Until It Was Real

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲

Another Day.

I was in office. The day had barely started, yet my nerves were already stretched thin like wire.

No messages. No notes. No creepy gifts.

Nothing.

And that nothing? It was worse.

The silence was ominous, calculated. As if the person on the other end knew how to make absence feel louder than presence.

I sat at my desk inside Zaigham's cabin, trying to act normal, immersed in pitch slides that may as well have been in a foreign language for all I could concentrate.

My fingers were cold on the trackpad. I kept checking over my shoulder, but nothing was there, yet the weight of something unseen pressed on my chest.

Then suddenly—

Screech.

He pushed his chair back. The sound was sharp against the marble silence.

"Zoya," he said, tone flat and unreadable. "Come here."

I blinked, caught off guard, but stood up. He never called me that calmly unless something was very, very deliberate.

I walked over to his desk. And before I could speak, his hand caught my wrist and pulled me into his lap.

I gasped, startled. "Zaigham...?"

His arm came around my waist like steel. Not urgent. Not reckless. Just... firm.

His lips brushed the shell of my ear, and I barely breathed as he whispered,

"Relax. You're being watched. But do not react."

I froze mid-breath.

The world narrowed around me.

"What—watched?" I whispered. "By who—how do you kn—"

"I've been monitoring the pattern for five days," he murmured, tone a scalpel. "He messages you when you're closest to me. It's compulsive. He hates you near me."

He paused, then said with dark amusement, "That's useful."

I didn't even realise I was shaking until he brought his palm to my thigh and anchored it there, calming me through touch alone.

I looked at him, still whispering, "You mean... this is bait?"

He nodded slightly. "You, in my arms, in his line of sight? Of course it is."

My skin broke into goosebumps.

And right then—

Ping.

A notification.

My heart jumped into my throat.

But I didn't move.

Zaigham's hand gently curved around my jaw. "Good girl."

Ping.

Another.

He was smiling now. Not sweetly. Not even smugly.

Coldly.

He was enjoying this.

Ping.

Then silence.

He tilted my face forward, toward the laptop screen.

And there it was.

My WhatsApp Web. Open. Mirrored. Quietly running in the background.

"What...?" I breathed. "How... when—"

He gestured to the messages.

Text:You think he can protect you forever, doll?

Text:I see everything. Every. Little. Thing.

Text:He doesn't deserve you. I've loved you longer. Deeper. You'll see.

I flinched.

"I connected it three nights ago," he said calmly, tone like velvet over a dagger. "Right after you fell asleep."

I blinked. "Connected what...?"

"Your WhatsApp. To my Chrome browser."

My stomach tightened. "You—you hacked my phone?"

He gave a slow, unreadable smile. "No. I borrowed your fingerprint while you were asleep."

My mouth opened in disbelief.

"I needed to confirm a theory. He's not using disappearing messages," Zaigham continued, voice low.

"He's using a relay-based cloaking protocol, it masks real-time metadata, rerouting his texts through third-party relay apps.

The messages self-scrub from your phone instantly.

Not deleted. Not disappeared. They were never really there. "

My heartbeat paused. "That's... rare. Obscure."

"Exactly," he said, eyes glinting. "Which is why I needed an external live relay. WhatsApp Web doesn't operate through the same runtime cache. It still logs the backend pings...but only if you keep the session active and undisturbed. I've had it open for three nights, watching..."

"Watching what?" I asked.

"Pattern," he whispered. "Impulse. He's obsessive. He doesn't just want to scare you. He wants to isolate you. Every time you come near me....he triggers."

I stared at him, stunned. "So you've been tracking this... silently?"

He finally looked at me, slow, spine-chilling calm settling over his face.

"Zoya. I don't react to threats. I invite them."

Zaigham just chuckled darkly.

"He wants control. He wants me out of the picture. So I gave him what he hates most."

"Pick up your phone," he said quietly.

I reached for it, it was lying on the other side of the desk. I stretched awkwardly and grabbed it.

No notifications.

No messages.

Nothing.

But on his screen, there they were.

He tapped a key. And a map popped up.

Heat signals. Location traces. Coordinates.

I blinked. "What is this...?"

"I've narrowed his proximity radius," he said. "Every time he texts, he's within Bluetooth jamming distance. That's how the device connection was being intercepted. But now I know where he can't be... and soon, I'll know where he is."

I stared at him. "Zaigham... that's..."

He looked at me fully now. "This is chess, Zoya. And he's still playing ludo."

I didn't realise it, but I'd been clutching the lapel of his coat, breathing unevenly.

His palm cupped my cheek, grounding me. "Look at me."

I did.

"I'm not just going to find him," he said softly. "I'm going to make sure he watches himself fall apart. Slowly."

Something about that promise, spoken in the calmest voice I'd ever heard, made my breath hitch.

He wasn't angry. He was sure. And that was terrifying.

And devastatingly attractive.

"You scare me sometimes," I breathed, overwhelmed...not by fear of him, but by how dangerously sharp this man was.

"Good," he said, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "Because I want him to feel the fear... tenfold."

My eyes watered. Not from sadness. From relief.

And then, without overthinking, I leaned forward and kissed his cheek softly. A silent thank you.

He stilled. Completely.

Like he didn't expect it.

As if I'd just touched a nerve he didn't know he had.

His arm around my waist tightened slightly. "That... wasn't part of the plan," he murmured, voice unusually low.

I smiled. "It's a thank you gratitude."

He slowly turned his head, his eyes dark now with something unreadable. "What if I told you... he's already made his next move?"

I blinked. "What do you mean?"

Zaigham's smile returned, but it wasn't warm.

It was chilling.

Because this whole time... he'd been holding a small envelope under his desk.

He handed it to me.

It was sealed.

Black wax.

With my signature on it.

Zoya Zaigham Khan.

My blood froze.

"I intercepted it before it reached your desk," he said. "It was meant to be there when you returned from the washroom."

My voice was a whisper. "How did you—"

He leaned in again, voice slow and velvet-smooth.

"I have my ways, Zoya."

My heart thudded once, loud, hard, painful.

And for the first time in hours...

I exhaled.

Because no matter how dangerous this game got—

The man on my side was Zaigham Khan.

And Allah help the one who thought they could outplay him.

The garden was blooming, with laughter.

It was late afternoon, and the golden sun cast a soft glow across the lawn. I was curled up on a rattan swing seat, one leg tucked under the other, a cup of coffee warming my hands.

Yusra was narrating some dramatic story from one of her university days, something about accidentally emailing a love letter meant for her then-crush to her professor. Her face was half buried in embarrassment and half gleaming with laughter as everyone around her erupted.

"Oh my Allah, Yusra, you didn't!" Laiba shrieked, leaning forward, eyes wide.

"I swear I nearly died," Yusra groaned, covering her face.

"Did the professor reply?" Aaliya asked through giggles.

"Worse," She said, deadpan. "He told my mother."

Everyone laughed.

Zaviyaar, sitting cross-legged on the grass, added in, "Remind me never to trust any of you with emotional messages."

"Oh please," Laiba rolled her eyes. "You don't even have emotions."

"Exactly. I'm safe," he shrugged, smug.

I laughed softly, fingers curled around my cup. For a moment... I felt normal. Like a girl in the middle of her large, chaotic, loving family. No fear. No shadows. No...

Ping.

My body froze for a fraction of a second.

It was subtle, no one noticed. I lowered my eyes slowly, pretending to glance at my cup, but actually unlocking my phone on my lap.

Unknown Number

An image.

Caption:That white shirt looks lovely on you.

My blood chilled. I hadn't even realized what I was wearing.

I raised my eyes, carefully, casually, trying not to appear stiff. Not too fast. Not too slow.

And then my gaze reached my bedroom window upstairs.

Zaigham.

He was already there.

Standing tall. Still.

Hands buried in the pockets of his black pants. Face unreadable.

But his eyes?

Locked on mine.

My breath hitched.

Another ping.

This time, not from the unknown number.

From him.

Zaigham:Just enjoy your time. I've got this.

My fingers trembled fromrelief.

Because he'd seen it. Before I said a word. Before I even processed it.

He was watching. Always.

And this time...

So was the hunter.

I placed the phone face-down on my lap and forced myself to smile again as Laiba teased Rumman Api for overwatering Mama's jasmine plants.

But my heart, It belonged to the man standing in that window....the one who already had a thousand plans brewing.

And I knew.

He wouldn't let anything touch me.

I slipped away from the living room after an hour, pretending to be tired.

It was night now.

I couldn't breathe freely until I was back in the room, back in his space. My sanctuary.

But the second I opened the door...

My heart paused.

Empty.

The curtains swayed gently from the open window. The scent of his cologne lingered in the air, but he wasn't there.

"Zaigham?"

Silence.

No sound of water from the shower. No footsteps.

My stomach twisted.

The room wasn't just empty, it felt... cold. Strategically stripped of presence. Like he had been there just moments ago... and disappeared with purpose.

I took slow steps inside, eyes scanning.

No note. No message.

I reached for my phone with a shaky breath.

And then the screen lit up.

Zaigham

I played it, heart in my throat.

"Don't panic. I'm close. Just stay in the room. Curtains drawn. Door locked. Do exactly as I say. Trust me."

Click.

No explanation.

Just instruction.

Command.

I locked the door immediately, pulling the curtains shut, heart thudding like war drums. And then I sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the phone in both hands.

The quiet wasn't comforting.

That meant he was doing something.

And I wasn't meant to know what.

My eyes fell to the closet, his black jacket was missing. So were his car keys. The drawer near his bedside lay slightly ajar.

I got up and tugged it open.

Inside, nothing strange. Just the usual things. A pen. A cufflink. His journal.

And a small folded paper I'd never seen before.

I hesitated.

But curiosity won.

Unfolding it carefully, I scanned the neat, sharp writing:

"If you're reading this, you're safe. I'm either watching you...or watching him."

I dropped the note as a shiver climbed my spine.

Because he knew I'd look.

He knew me too well.

And now... he was hunting.

Not reacting.

Executing.

She found the note.

Good.

Now she'd stay where I needed her to be.

Secure.

My grip tightened around the steering wheel as the car slid into the side alley. No headlights. No sound.

Just silence and calculation.

Every message. Every vanish.

Every trigger.

I stepped out, eyes scanning the surroundings. It was always between 8 and 11 minutes after she'd leave my physical proximity that the message would come. Today, it was exactly 9 minutes and 47 seconds.

He always waited.Patient. Consistent. Like a sick lover mimicking my absence.

But tonight... I changed the pattern. I left without warning. No goodbye. No routine.

And guess what?

No message had come yet.

Because the puppet-master couldn't perform without cues.

He wasn't just obsessed.

He was dependent on her rhythm.

And I was about to cut the strings.

I pulled out my phone and opened a cloned WhatsApp server interface I'd wired through an encrypted tunnel, a setup not even her phone would register.

He was using a rare exploit, a "ghost sync exploit"something even top-tier engineers wouldn't notice unless they were looking for it.

But I did.

Because I always look.

And what I saw on the screen tonight made my blood chill.

"She looked beautiful today...But I hate it, when she is in his arms."

My hand stilled.

That wasn't random phrasing.

It was personal.

I took a screenshot and ran it through my database. A match popped up, not a name, not yet. But a phrase pattern. Used once before.

In an old application.

From Khan Enterprises.

Interesting.

I dialed a number on my secure line.

"Track this." I forwarded the packet. "He's using rotating VPNs and mirrors. Layered encryption. Unusually smart... but not smart enough."

"You think it's someone from inside?" the man on the other side asked.

"I don't think." I slipped my licensed gun into the inner pocket of my coat. "I know."

I entered through the back.

She didn't hear me at first, she was curled up in bed, holding my note in her hands like a lifeline.

The room was dark. Safe.

And yet her eyes...Still carried fear.

My heart clenched, tightening in places I didn't even know existed until she came into my life.

"Zoya," I said gently.

She startled.

But the moment our eyes met, her shoulders sagged in relief, like her soul had been holding its breath.

"I told you," I whispered as I approached, crouching before her, "you're safe."

She didn't speak.

Just threw her arms around me, the note still clutched in her fingers. I felt her body tremble.

I pulled her fully into my embrace, closing my eyes for a second as I inhaled her scent, soft, familiar, home.

"I don't like this," she whispered. "This hiding. This not-knowing."

"You won't have to hide long," I said, pressing my lips to her temple. "I've almost got him."

Her breath hitched. "Really?"

I paused.

Then lifted her chin gently.

"I don't know his name yet. But I know his obsession."

"...Me?"

"No." I looked her in the eyes, voice low and hard.

"Taking you away from me."

She stared, lips parting. The air between us thickened.

I let the silence stretch, my hand resting at her lower back now, keeping her close.

The lights were dim, just enough to paint his face in shadows, enough for my heart to forget how to beat properly.

He was sitting at the edge of the bed now, hands clasped in front of him, gaze lost in thought.

The man who had just outplayed a faceless stalker without breaking a sweat...Now looked like he was waging a war inside his own head.

"Zaigham..."

He looked at me.

And somehow, it was louder than any answer.

I stepped closer and sat beside him. "You okay?"

His eyes traced mine, lingering, unwavering. "You're asking me that?"

He turned his body toward me, and before I could respond, his hand slid to the side of my face, holding me there with a grip that was firm, yet devastatingly tender.

"I could've lost you," he murmured, voice low. "To fear. To someone playing vile in the shadows."

I swallowed.

I opened my mouth, but his thumb silenced me with a soft press to my lips.

"No more secrets. If you're mine..." He leaned closer, his breath brushing my cheek.

"...then act like you're mine."

My heart flipped.

He tugged gently at my wrist, pulling me closer until I landed in his lap, again.

My hands instinctively went to his chest. "Z-Zaigham..."

He didn't speak. Just stared.

His Grey eyes bore into mine intensely.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he unclipped my hairpin, letting the loose strands fall across my back, his fingers combing through them as if memorizing the texture.

"You drive me mad," he whispered against my neck.

I felt that. Everywhere.

His hands rested on my waist, warm and possessive.

This was the first time he was reacting like this.

Like he wasn't calculating every move. Like something had slipped from that cold grip of control he always held everything in.

I could feel it in the way he was holding me now...tighter, unfiltered, rougher than usual.

And not just physically.

Emotionally.

His breath wasn't calm anymore.

Because this...

This wasn't how Zaigham usually touched me.

This wasn't the way he usually looked at me.

Like he was undoing me without a word. Like I was the one mystery he never wanted to solve...only own.

My heart didn't know how to behave.

It beat against my ribs like it was trying to escape. Or maybe trying to hide. From him. From myself. From what I was becoming.

Because despite everything, the fear, the threats, the messages, here I was.

Not because he would hurt me.

But because I knew — deep down — if I ever asked him to burn the world down for me...

He would.

And he'd do it without blinking.

I closed my eyes for a second.

Just one second.

And let myself feel it.

The safety of being in his arms.

The thrill of his breath on my neck.

The danger of how much this man could break me if he ever stopped feeling the way he did right now.

My fingers curled against his chest again.

I just wanted to be his.

Zaigham's voice broke the silence. Low. Measured. Dangerous.

"Do you have any idea what it takes... to sit still and not hunt down someone who not only looked at my wife..."

His hand slid up to my jaw, thumb brushing under my chin, tilting my face to meet his eyes.

"...but dared to scare her?"

My breath caught.

His eyes, they weren't just dark anymore.

They were lethal.

"Every time you flinch, every time I sense even the slightest unease in you—"

He leaned in closer, his forehead brushing mine.

"—it takes everything in me not to make it personal. Not to make it bloody."

My heart slammed into my ribs.

He wasn't raising his voice.

He didn't need to.

The sheer cold control in his tone was enough to make me shiver.

"You think I'm just strategizing behind a desk, Zoya?" he murmured, gaze locked on mine. "You think I'm tolerating this? No. I'm waiting."

His fingers skimmed the edge of my scarf, trailing upward, everent, yet claiming.

"I'm waiting... for one mistake. One wrong move. And the moment he slips—"

A pause. His lips brushed my temple.

He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, slow, calculated. His fingers ghosted over my skin deliberately, almost possessively.

"...I'll make sure he learns the difference between stalking and suicide."

I gasped, barely.

And still, I found my hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, as if I was afraid he'd disappear.

But I wasn't.

I was afraid I'd fall even deeper.

His voice dropped again, softer now, more dangerous than ever.

"You are not meant to carry fear. Not while you're with me."

Then, as if that wasn't enough to completely undo me, he murmured —

"You're mine. And no one touches what's mine."

Zaigham Khan could burn through silence.

And I... I couldn't hold it anymore.

Before I even realized it, I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around him, fully.

No hesitations.

No overthinking.

I just... hugged him.

Tightly.

Clutching the back of his shirt, burying my face near his collar.

His arms came around me.

He held me back, closer than he ever had before, his hand pressing gently at the back of my head, the other resting low on my spine, warm and still and impossibly grounding.

Neither of us said anything.

The world outside didn't exist.

The tension, the stalker, the fear, it all blurred at the edges.

There was only his heartbeat. Slow. Deep. Solid beneath my cheek.

To be Continued....

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