arranged marriage.

He wanted friendship.

Trust.

One day, perhaps, love.

Only if she chose it too.

Because she had crossed oceans, left behind her family, her country, and the life she had always known to begin another beside him.

He silently promised himself he would never allow that sacrifice to become a regret. For another moment he simply watched her sleep.

He wished he didn't have to leave. But duty had always come before comfort.

Fortunately, Inaya was home. His sister would make sure Ava never felt alone while he was away.

A faint smile touched his lips as he stepped closer to the bed.

"Ham jaldi hi aa jayenge... humein maaf kijiye, Ava," he whispered, his voice barely louder than the morning breeze.

(''I will be back soon.. please forgive me, Ava.")

His hand instinctively lifted, wanting to brush the loose strands of hair away from her face.

He stopped himself.

No.

Not until she welcomed that closeness herself.

Lowering his hand again, he gave her one last glance before quietly walking out of the room.

Outside, a nation waited for its parliamentarian.

Inside, his heart remained with the woman sleeping peacefully beneath the morning light.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

FEW HOURS LATER

Ava opened her eyes slowly and sat up on the bed, letting the illusion of a newly awakened bride settle into place. To anyone watching, it would have looked like she had just woken up after a peaceful night's sleep.

But Ava had never been asleep.

Not really.

She had spent the entire night lying still, her breathing controlled, her body relaxed enough to appear harmless while her mind remained awake. Sleep was a weakness she had learned to control years ago. An operative couldn't afford to lose awareness, not even for a few hours, not even in a house that was supposed to be safe.

She had heard him leave two hours ago. The quiet shift of the mattress. The sound of his footsteps against the floor.

The door closing behind him.

She knew his routine before even stepping into his world.

Her eyes moved across the bedroom, taking in the details she hadn't allowed herself to properly observe before. The arrangement of the furniture, the expensive but understated decor, the placement of every object. Nothing was random. Homes always revealed pieces of the people living inside them.

And this home belonged to Zaid Zoravar.

The man she had been sent to destroy.

A small smile almost appeared on her lips, but there was no amusement behind it.

Another powerful man. Another carefully built reputation. Another person who believed the world would never see what existed behind the mask.

She felt no guilt.

Guilt was a luxury she had abandoned long ago.

This was a mission.

And missions were not personal.

The Directorate had given her the information, the target and the reason she didn't ask she never did. She just did her job.  Zaid Zoravar was not the man the public believed him to be. His speeches about justice, his work with orphaned children, his image as a politician who cared about the forgotten—according to them, it was all carefully manufactured.

A performance.

And Ava knew better than anyone how convincing performances could be.

She had spent years perfecting them.

Lucian Vale had taught her that the most dangerous people were not always the ones holding weapons. Sometimes they were the ones standing beneath cameras, smiling at the world while hiding their true intentions.

The Directorate had never failed her before. She had no reason to doubt them now. Her job was simple. Become Ava Zoravar.

Gain his trust. Learn his weaknesses. Find the evidence.

And when everything was over, disappear.

Because Ava Hart was only a name created for this mission. A file. A history. A carefully designed identity.

Nothing more.

She had worn countless versions of herself before. This one just happened to come with a wedding ring, sindoor and a husband's surname. Her thoughts returned to the morning.

She hadn't seen him leave, but she had noticed everything.

The moment he woke up. The sound of the bathroom door opening and closing. The shower running for exactly ten minutes.

A habit.

Small, but useful.

People revealed themselves through routines.

After that came the sound of pages turning. Five pages from the book sitting beside his bed before he got ready for work. The Rustle of pages she had heard.

Interesting.

Then came the careful preparation.

The way he adjusted his clothes. The way he checked every detail before leaving. Nothing about him was careless. Everything was controlled. Everything was precise.

Just like a man who understood the importance of appearances. Ava looked away with a quiet scoff. Of course he did.

Politicians survived through perception. They knew how to smile, how to speak, how to make people believe they were different from the rest.

Zaid Zoravar had simply mastered it better. Soon enough, the world would see what she saw.

The truth.

She would expose him, finish the mission, and move on to the next identity waiting for her. That was how it had always been.

No attachments.

No hesitation.

No mistakes.

Her fingers brushed against the hidden blade beneath the folds of her lehenga, and her expression hardened.

She remembered him kneeling beside her before leaving. Her body had reacted before her mind could. Years of training had taken over.

If he had reached for her, if he had tried anything, the knife would have been in her hand before he even realised she was awake.

Agent Hart was never caught unprepared.

Never.

But that was the part that bothered her.

He hadn't touched her.

Not once.

Every man she had dealt with before had eventually shown his true nature. Some had hidden it behind charm, some behind power, some behind kindness, but eventually they all revealed the same thing.

They took what they wanted because they believed they could.

Zaid had been different.

And that bothered her more than if he had been exactly what she expected.

For a brief moment, an unfamiliar thought entered her mind.

What if he wasn't like them?

She immediately pushed it away. That was how people became careless. That was how operatives made mistakes.

One moment of doubt. One moment of believing someone was different.

And everything fell apart.

No.

Zaid Zoravar was not different. He was simply better at pretending.

The orphanages. The charity. The speeches. The kindness.

It was all part of the image.

"Don't forget who he is, Ava," she whispered to herself.

Because people like him didn't change.

They only became better at hiding.

She pushed herself off the bed and walked towards the wardrobe, leaving the thoughts behind.

Today was not about finding evidence. Today was about observation. Understanding the Zoravar family. Learning their habits. Finding their weaknesses. Every family had them.

She just had to discover where theirs were hidden.

It was almost amusing how easily she could become someone completely different.

Nearly half an hour later, she stepped back into the bedroom wearing a royal maroon sharara embroidered with delicate golden threadwork along the borders. She adjusted the matching dupatta neatly over her shoulder before sliding her red chooda bangles comfortably into place. Standing before the mirror, she carefully filled the parting of her hair with sindoor, straightened the mangalsutra resting against her neck, combed her hair until not a single strand was out of place, and finished with a soft shade of lipstick.

The woman staring back at her looked exactly the way she was supposed to.

A shy Indian-American bride trying to settle into her husband's home.

Gentle.

Soft-spoken.

Respectful.

Someone who smiled politely, spoke only when necessary, and would never raise her voice.

It couldn't have been further from who she really was. That woman existed only for this mission.

The real Ava—the woman hidden beneath layers of fabricated identities—had never cared for bangles, sindoor or embroidered clothes. Left to herself, she would have worn practical trousers, boots and a jacket that allowed her to move without restriction.

All of this had been Anika's doing.

Anika had always been the one with an eye for details, collecting wardrobes, jewellery and accessories for every identity they were assigned. She somehow managed to predict exactly what each character would need before a mission even began, while Ava simply wore whatever was handed to her without giving it a second thought.

To Ava, clothes had never been fashion.

They were camouflage.

Nothing more.

As she walked downstairs, the living room came into view, and she spotted Inaya—the youngest family member.

According to the file Ava had read, she remembered everything about Inaya. She had memorized the entire family, of course. Inaya was a young woman who had been tormented at the age of sixteen, raped by her own boyfriend and his friends. Ever since that day, the girl had stopped being herself, retreating from the world and confining herself strictly to the safety of her home.

Despite the support of her family, she had never ventured outside again, nor had she ever truly escaped the shadow of her trauma. Ava's heart ached a little—it wasn't like she usually felt things for targets, but people like Inaya deserved justice. Maybe, when she finally pulled her brother down, she would eliminate Inaya's tormentors, too. It wasn't like she cared, but woman to woman, Ava knew all too well how it felt to blame yourself for something that wasn't your fault.

Mental note: End those who hurt her.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Ava slipped that shy, demure smile onto her lips, matching the exact persona of the newlywed bride they expected her to be.

Inaya was dressed in a cream, loose maxi dress, with a Paisley pashmina shawl worn as a hijab. She had been busy guiding the maids, ensuring they cooked Ava's favorite dishes—something to make her feel at home.

Inaya knew all of this was completely new and overwhelming for Ava, and she wanted nothing more than to provide comfort. Hearing footsteps, she turned around. There stood Ava, breathtaking in a gorgeous sharara.

Inaya's breath hitched. Mashallah... how beautiful she looked. Her blonde hair was a striking highlight.

Inaya stared for a moment, wondering what it must feel like to be that free—to dress however you wanted, to let your hair down and be admired without being lusted after by men. But perhaps that would always remain just a dream. A sad chuckle escaped Inaya's lips.

Snapping herself back to reality as the footsteps drew closer, Inaya glanced toward Ava, who was fidgeting nervously with her dupatta, looking back at her with a shy smile.

Inaya smiled warmly right back—the exact same practiced smile she had worn since she was sixteen, an armor of politeness she wrapped around herself so people wouldn't ask too many questions.

"Mashallah... Bhabhi, aap kitni sundar lag rahi hain," Inaya murmured, stepping forward. She raised a finger, smudging a tiny bit of dark surma kohl from the corner of her own eye.

("Mashallah... Sister-in-law, you look so beautiful.")

Then, without another word, she reached out, touched Ava's chin, and dabbed the kohl against Ava's skin, whispering something softly beneath her breath that Ava could neither catch nor understand.

Stepping back, Inaya left Ava staring at her, slightly startled. Part of it was entirely an act, but a fraction of it was real—no one in Ava's line of work ever touched her like that.

No one.

She froze. What had Inaya just done to her skin? Was it some kind of threat? Was the substance poisonous? Was Inaya secretly a spy for a rival agency, too?

Then, Inaya let out a light laugh that made Ava blink twice. What the fuck? The woman was laughing after performing some black magic ritual on her?

"Bhabhi, dariye mat, hamne aap par koi kaala jaadu nahi kiya," Inaya laughed again, amused by the way Ava looked like a deer caught in headlights. "It was just for nazar, Bhabhi."

("Sister  - in - law, don't be scared. We haven't done any black magic on you," Inaya laughed again, amused by the way Ava looked like a deer caught in headlights. "It was just to ward off the nazar, Bhabhi.")

Ava froze. Nazar? Oh. Right. Evil eye.

God, how the hell could she be this stupid? Real smooth, Hart. Real smooth. On your very first day, you've managed to act like an absolute idiot.

"Oh, sorry, ham zara samjhe nahi the," Ava whispered, lowering her gaze and nervously twisting the edge of her saree, sliding right back into character.

("Oh, sorry. I didn't quite understand.")

"It's okay, Bhabhi, aaiye." Inaya grabbed Ava's hand without hesitation, pulling her toward the dining table laden with Ava's favorite dishes—or rather, the favorite dishes of the persona she was playing.

("It's alright, Bhabhi. Come on.")

Without another word, they sat down to eat. Inaya immediately started chattering away about one of the local NGOs she worked for—a project originally started by Zaid himself, which Inaya now managed.

Ava listened intently, playing the role of the doting, attentive sister-in-law to perfection. Yet, her gaze kept flickering back to the hijab covering Inaya's head.

Still, she kept her mouth shut. For now.

Once breakfast was finished, Inaya looked up at her, smiling brightly before leaning forward, resting her elbows on the table with a mischievous glint in her eye. "Bhabhi, aaj toh bhai aapko dekhte hi behosh ho jayenge, by God," she whispered with a giggle, adjusting her hijab.

("Bhabhi, today, the moment Bhai sees you, he'll faint—I swear to God!")

Ava lowered her gaze, putting on the classic shy performance of a newlywed wife teased about her husband.

Giggling at Ava's reaction, Inaya stood up to clear the plates, but Ava beat her to it, rising swiftly. "Inaya, aap rehne dijiye, ham karte hain," she whispered softly, gathering the dishes and looking back at Inaya with a strange flicker in her eyes. "Aapne waise hi bohot kaam kiya hai. Don't worry, I can handle this."

(Giggling at Ava's reaction, Inaya stood up to clear the plates, but Ava was quicker. She rose immediately. "Inaya, please leave it. I'll do it," she whispered softly, gathering the dishes and looking back at Inaya with a strange flicker in her eyes. "You've already done so much work. Don't worry, I can handle this.")

Moments later, the table was spotless. When Ava came back from the kitchen, she saw Inaya looking like she was about to head out, clutching the strap of her tote purse over her shoulder.

Ava looked confused—even though she already knew Inaya's exact schedule, having memorized the daily routines of every member of the Zoravar family. Slipping back into her cover, she asked, "Aap... kahin jaa rahi hain?"

("Are you going somewhere?")

Inaya paused, smiling softly. "Of course, Bhabhi," she whispered, slipping her phone into her tote bag. "Aakhir ek raahi apne raaste par hi toh jaata hai."

(Inaya paused, smiling softly. "Of course, Sister - in - law," she whispered, slipping her phone into her tote bag. "After all, a traveller must eventually walk the path meant for them.")

Ava offered a polite smile, though she didn't quite understand the philosophical quote. What the fuck did that even mean?

"I'm going to the NGO, Bhabhi," Inaya said, catching Ava's confused expression and smiling affectionately. Then, without warning, she reached out and pinched Ava's cheek. "Kya Bhabhi, aap bhi na, badi innocent hain."

("I'm going to the NGO, Sister - in - Law," Inaya said, noticing Ava's confused expression and smiling affectionately. Then, without warning, she reached out and pinched Ava's cheek. "Oh, Bhabhi, you really are so innocent, aren't you?")

Ava stiffened instantly. Innocent? Ava hadn't been innocent since she was ten years old. She had never known innocence. Yet, Inaya saw her that way, touching her with a pure, unfiltered affection that Ava had never experienced in her life. People in this family were really weird. 

Real, real weird.

Still, she didn't have time to dwell on that. Her sole focus should be on how to ruin Zaid. That was it.

She offered another shy smile, watching as Inaya turned to leave. But once again, that strange hesitation flared deep inside Ava's chest.

"Inaya, suniye?" Ava called out softly, a rare flicker of doubt crossing her eyes as she stared at the hijab framing Inaya's face.

("Inaya, listen?")

Ava wasn't against it—she never would be. It was a deeply personal religious choice, and women who wore it of their own free will deserved every right to do so. But having worked countless missions across the globe, Ava knew that all too often, women were forced by controlling families to cover themselves against their true desires.

Even though she wasn't allowed to let her personal feelings bleed into a mission, she couldn't help herself. Knowing Inaya's history of trauma and sexual assault, her mind raced: What if she was being forced to cover up? What if she had been blamed by her family for what happened to her, and the hijab was just another cage?

Ava couldn't personally relate to it, but she had seen how many women suffered under invisible chains. This mission was about destroying Zaid, but maybe—just maybe—it wouldn't hurt to help Inaya, too.

The Directorate wouldn't mind, as long as it didn't compromise the primary objective. As for her handler, well, Ava simply wouldn't tell her; Handler would instantly veto it, and Ava genuinely wanted to help.

After all, despite everything Inaya had been through, she still smiled, still showed kindness, and still remained remarkably resilient. Ava knew from experience that most people turned ice-cold after such horrors, but Inaya was different.

And yet, she had started covering herself completely.

Inaya stopped and turned back, looking confused. "Haan, Bhabhi?"

("Yes, sister-in-law?")

"Ham bas... aapse kuch bolna chahte the," Ava whispered, hesitating. What if what she was about to say deeply offended Inaya? What if Inaya completely misinterpreted her intentions?

("I just... wanted to say something to you.")

Fuck. But she just couldn't hold it back.

"Ham bas ye bol rahe the... aapko koi aise hijaab pehne ke liye force toh nahi karta na?" she whispered, searching Inaya's eyes.

("I was just saying... no one forces you to wear a hijab like this, right?")

Inaya froze. She clearly hadn't expected such a blunt, intrusive question from her new sister-in-law. Something raw and defensive flickered in her expression, and she snapped back a little too fast, her voice rising defensively. 

"Nahi, Bhabhi, aisi koi baat nahi hai! Main hijaab pehnti hoon kyunki yeh mujhe Allah ke kareeb rakhta hai. Koi force nahi karta, mujhe khud cover karna pasand hai." She raised her voice just a fraction, the classic tone of someone trying a bit too hard to convince both the listener and themselves.

("No, Sister - In - Law, it's nothing like that! I wear the hijab because it keeps me close to Allah. No one forces me; I personally like to cover myself.")

Ava saw right through it. She read people for a living; she could read Inaya like an open book right now. "Inaya, aapko khud ko aise chupane ki zarurat nahi hai—" she whispered, taking an empathetic step forward.

("Inaya, you don't need to hide yourself like this—")

Inaya's eyes turned instantly cold, though something deeply vulnerable trembled beneath the surface. "Bas kijiye, Bhabhi!" Her voice cut through the room, sharper and louder than before. "Aapko kuch nahi pata! Aur aapka koi haq nahi banta ki aap aisi baatein karein. Aap hamari zindagi ke baare mein kuch nahi jaanti hain!"

(Inaya's eyes turned instantly cold, though something deeply vulnerable trembled beneath the surface. "Enough, Bhabhi!" Her voice cut through the room, sharper and louder than before. "You know nothing! And you have no right to say such things. You don't know anything about our lives!")

With that, Inaya whipped around, turning her back on Ava. She strode toward the exit, pausing just long enough to drop a final, stinging warning that made even the nearby maids flinch:

"Aur haan... aap bhai ki biwi hain, wahin tak rahiye. Hamari zindagi mein ghusne ki koi zarurat nahi hai."

("And yes... you are Bhai's wife, so stay within that boundary. There is no need for you to interfere in my life.")

And then, she was gone.

Ava stood completely frozen in the quiet room. This was exactly what she had feared—that Inaya would react defensively. And of course, she had.

Still, Ava knew the truth: the hijab had become Inaya's emotional armor to survive her trauma. She didn't truly want to hide away, but she couldn't bring herself to admit it, either.

Fuck. She had to fix this mess. She couldn't believe she had already compromised her operational standing on day one. She needed to make it right before everything spiraled out of control.

She knew Inaya would likely run straight to her brother now, but she had to handle it. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Real smooth, Hart. That's why you never let your inner thoughts win.

Ava turned on her heel, ready to figure out how to salvage the situation, when the elderly maid, Saira, spoke up quietly from the corner.

"Chinta mat kijiye, Begum Sahiba. Inaya bachi ka dil dukhta hai aisi baaton par... aapki baat galat nahi thi, par unse is baare mein koi kabhi baat nahi karta."

("Don't worry, Begum Sahiba. Inaya's heart gets hurt by such things... what you said wasn't wrong, but no one ever talks to her about this matter.")

Ava gave a slow, silent nod, and walked away.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

PARLIAMENT

The Parliament chamber was quieter than usual. Not silent—Parliament was never silent—but the usual arguments had faded into low conversations and the occasional shuffle of papers.

Inside, every seat was occupied. Members of Parliament exchanged quiet conversations while television cameras broadcast the proceedings live across the country. In the visitors' gallery sat directors of orphanages, social workers, child-rights activists, and dozens of children who had been invited to witness history.

Some wore neatly pressed school uniforms. Some had never stepped inside a building like this before. Some simply clutched tiny paper flags, unaware that their futures were about to be decided a few metres below them.

Zaid sat at his desk, his fingers resting lightly against the blue file before him.

The Children's Protection and Rehabilitation Bill.

The thick blue file resting before him bore a single title. He had read every page so many times that he no longer needed to.

Five years.

Five  years of meetings that stretched late into the night. Five years of visiting orphanages that barely had enough food for the children inside. Five years of listening to little boys and girls who asked him questions no child should ever have to ask.

"Will someone adopt me?"

"Can I go to school too?"

"Do I have to leave when I turn eighteen?"

Today...

He had hoped he would finally have answers.

Across the aisle, Shahveer caught his eye and gave him a small nod like a father does from shadows when he is seeing his son win finally after all the hardwork he did and like a proud father he can smile from the shadows.

His secretary, Aryaveer, standing just outside the chamber doors, caught his eye through the glass and gave him a discreet thumbs-up.

Zaid smiled faintly. For the first time in months...Hope didn't feel impossible. Everything was in place. The votes had been counted twice. There was enough support.

The bill was finally going to pass.

The Speaker's voice echoed through the chamber.

"We shall now proceed to the final reading of the Children's Protection and Rehabilitation Bill before placing it before the House for its final vote."

Zaid sat a little straighter. Members spoke one after another. Some praised the bill. Some spoke about child trafficking. Others talked about the need for proper rehabilitation centres.

"This legislation ensures that every orphaned child receives access to education..."

"...creates stricter punishment for child traffickers..."

"...establishes emergency shelters in every district..."

Each speech was followed by the rhythmic tapping of desks. Even opposition members who usually challenged Zaid offered reluctant praise.

Journalists exchanged surprised glances. The numbers had already been counted. The bill had the votes.

It was going to pass.

Zaid lowered his eyes for a brief moment.

Alhamdulillah.

Even those who rarely agreed with him admitted the country had ignored vulnerable children for far too long.

It felt...

Different.

Hopeful.

From the public gallery above. A little girl leaned over the railing, swinging her legs as she whispered something to the boy beside her, earning a giggle in return.

Zaid couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. Just a little longer, he thought.

The Speaker looked around the chamber.

"If there are no further objections, we shall proceed to the vote."

Zaid exhaled slowly.

Alhamdulillah.

Then—

"Mr Speaker."

The single voice cut through the room so sharply that every conversation stopped.

Zaid looked up.

Farooq Rahmani rose from his seat, buttoning his coat as though he had been waiting for this exact moment. Of course it had to be him.

Farooq Rahmani was none other than the leader of the opposing party. A man who carried power in public and corruption in the shadows. Everyone knew the truth about him—everyone knew the kind of man he truly was—but knowing and proving were two different things.

Despite countless suspicions and whispers surrounding his name, no one had ever been able to bring solid evidence against him. He had mastered the art of hiding behind his influence, wealth, and political position.

Farooq's hatred for the Zoravar family was not new. His father had once been Shahveer Zoravar's greatest political rival, and that rivalry had continued into the next generation.

Now, Farooq had the same problem his father once had.

Zaid Zoravar.

"I wish to raise a procedural objection."

A small crease formed between Zaid's brows. Procedural objection?

The Speaker gestured for him to continue.

Farooq picked up a black folder from his desk. "My office has received documents this morning indicating discrepancies in the financial allocations attached to this bill."

The chamber stirred immediately. Zaid frowned. His hand moved instinctively towards his own file. He flipped through the pages. Every figure was exactly where it was supposed to be. Nothing had changed.

Farooq continued calmly. "If these documents are genuine, passing this legislation today would be irresponsible. I therefore request that the bill be referred back to the Finance Committee for immediate review."

Farooq folded his hands behind his back. "Surely the integrity of Parliament is worth one additional review."

One additional review.

Everyone in the room knew what those words meant. Not days. Months. Committee hearings. Financial audits. Procedural debates. Endless delays.

Outside Parliament, thousands of children would continue waiting.

Again.

Murmurs spread across the chamber.

"What documents?"

"They've already been reviewed."

"This doesn't make sense."

Zaid looked towards Shahveer.

 Confusion mirrored his own.

Shahveer gave the slightest shake of his head.

Even Aryaveer, who was usually the one bringing laughter into every tense situation, had lost his usual smile.

His fists were clenched tightly against his sides, his knuckles turning pale as anger burned through him. Watching Farooq Rahmani stand there with that arrogant confidence, knowing the kind of damage he had caused, tested every bit of Aryaveer's patience.

For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to make Farooq pay for everything he had done.

To see him fall.

To see him finally face the consequences.

But Aryaveer knew Zaid.

And Zaid Zoravar never believed in revenge.

He believed in justice.

He knew nothing about this either. The Speaker adjusted his glasses before turning towards the Parliamentary Clerk.

"Were these documents submitted?"

The clerk hesitated.

"...Yes, Mr Speaker."

"When?"

"This morning."

A silence settled over the chamber.

Zaid stared ahead.

This morning. Too late for anyone to verify them. Too late for anyone to challenge them. Too late for anyone to stop what was happening.

The Speaker sighed deeply. "Under Rule 184, the Chair has no discretion in this matter."

A pause.

"The Children's Protection and Rehabilitation Bill is hereby referred back to the Finance and Constitutional Review Committee until these concerns have been fully examined."

The words landed like stones.

"No—"

"This is ridiculous!"

"It has already cleared committee!"

Voices rose from every corner of the chamber. People who were from Zaid's party looked furious.

The Speaker struck the gavel.

"Order."

No one listened.

Another strike.

"Order!"

Zaid didn't move.

His hand slowly closed around the edge of the file until the paper beneath his fingers crumpled.

Five years.

Delayed.

Again.

His gaze drifted upward.

The little girl in the gallery wasn't smiling anymore. She looked at the adults below with innocent confusion, tugging gently on the sleeve of the woman beside her.

The woman bent down and whispered something into her ear. The girl's shoulders fell.

One little boy tugged on the sleeve of his orphanage caretaker. "Does that mean... we lost?"

The woman couldn't answer. She simply lowered her eyes.

Zaid looked away. He just couldn't bear to see the sadness on the girl's face. He just couldn't.

For a moment, the noise inside Parliament disappeared. All he could hear were the voices of the children he had met over the years.

"Will anyone help us?"

He had promised them. Not with speeches. Not with cameras. With his word.

Zaid remained seated. Completely motionless. The celebration speech tucked inside his file suddenly felt heavier than stone. He had written it himself. He had planned to begin with one sentence.

"No child in this nation will ever be forgotten again."

He slowly folded the speech in half. Then again. Without reading another word.

Shahveer leaned towards him. 

"They forged those documents."

"I know."

"We can expose them."

Zaid's jaw tightened.

"Not today."

His voice was steady, but the disappointment behind it was impossible to hide.

His eyes followed Farooq as the man gathered his papers.

For the briefest moment...

Farooq looked back. A smile.

Small. Almost invisible. But it was there. Not the smile of a politician. The smile of a man who knew exactly what he had done. The session was adjourned.

Zaid watched him disappear through the heavy wooden doors before lowering his gaze to the blue file still resting on his desk.

He picked it up carefully, smoothing the pages he had unknowingly crumpled.

His fingers tightened around the file.

"Soon."

With that, he rose from his seat and walked out of the chamber, carrying not a defeated bill—

but a promise he refused to let die.

Reporters surged forward like a wave.

"Minister Zoravar!"

"Do you believe this was sabotage?"

"Will the bill survive committee review?"

"Who altered the financial records?"

Microphones were thrust towards him. Camera flashes lit the hallway.

Zaid stopped. His face remained composed—the same calm expression the nation had come to admire.

But inside...

He was furious. Not because his bill had been delayed.

Because somewhere in the visitors' gallery, children who had arrived believing they would witness history were walking away believing they simply weren't important enough.

He looked into the cameras.

"This House can delay legislation."

His voice was calm.

"But it cannot delay my resolve."

A beat.

"I promised those children I would return."

His eyes hardened with quiet determination.

"And Zoravars never break their promises.."

He closed the file beneath his arm and walked away.

Behind him, Parliament buzzed with political arguments.

Ahead of him...

A war had just begun.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

ZORAVAR ESTATE

Ava had spent the entire day observing the Zoravar Estate.

She watched the maids move effortlessly from one task to another, polishing antique furniture until it gleamed, tending to the flower beds in the gardens, preparing meals in the kitchen, and carrying out their duties as though they had done so for years. Outside, guards stood alert at both the front gates and the rear entrance, never once abandoning their posts.

Everyone had a role. Everyone knew exactly what they were doing. Every time Ava crossed paths with a member of the staff, they lowered their heads respectfully.

"Begum Sahiba."

She acknowledged each greeting with a small nod. Most of the afternoon had been spent speaking to the staff, especially Saira—the eldest maid in the estate and someone who had served the Zoravars for many years.

Ava had asked innocent questions. Questions she already knew.

What did Sahab like to eat?

Did he spend most of his time working?

Was he strict?

Questions any newly married bride might ask.

Only Ava wasn't asking as a wife.

She was asking as Agent Hart.

Every answer was carefully stored away.

Today was only her first full day in the estate. She couldn't afford to appear curious too quickly, nor could she afford another mistake after what had happened with Inaya that morning.

One wrong move...

...and the entire mission could crumble before it had even begun.

Lost in thought, Ava wandered through one of the quieter hallways when soft giggles reached her ears.

She stopped.

Children?

Her brows knitted together.

According to the files she had studied, only four members of the Zoravar family lived in the estate. Slowly, she followed the sound. The laughter grew louder until she turned the corner.

Two little girls stood there in matching pink frocks, their tiny ponytails bouncing as they chased each other around a pillar.

Ava blinked.

For a second, she had expected an unfamiliar guest... perhaps someone she hadn't been told about.

Instead...

She found two children.

Wrapped in shades of pink and innocence.

Before she could say anything, Saira hurried over, immediately lowering her head.

"Maaf kijiye, Begum Sahiba... yeh meri bachiyan hain."

("Please forgive me, Begum Sahiba... these are my daughters.")

Ava's tense shoulders relaxed.

Her gaze drifted towards the girls, who instantly hid behind their mother's dupatta, peeking out with wide, curious eyes.

A small smile found its way onto her lips.

"Koi baat nahi," she said gently. "Maafi maangne ki zarurat nahi hai."

( "It's okay," she said gently. "There's no need to apologize.")

She crouched slightly to meet the girls at eye level.

"Aap dono bahut pyaari hain."

("You both are very lovely.")

The sisters looked at one another before hiding again, earning a quiet chuckle from Ava.

"Aap dono school jaati hain?"

("Do you both go to school?")

The question was directed at the girls, but neither answered. Instead, they tightened their grip on their mother's dupatta. Saira's smile faltered.

"Itne paise nahi hain, Begum Sahiba," she admitted quietly. "Main aur mere shohar... hum apni bachiyon ko school nahi bhej paaye."

("We don't have enough money, Begum Sahiba," she confessed softly. "My husband and I... we were unable to send our girls to school."

There was no bitterness in her voice. Only shame.

"Pehle Sahab ne ek mahine ki fees di thi," she continued softly, "lekin uske baad maine dobara unse nahi maanga."

("At first, Sahab paid one month's fees," she continued softly, "but after that, I never asked him again.")

Ava fell silent. Her chest tightened. She knew that feeling. She hadn't stepped inside a classroom since she was ten years old. Not after her world had fallen apart.

Her gaze returned to the little girls. Children who deserved crayons instead of compromises. Books instead of burdens.

Without another word, she straightened.

"Yahin rukiye," she said quietly. "Hum abhi aate hain."

("Wait here," she said quietly. ''I'll be back soon.")

Before Saira could ask where she was going, Ava disappeared upstairs.

Several minutes later, she returned.

In her hands was a thick bundle of cash. Far more money than Saira had ever held at once. The maid stared at it in disbelief.

Ava stopped in front of her and gently held it out.

"Yeh rakh lijiye."

(''Keep this.'')

Saira looked from the money to Ava.

"Begum Sahiba... yeh aap kya kar rahi hain?"

("Begum Sahiba... what are you doing?")

"Hamari taraf se tohfa samajh lijiye."

("Consider it a gift from me.'')

"But... hum yeh kaise le sakte hain?"

("But... how can I accept this?")

Ava smiled softly.

"Le sakti hain."

("You can take it.")

She glanced at the girls, who were watching everything with innocent confusion.

"Bachiyon ki padhai bahut zaroori hoti hai."

("Girls' education is extremely important.")

She carefully placed the money into Saira's trembling hands.

"Aap poora din mehnat karti hain. Is ghar ka, Zaid ka... Inaya ka itna khayal rakhti hain."

("You spend your entire day working so hard. You take care of this home, of Zaid... and of Inaya, with so much love and dedication.")

Her voice softened even more.

"Ismein sharam ki koi baat nahi hai."

("There is nothing to be ashamed of in this.")

"Unhe padhaiye."

("Give them an education.")

The words broke something inside Saira. Tears spilled down her cheeks before she suddenly bent down to touch Ava's feet.

Ava's eyes widened.

"Nahi, Saira."

(''No, Saira.'')

She immediately held the older woman by her shoulders and gently helped her stand.

"Aisa mat kijiye."

("Please don't do this.")

She wiped away Saira's tears with the edge of her dupatta.

"Aap humse badi hain."

("You are older than me.")

A faint smile crossed her face as she glanced at the girls.

"Dekhiye... aapki bachiyan darr jaayengi agar woh aapko rote hue dekhen."

("Look... your daughters will get scared if they see you crying.")

The little girls were already looking at their mother with worried eyes.

Saira quickly wiped her tears. She clutched the money tightly against her chest before taking both her daughters' hands.

As she walked away, her trembling voice barely rose above a whisper.

"Ya Allah..."

("Oh God...")

"...Begum Sahiba ko hamesha khush rakhna."

("...Keep Begum Sahiba happy always.")

Ava watched them disappear down the corridor before releasing a quiet sigh. Helping people had never been difficult for her. She had done it on missions before.

Whenever she met someone who was struggling, someone who simply needed a hand... she helped them.

Even if she never saw them again.

Perhaps it was because she knew what it felt like to lose a childhood.

She couldn't return her own.

But maybe...

Those two little girls still had a chance to keep theirs.

Ava shook her head.

Focus, Hart.

You're here for a mission.

Yet one thought refused to leave her mind.

Saira had said Zaid had paid the girls' school fees once before.

Why?

If he was truly the corrupt man her agency believed him to be... why would he quietly help the daughter of a maid without expecting anything in return?

Corrupt men donated when cameras were watching.

They helped when there were headlines to be written.

They didn't pay a maid's daughter's school fees and never mention it again.

Ava had spent years learning to spot cracks in people's masks.

So far...

She hadn't found a single one in Zaid Zoravar.

Her jaw tightened.

He's hiding it well.

He had to be.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Zoravar Children Trust

Zaid sat down on one of the old wooden chairs inside the orphanage. Beside him stood Shahveer, his father, resting a hand quietly on his son's knee.

He didn't offer comforting words. He didn't tell him everything would be alright. That simple touch was enough.

Zaid slowly looked around the room. These were the very children who had sat in the visitors' gallery of Parliament only hours ago. They had come believing today would change their lives. Believing they would finally receive the future they had been told they didn't deserve.

A future they had never even dared to dream of. He had promised them. He really had.

Now, the children sat scattered across the hall. Some were eating packets of chips while others played with old toys that had seen better days. A few sat quietly in front of the television, their disappointment slowly fading as Ira—the woman Zaid had entrusted with running the orphanage—did everything she could to distract them with snacks and games.

Alhamdulillah.

At least they were smiling again. Because right now...

He couldn't bear to see tears in their eyes.

It broke him.

It truly did.

"Ya Allah..."

("Oh God...")

His voice cracked.

He lowered his head before finally turning towards his father.

"Baba... ham haar gaye."

("Father... I couldn't win.")

The words came out as nothing more than a whisper. Tears blurred his vision. For the first time that day, he stopped holding himself together. He buried his face against Shahveer's shoulder.

Shahveer said nothing. He simply wrapped an arm around his son and held him close. He didn't tell him to be strong. He didn't remind him that men weren't supposed to cry.

Because at that moment... Zaid wasn't a politician. He wasn't an honourable member of Parliament. He was simply a son whose heart had broken.

"Ham nahi haare, mere bache," Shahveer whispered, gently stroking his hair.

("You did not lose, my child.")

"Ham bas raaste mein ruk gaye hain, mere bache."

("You have only stopped along the way, my child.")

His hand continued moving through Zaid's hair as he spoke softly,

"Hamesha yaad rakhna... jinka dil saaf hota hai aur iraade nek hote hain, woh kabhi nahi haarte."

("Always remember, my child... people with a pure heart and sincere intentions can never be defeated.")

He pressed a gentle kiss against Zaid's hair. Zaid's shoulders trembled. He had only wanted one thing. To give these children a life better than the one fate had handed them.

Yet he couldn't even do that.

What kind of man was he...

...if he couldn't even keep his promise to them?

"Zaid."

Shahveer called him softly.

"Hmm."

Zaid didn't lift his head.

He remained leaning against his father's shoulder like a little boy seeking comfort after falling down.

"Bache... ab ghar jao."

("My child... now go home.")

Shahveer wiped the tears from his son's face.

"You have a wife waiting for you."

He smiled gently.

"Do not lose hope."

"This is not the end."

Zaid closed his eyes for a brief moment before taking a deep breath.

The ache inside him hadn't disappeared. Perhaps it wouldn't for a long time. But his father's words steadied him enough to stand again.

Across the room, Ira looked up and noticed him walking towards the door.

She clapped her hands lightly to catch the children's attention.

"Bacho, chalo... Zaid Bhai ko bye karo. Woh ghar jaa rahe hain."

("Children, come on... say bye to Zaid Bhai. He is going home.")

Immediately, little heads turned. The children abandoned their toys, their cartoons, and even their half-eaten snacks.

Within seconds they were running towards him.

"Zaid Bhai!"

("Brother Zaid!")

Tiny arms wrapped themselves around his waist. Others hugged his legs. One little boy buried his face against his shoulder.

Zaid immediately knelt down, gathering every child he could into his embrace.

His heart clenched.

After everything that had happened... After failing to fulfil the promise he had made... They still looked at him as though he could fix every problem in their little worlds.

As though he was their safe place.

His eyes closed.

For a moment...

The weight on his shoulders felt a little lighter.

No.

He wasn't done. He refused to be.

There was a quiet determination in his eyes as he held them close. No matter how many times they delayed the bill... 

No matter who stood in his way...

He would fight.

For them.

Always.

"Mere bache," he whispered, resting his forehead gently against their little heads.

("My child,")

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

ZAID'S STUDY

Ava stood inside his study. It had only been a minute since she had stepped inside. She hadn't planned to enter, but Zaid wasn't home yet. Saira and the other maids had already left for the evening, leaving the estate unusually quiet.

She only wanted a glimpse. It wasn't as though she was going to steal anything. Not on her first day. She wasn't careless enough to make a mistake like that.

Her eyes travelled across the room. It wasn't dark or intimidating like she had imagined a powerful politician's office would be. Instead, it felt... peaceful.

The desk was a soft cream colour, neatly arranged without a single paper out of place. On one corner sat a framed photograph of smiling orphaned children surrounding Zaid. Beside it was another frame of him with his parents, and his sister.

Then her gaze settled on a third photograph.

A little boy.

His clothes were old and faded, yet the smile on his face was brighter than the sun. Beside him stood another child, equally worn, equally happy, the two of them holding onto one another as if nothing in the world could pull them apart.

Samar.

Ava recognised him immediately. She had read enough files to know exactly who he was.

He had grown up beside Zaid in the orphanage. The two had later been adopted by different families, yet distance had never managed to weaken what they shared.

Today Samar wasn't merely Zaid's political advisor. He was his brother in every way that mattered.

Her attention drifted across the rest of the study.

A Qur'an rested respectfully on a wooden stand near the bookshelf. A set of prayer beads lay neatly beside his laptop. The shelves weren't filled with books about power or strategy but with titles on Islamic teachings, child welfare, psychology, leadership, and the protection of orphaned children.

Among them sat a few crayon drawings, framed carefully.

Gifts from children. He had actually kept them.

No expensive awards. No photographs with celebrities. No trophies.

Just memories.

For the briefest moment, something inside her hesitated. Then she forced herself to look away.

People like him didn't exist.

Not in her world.

There had to be something.

Something hidden.

Something that would prove every file she'd ever been given right.

She would find it.

And when she did...

Project Zoravar would finally be complete.

A faint sound echoed through the corridor.

Footsteps.

Her heart stopped.

No....

Fuck.

Shit.

Those footsteps...

She knew them.

Zaid.

He was home.

How had she not heard the gates?

If she walked out now, he'd immediately ask why she had been inside his private study.

No.

She couldn't risk that.

Think, Hart.

Think.

Her eyes landed on one of the thick case files resting neatly on the desk.

A plan formed instantly. She picked it up, weighing it in her hands. Heavy enough. Enough to leave a bruise. Not enough to do real damage.

Pain was temporary.

Suspicion wasn't.

Without allowing herself another second to hesitate, she struck the side of her forehead.

A sharp sting shot through her skull.

She inhaled slowly, steadying herself before carefully allowing her body to collapse beside the desk.

She closed her eyes.

Slowed her breathing.

Every muscle went limp.

Perfect.

A minute later, Zaid stepped inside the estate. The house was unusually quiet. "Ava?" he called gently.

"Aap kaha hai?"

( ''Where are you?'')

His voice was calm. Measured. Nothing like the broken man who had silently cried only an hour earlier.

Receiving no answer, a faint crease appeared between his brows. Perhaps she was resting. He made his way upstairs, intending to check their bedroom, when he noticed a light spilling from beneath the door of his study.

He stopped. He hadn't been inside that room all day.

Who...

Quietly, he pushed the door open.

The colour drained from his face.

"Ava..."

She lay motionless on the floor.

For one horrifying second...

His heart simply stopped. Then instinct took over. He crossed the room in seconds, dropping to his knees beside her.

"Ava." His voice was firmer this time, though beneath it lay unmistakable fear. One trembling hand brushed a strand of blonde hair away from her face while the other carefully checked her pulse.

There.

Weak.

But there.

A breath escaped him that he hadn't realised he'd been holding. He gently lifted her shoulders, supporting her before her head could fall back against the hardwood floor.

Only then did he notice the swelling beginning to form near her temple.

His stomach twisted.

"What happened...?"

There was no answer.

"Ava..."

His thumb lightly stroked her cheek.

"Meri jaan... can you hear me?"

(''My love...can you hear me?'')

Nothing. Not even the slightest movement. The calm expression he wore in Parliament...

The composure that carried him through every political battle...

It began to crack.

Without another second of hesitation, he slipped one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back before lifting her effortlessly into his arms.

He held her as though she were something impossibly fragile. As though one wrong movement might break her.

His jaw tightened.

"GUARDS! AMAN!" he roared, his voice reverberating through the house.

He didn't care that he had lost his composure. He didn't care who heard him. The only thing that mattered was that Ava was gone.

A shaky breath escaped him as guilt clawed at his chest.

"Ya Allah... yeh hamari galti hai. Hamne use is ghar mein, is anjaan mulk mein akela chhod diya."

(O Allah... this is my fault. I left her alone in this house, in a country completely unfamiliar to her.)

(''Oh..god this is my fault I left her alone.'')

His voice carried through the hallway, her sharara brushing against his suit jacket. Every servant in the estate knew that tone. Even though said rarely used that tone

Something was terribly wrong.

Within seconds, hurried footsteps echoed through the corridor. Aman appeared, his face paling the moment he saw Begum Sahiba unconscious in Zaid's arms.

"Call Dr. Rahman."

Zaid's voice grew louder than it ever had before. "Now."

"Ji, Sahab!"

(''Yes, Sir.'')

Aman ran without another word.

Zaid looked back down at Ava, tightening his hold ever so slightly.

His forehead rested briefly against hers.

"Please..."

The word escaped him as nothing more than a whisper.

"Open your eyes."

For the first time in years...

Zaid Zoravar, the man who carried an entire nation on his shoulders without flinching...

Was terrified.

More than anything, he felt guilty for leaving her alone in this house, in a country she knew nothing about.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

𝓟𝓡𝓞𝓙𝓔𝓒𝓣 𝓩𝓞𝓡𝓐𝓥𝓐𝓡

𝓢𝓘𝓣𝓐𝓡𝓐 𝓘𝓝𝓚𝓛𝓘𝓝𝓖