The bookstore was a cozy escape tucked between a loud café and a furniture showroom. Wooden shelves, the scent of old paper, and narrow aisles gave it a quiet charm—perfect for pretending the outside world didn’t exist.

Emily led the way, eyes scanning the photography section like a hawk.

“You weren’t kidding about the weight of these,” Arsalan muttered, balancing four oversized books in his arms.

She chuckled. “What’s the point of having a tall guy around if not to carry things?”

“You say that like I’m a bodyguard,” he said, peeking over the stack.

“Are you?”

He smirked. “Something like that.”

They found a reading nook and sat down. The world outside faded as they flipped through pages of black-and-white portraits and color-drenched fashion shots. Arsalan, despite his usual fast-paced life, enjoyed the stillness.

But his peace didn’t last long.

From the reflection in the window, he noticed a man standing across the street—too still, too focused. Dark hoodie. Sunglasses. Looking straight into the store.

Arsalan’s senses shifted.

Emily was still laughing at a bizarre photo, unaware.

“Excuse me for a second,” he said calmly, rising from the couch.

Outside, the man was gone. Just the empty sidewalk, cars, and honking horns.

Arsalan narrowed his eyes.

This wasn’t coincidence.

---

Back at Shah Holdings, Tahir stood by the window of his office, the city stretched below him. His thoughts weren’t on the skyline—they were on the numbers.

Something didn’t add up.

He turned to Alina. “I want a private audit on the Qasim Project. Don’t log it officially. Just find out where the leak is.”

Alina didn’t flinch. “You think one of the investors—?”

“I don’t think. I’m starting to know.”

She nodded. “Discreet?”

“Completely.”

As she left, Tahir sat down slowly, rubbing his temples. The company was stable—but someone was stirring trouble quietly. The same way snakes do before striking.

His phone buzzed. A message from Naima.

Naima:

“Mom insists you come for dinner on Sunday. She thinks you're a government officer. I didn’t correct her.”

Tahir chuckled under his breath.

Tahir:

“I’ll bring cake to win her trust. What kind of officer would I be?”

Naima:

“The silent, slightly intense type. Who secretly likes daal chawal.”

He smiled, the weight on his chest lightened just a little.

---

That night, Arsalan returned to his apartment and went straight to his pinboard. He’d pinned a copy of the missing gallery painting’s photo—an oil painting of a faceless woman in crimson.

Next to it, he now pinned a surveillance photo. The man from the bookstore. Caught on a traffic cam two blocks away.

Not a random stalker.

This man had been seen near the gallery robbery too.

And now he was following him.

He slumped into his chair, staring at the two photos.

He thought about Emily.

He thought about the life he was building—one laugh, one joke, one lie at a time.

Then he whispered to himself, “I can’t let this touch her.”

---

Sunday evening arrived with the soft aroma of spices and chatter in a modest apartment in Gulshan-e-Iqbal.

Tahir sat stiffly on the floor mat, surrounded by Naima’s family. Her younger brother kept staring at his wristwatch. Her mother was already bringing him a third helping of kheer.

“I really can’t eat more,” Tahir said politely.

Naima laughed from across the room. “He’s just shy. In the office, he probably eats files.”

“I believe that,” her mother said seriously. “He has the forehead of a responsible man.”

Tahir almost choked.

But the moment was warm. Real. Messy in a way boardrooms never were.

Later, Naima walked him to his car.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I think I survived,” he replied.

She leaned against the car door. “My family likes you.”

“That’s… surprising.”

She smiled. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I just never imagined something like this. A normal dinner. A girl. A smile like yours.”

Naima looked at him gently. “You’re allowed to have a life too, Tahir.”

He nodded, quiet. “I just don’t know how to balance it.”

“You learn.”

---

Meanwhile, Arsalan stood on an empty rooftop across from the gallery building. His coat fluttered in the night breeze.

Through his earpiece, his agency partner's voice came through. “We traced the painting. It's being moved in the black market. Possible connection to the Saifi family—big names, deep pockets.”

“Didn’t they invest in Shah Holdings once?” Arsalan asked, eyes narrowing.

“Exactly.”

He closed his eyes, feeling a chill crawl up his spine.

His world wasn’t just colliding with Emily’s.

It was colliding with Tahir’s.

And if he wasn’t careful… everything would fall apart.