The penthouse was eerily silent not the kind of silence found in libraries or in the rain drenched streets, but the heavy silence that make people suffocate. The kind that lingers after a storm has destroyed everything, leaving only debris and echoes in its wake.
And Rehman Khan was the storm.
A crystal bottle of Château Margaux lay on its side, its deep red contents soaking into the edge of a cream-white rug imported from Istanbul. The black marble floor was littered with empty beer cans, gold-foiled Cuban cigar wrappers, and crushed cigarette butts, their ashes scattered like dirty snow. A glass coffee table stood as a monument to indulgence, lipstick-stained glasses, a rolled-up £50 note beside the faint trace of white powder, and two crushed pills he never even needed.
Amid this luxurious wreckage, sprawled naked across a rotating round leather bed with thousand-thread-count Egyptian sheets, slept Rehman Khan. One woman lay in each of his arms—one brunette, one redhead—neither of whom he could name.
"Mr. Khan," Jameel said, his voice deep and unmoved, "we are getting late."
A groan rose from the bed.
Rehman stirred, blinked, and covered his eyes with his forearm as the light from the city invaded his eyes like a thousand cameras.
"Close the fucking blinds," he shouted.
"They are automatic voice-activated. You asked for that yourself." Jameel replied respectfully
He turned his face toward the pillow. "Then turn them off with your voice and get the fuck out of my room."
Jameel didn't move. "You have your class at Oxford in two hours. Your father—" he cuts Jameel mid-sentence.
"I don't give a fuck what my father said." Jameel goes silent. Rehman sat up slowly, sheets falling to his waist. He was lean but muscular, with ink running down his left arm, Urdu verses on his forearm, and a lion's head over his shoulder. His hair was messy, his jaw covered in the kind of stubble that cost other men forty pounds to fake. He reached for the cigarette pack on the nightstand, lit one with a silver lighter bearing the initials RK, and took a long drag before finally glancing at Jameel.
"You ever come into my room uninvited again," he said, voice cold, "I'll send you back to the fucking hills you came from."
Jameel didn't blink. "I will leave now, sir."
"Don't fucking talk to me," Rehman said, standing, smoke curling from his lips. "You're just another man paid to shut up and wait outside the door. So do what you're paid for."
Jameel nodded once and stepped out, not even sparing a glance at the now-waking women on the bed.
The door clicked shut.
The penthouse echoed again with silence once the door clicked shut, except for the lazy hum of the thermostat and the clink of a whiskey glass as Rehman picked one up and downed what was left inside his breakfast. The girls stirred behind him. One reached for him sleepily, her bare shoulder rising from under the sheet.
"Baby," she whispered, "come back to bed."
Rehman didn't even look. He exhaled smoke through his nose and tossed the cigarette into a glass vase.
"Get out before I get back," he said in a low, dangerous voice.
Both girls turned toward each other, exchanged a look, and rolled their eyes. This wasn't new. It wasn't romantic. It wasn't even rude. It was just Rehman Khan. He walked barefoot across the cold marble floor, past a mounted 92-inch screen playing last night's Premier League match on mute. Half his penthouse was still lit in gold, a reflection of the sunrise across the Thames, pouring through his panoramic windows. The living room was draped in black velvet curtains and chrome furniture designed by a Milanese artist no one knew unless they were a billionaire or pretending to be one. He reached the master bathroom, a temple to self-worship seated floor, a steam shower the size of a sauna. An entire wall mirror with automatic lighting calibrated to reflect his skin tone accurately for grooming. And in the center: his shower, a chrome rainfall panel pouring water from the ceiling like judgment.
He stepped in and let the hot water beat down on him. His body, marked with old bruises and newer sins, glistened under the stream. For a second, just one his hand reached up to touch the lion tattoo on his shoulder.
"Zara," he whispered, the name didn't echo. It dissolved in the hiss of water.
Five minutes later, he stood before the mirror in a Tom Ford robe, trimming his beard with surgical precision. His face was cut from marble, jaw sharp, cheekbones brutal; he wasn't pretty, not in the soft way boys on Instagram pretended to be. He was regal. He was expensive. He was terrifying, and he knew it. The wardrobe, when opened, looked more like a boutique. Racks of Tom Ford, Zegna, and Dior suits stood like soldiers. Dozens of shoes sat below them in surgical order. And on one black pedestal, inside a glass cube, was his sister's old Omega watch he always wore instead. Today, he picked his black Tom Ford peak lapel suit sharp enough to slice through Oxford air and paired it with a charcoal turtleneck. No tie, just dominance. He finished the look with his sister's watch, not because he loved time, not because it was worth 345,000, but because it was from the only person he loved. He walked to the penthouse elevator and stepped in. The girls were still in bed,
the place still a mess, the hangover still humming behind his eyes—but Rehman Khan was now ready for the world.
The elevator descended to the private parking floor. When the doors opened, the light adjusted to the shine of metal: Ferraris, Lamborghinis a Bugatti that had never been driven. But today, his driver was already waiting beside the black Rolls-Royce Phantom, its matte finish glinting under white LEDs. The rear door was opened for him he stepped in without a word. Jameel was in the front passenger seat. Another driver, silent as the grave, was at the wheel. The doors closed with a whisper. Rehman leaned back into the leather seat and closed his eyes. "Oxford," he said. "Yes, sir," the driver replied. The car began to glide forward quietly, elegantly, arrogantly. Just like its owner.
As they passed the gates of his private building, the bodyguards stationed outside saluted. He ignored them. The city outside was already alive, people late for trains, cyclists screaming at taxis, tourists clicking selfies. Rehman barely looked at him; London was a toy. One he could afford to break halfway through the drive,
Jameel dared to speak, "You're unusually quiet this morning, Mr. Khan."
Rehman opened one eye and stared at him. "I told you before to keep your mouth shut I don't like repeating myself."
Jameel said nothing more.
The Rolls-Royce hummed along its cabin, silent like a confession booth. Rehman glanced out the tinted window. Somewhere, far from this elegance and detachment, his sister was buried. And part of him still lived in that grave, but no one could know that. Not at Oxford. Not in public. Not even his therapist, definitely not his mother.
As the university skyline approached, he pulled out a cigarette. Jameel reached for the lighter. "I don't need your help," Rehman said, lighting it himself. The clouds were heavy above Oxford, as though the city already sensed something dark had entered it, and Rehman Khan, heir to a billion-dollar empire, son of the most feared woman in Pakistan's political sphere, wasn't here for lessons; he was here to burn.
The sky above Oxford had never looked more tired.
Grey clouds loomed low, pressing down on the city's ancient spires like the weight of history itself was too heavy to carry anymore. It was a strange, unsettled kind of morning, the kind where the air feels too still, too silent, as if the city was holding its breath. Not in fear. Not even in anticipation, just waiting for something to happen or someone to arrive at exactly 10:17 AM, as the clock tower chimed with a half-hearted clang, a black Rolls-Royce Phantom pulled up outside the Law Department. It didn't roar in like a sports car desperate to be noticed. It glided. Smooth, controlled effortless. As though time itself had stepped aside to let it pass.
It came to a halt right at the curb, engine humming so low it was nearly silent. The paint was so perfectly polished it reflected the surrounding buildings like a mirror: the tall Gothic arches of the university, the iron lamp posts, even the awed faces of passing students, all of it caught in the sheen of that expensive metal like it belonged to another world.
For thirty seconds, nothing happened. The engine kept running. People slowed their steps. A few stopped outright. Someone murmured, "Is that him?" The wind shifted, making the tree branches sway gently above, their rustle sounding more like a whisper than a breeze.
Then the back door opened, and a single foot stepped out in a glossy black boot, no scuff marks, sharp as a blade. The rest of him followed, rising from the car like a scene unfolding from a dream you weren't sure you wanted to wake up from.
Rehman Khan
He didn't just arrive. He appeared.
Tall, straight-backed, sculpted jaw set like stone. His black Tom Ford suit clung to his lean frame like it had been made with only him in mind. Not a wrinkle in sight. The silk pocket square, deep oxblood red, peeked out like blood against the charcoal fabric. One hand wore a leather glove custom-cut, not off-the-rack. The other wrist bore a Rolex that caught the dim light just enough to make a statement without screaming. His sunglasses were dark enough to hide his eyes but not the bruised skin underneath them, not the subtle puffiness that betrayed too many nights lost to the kind of habits money could buy.
The kind of red hidden beneath those lenses wasn't the kind of red that came from allergies or sleeplessness due to study. It was chemical. Self-inflicted, and yet nothing in his posture showed weakness. He walked like someone with too much power to ever be tired.
Two men stepped out behind him, his bodyguards. One tall and sharp-jawed, the other wide-shouldered, neckless, built like a slab of stone. They didn't wear suits. They wore black tactical outfits under long coats, earpieces tucked subtly, the look of men who didn't talk much but knew how to make people disappear. Their eyes scanned the courtyard with methodical precision, though it wasn't needed. The students had already noticed. He was the event.
Phones appeared quietly. Screens were tilted just enough to capture him without being obvious. Even the bold ones didn't dare ask for a photo outright. They just watched as the heir of one of Pakistan's most powerful political dynasties walked across their ancient campus like he belonged to a different era, maybe even a different planet.
He didn't look at them.
Not a single glance sideways. No nod. No smirk. No acknowledgment of the whispers around him. Girls with high hopes and boys with higher opinions all faded into silence as he passed. He walked like none of them existed.
The doors of the law building creaked open as he approached. Inside, vaulted ceilings stretched above polished wood floors. The scent of old paper, leather, and dust hovered in the air. The portraits of long-dead deans and legal scholars watched from their frames with solemn approval.
He moved past them all.
Past the students seated with registration folders, past the junior faculty members juggling coffee and clipboards, past the reception desk where an overwhelmed clerk froze with a pen mid-air.
He made a straight line for the registrar's office, his boots clicking softly against the floor.
Inside, Professor Richard Kendall was mid-sentence with another student. A tall man in his late fifties, grey at the temples, and his sharp blue eyes behind glasses flicked up as the door opened. His words halted. His breath hitched.
Rehman Khan stood there.
It was like watching someone walk out of a newspaper headline. No, like watching a ghost draped in wealth. The young man said nothing. He didn't need to.
Kendall turned to the other student and gestured that they'd continue later, and the young woman packed her folder with shaking hands before hurrying out, nearly tripping over her bag. Rehman stepped inside; the room swallowed him like it wasn't worthy. Kendall watched him with a mixture of curiosity and hesitation. He had taught princes, prime ministers' children, CEOs-to-be. But there was something in Rehman's aura that unsettled him.
Not just wealth. Weight
"He looks like death wearing designer," Kendall murmured under his breath, almost unconsciously.
The door closed. Outside the registrar's office, students whispered. Nora Jones, Same class as Rehman's, paused with her textbook clutched to her chest. Her friend Zoey nudged her.
"That's him," Zoey whispered. "Rehman Khan. The one from the tabloids, the one who punched a producer in Monaco."
"And dated a princess," Nora added quietly, "And crashed a Lamborghini in Islamabad two months ago." She said, a bit amused.
"And got away with it." They looked at the door. Inside, the silence wasn't heavy. It was surgical. Professor Kendall looked up from the file handed to him by the assistant. "You've been pre-registered. Exceptionally, I might add."
Rehman tilted his head slightly, a gesture that could have meant anything. The sunglasses stayed on. "Your father's… influence was noted," Kendall added, a trace of bitterness leaking into his voice despite his attempt at neutrality.
Still, Rehman didn't speak; instead, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Placing it on the desk, he nudged it forward. Kendall opened it. It was a letter from the dean, authorizing full academic access, private accommodations, and even leniency in attendance policies. The professor exhaled.
"Fine, you'll need a student liaison, someone to show you around. We'll assign someone later today."
Rehman stood unmoving.
Kendall frowned. "Is there anything else?" "Finally, a low textured, slightly hoarse voice."
"No." He turned and left, coat catching the slight breeze from the hallway vent, moving like he'd timed it. Like every movement had been rehearsed a thousand times before.
Back in the corridor, the whispering had ceased. People just… stared. He passed Abbigail Rose without seeing her. She, on the other hand, saw everything the way his glove creaked as his fingers flexed. The tension in his jaw, the way he didn't flinch under the stares or the silence, but also the hollowness behind it all, the way someone carries grief that hasn't been named. She turned to watch him walk down the corridor, the crowd parting as if he were royalty or a storm cloud.
Someone murmured, "I heard he doesn't talk to anyone."
Another voice replied, "Yeah, but did you see his eyes? Even through the glasses, he looked… messed up."
Nobody noticed the girl in the hallway still watching him.
Abbigail's brows were slightly drawn. Her hands clenched her notebook tighter, but she said nothing. Not yet.
In the parking lot, the Phantom waited for the bodyguards didn't follow; they posted themselves outside the law building, like statues watching and waiting. Breathing in sync with the man they were assigned to. Rehman Khan stepped outside but he didn't return to the car instead, he walked slowly down the stone path toward the inner courtyard toward the chapel toward something that had nothing to do with law or luxury or titles toward a memory only he could see the sky above Oxford remained tired but in that moment, it wasn't the clouds that looked heavy.
It was him.
----------------***----------------***-----------------
At the Café across the Street
Abbigail Rose barely looked up as she wiped down the same table for the third time that morning at Dean's Bean. It was muscle memory by now, the motions of her cloth circling on the surface while her mind floated elsewhere. Her shift had started at six sharp, and she'd barely had a second to breathe between pouring shots of espresso and restocking napkin holders. She still had two classes to attend, and her shoulders ached with the kind of weariness that settled in when sleep was a luxury. Her apron smelled like a strange mix of
Disinfectant vanilla syrup and day old coffee her curls were tied up with a pencil, the plastic one from her econ class, because she hadn't gotten around to buying new hair bands.
The bell above the door chimed softly as the morning rush thinned. The atmosphere inside the café had grown quieter, cozy even until Zoey, perched by the window with her oat milk latte, suddenly snapped out of her seat like she'd seen a ghost.
"Oh My God he didn't even looked at us like we don't fucking exist," she whispered urgently, spinning around so fast she almost spilled her drink.
Abbigail didn't even glance toward the window. "You said that yesterday and the day before that." "Yeah, but it's still weird. I mean, people like him don't just... walk around." Gia, rearranging muffins behind the counter, raised an eyebrow. "He's been here less than two weeks and he's already a campus's myth. That's got to be some kind of record." Zoey nodded fervently. "He's like a shadow always dressed like he's going to a funeral. I swear I saw a professor stop talking mid-sentence when he passed." Nora looked up from her laptop in the corner booth. Her tone was even, analytical. "That's because people don't know what to do with someone like him. He doesn't belong here, and somehow he makes that everyone else's problem."
"Exactly," Zoey said, pointing at her. "It's like... he doesn't even have to try to make everyone uncomfortable. He just shows up and everything shifts." Abbigail let out a long sigh and leaned her weight into the table. "You guys really can't go a morning without mentioning him?"
"Abby," Zoey said, leaning forward, her voice dropping to a whisper, "do you not get how insane this is? He's not just some rich kid. He's literally the son of Pakistan's Defense Minister. His family is like... billionaire royalty. The scandals, the rumors, the drama, he's been trending more times than I can count."
"And now he's here," Gia added, walking over and joining them "In Oxford at our university sitting in our lectures. What do you think someone like that is doing here?"
"Avoiding headlines," Abbigail said simply "Lying low failing to make friends. Honestly, what does it matter? He's just another name with a story none of us will ever be part of." Zoey gave her a look. "Oh come on. Don't you remember how he arrived?"
They all did. That morning was etched in the memory of every student who happened to be on campus.
The Rolls-Royce Phantom had turned heads like it had rolled straight out of a film two bodyguards, designer suit, the whole deal. Rehman hadn't said a word just walked through the quad like he owned the soil beneath his feet. Nobody forgot the way the courtyard had fallen silent, like even the wind paused to look. "He didn't even blink when he walked past me," Zoey continued "Like I was invisible and I was literally in his fucking way." Gia shook her head. "That's just how those types are raised. Distance is built into them. Like armor." "Or damage," Nora said quietly that quieted them for a moment.
Gia hesitated. "There was something on Reddit about his sister, wasn't there?" Nora nodded. "She took her own life less than a year ago. There was talk about a forced marriage a note that was never released. And their mother... apparently she was the one who arranged it." Zoey looked stunned again. "No wonder he looks like he hasn't slept in years." "Grief and guilt can do that to a person," Nora said. Abbigail finally sat down in the chair across from them, rubbing her temple. "You guys talk about him like he's a tragic prince. You don't even know him." "Nobody does," Zoey replied. "That's the thing. He doesn't talk doesn't engage. Just floats through lectures and disappears." "That's what I mean," Gia added. "He is like a ghost like he's here, but not really here" Outside, a group of students passed by the window, their heads turning slightly toward the Law Department across the street. Even without seeing him, the air around the café felt heavier "I bet he's in the library right now," Zoey said. "Probably hasn't opened a single book. Just sits there like a statue." "Maybe that's why people can't stop watching him," Gia said. "He doesn't behave the way people expect. And that makes him... magnetic." "Dangerously magnetic," Nora murmured. Abbigail looked between them, then out the window, her gaze lingering in the direction of the law building. She wasn't about to admit that she'd noticed him too—the stillness in his walk, the way he never checked his phone, the way even his silence seemed designed. There was something about him that unsettled her.
Not because he was rich. Because he was unreadable.
"You guys do we're not in high school, right?" she said finally. "People like him don't matter unless we let them."
Zoey grinned "You sure about that?" None of them answered because deep down, they weren't. Abbigail stood to get back to work, but her eyes lingered a moment longer on the path outside and in the distance, where the law building cut against the sky like a silent fortress, something heavy lingered.
Like the storm hadn't passed yet. Like it had only just begun.
----------------***----------------***-----------------
Two Hours Later: Criminal Law Seminar
Mahogany panels lined the walls like witnesses. The air buzzed with academic expectation. The professor's voice was already filling the room, a slow rhythm of British articulation and legal history.
"...Mill's On Liberty discusses the boundaries of individual freedom," said Professor Harrison, a tall, sharp-nosed man whose tone balanced between a challenge and a lecture. "But let's ask the real question: who decides what constitutes harm? And where does law true, enforceable law draw the line?" Click. The door opened.
Shoes, polished black Tom Ford loafers, stepped across the marble. Every head turned instinctively even the ones trying hard not to care. Rehman Khan walked in with the grace of someone who was used to being late and never punished for it his hair was perfectly in place his jaw line tense sunglasses still on he didn't glance at anyone.
No laptop no bag no books just a Montblanc pen in his breast pocket diamond ring on his index finger Rolex Sky-Dweller gleaming at the wrist he took the last seat at the back of the room crossed one leg over the other. And finally took off his glasses professor Harrison raised an eyebrow.
"You must be Mr. Khan." Rehman leaned back, resting his elbow on the chair beside him, unfazed. "That's what my passport says." "You're late." "I prefer the term 'adjusted.'" His voice had the chill of privilege. "Oxford might be old, Professor, but punctuality is still just a colonial invention." Some students laughed. Others held their breath. Professor Harrison tilted his head. "If you'd prefer to catch up, I can email the slides."
"I don't read slides." That made the front row murmur. Harrison smiled tightly. "Well, then maybe you'd like to contribute. We're discussing John Stuart Mill's Harm Principle. Care to give us a definition?" Rehman didn't blink. He stood up slowly and walked toward the front of the class like he owned it because, in a way, he did "Harm Principle." He adjusted the cuff of his jacket. "Mill argued that power can only be rightfully exercised over someone against their will to prevent harm to others. "He took another step forward.
"But Mill's principle is a philosophical illusion. He believes liberty is absolute unless it causes harm. But who defines harm, Professor? The law? The state? Twitter?"
That got a few nervous chuckles "The truth is," Rehman continued, "we live in a time where being offended is considered an injury. And expressing a different opinion can be labeled violence. If Mill were alive today, he'd be canceled before he finished his foreword." Now the room was fully still. Abbigail, seated third row from the front with her friends Gia and Zoey, narrowed her eyes.
Rehman looked up, addressing the room, but really aiming at the professor. "Law isn't written to protect people. It's written to protect the illusion that someone cares." Professor Harrison walked around the podium, arms crossed "Strong opinion for someone who just arrived." Rehman's lip curled into a dry smile. "Strong minds don't need time. They need space." Professor Harrison held his stare. "And what do you do with your space, Mr. Khan?" Rehman shrugged. "I fill it with answers."
Another wave of whispered "damn" floated around the hall.
Abbigail raised her hand, surprising even herself "Permission to comment?"
Professor Harrison smiled, a little too eagerly "Of course. Miss...?"
"Abbigail," she said clearly "With double B." Rehman glanced at her briefly Eyes dark and unreadable. "I just want to say," she began, voice steady but charged "that quoting philosophers with a British accent doesn't mean you understand justice. "The room froze even Harrison didn't stop her.
"Mill's Harm Principle wasn't meant to be perfect," Abbigail continued. "It was an attempt to create structure. You think law is about illusions? Tell that to the single mothers fighting for custody. Tell that to asylum seekers waiting for someone to translate the law into mercy." Rehman cocked his head, amused. "You talk like harm only happens to the poor." Abbigail leaned forward. "No but I don't worship wealth like it's wisdom" That made Rehman's expression harden. "You're proud of money you never earned," she said, eyes locked with his. "That's not brilliance. That's just inheritance."
There it was. The punch Silence again.
Rehman didn't speak. His jaw clenched. His fingers curled into the sides of his chair. And then without a word he stood up, picked up his bag with so much power that chair dropped behind him, and walked out of the lecture hall the door slammed shut behind him. Abbigail looked down, pulse racing. She hadn't meant to explode. Not that much. Not on the first day. Zoey leaned toward her. "Girl, did you just pick a fight with Oxford's Bruce Wayne?"
"I didn't pick it," Abbigail said. "He came in wearing it."
Back outside, Rehman lit a cigarette, leaned against the stone wall of the Law Faculty building, and stared ahead. The sky was grey. Like every thought he didn't say out loud.
"You heard her," came a voice. "She's not afraid of you."
He didn't even need to look.
"Zara," he muttered. "You're not real."
She stood beside him anyway. Her arms crossed her voice colder than the Oxford wind. "Neither are most things you believe in." He exhaled slowly. "She doesn't know anything about me. "He said voice low "She knows enough to scare you." Zara replied in voice barely more than a whisper.
"Shut up." he shouted
"You left the class like a child." She smirked.
His phone buzzed. Dad.
Rehman picked it up "Baba," he said, his father's tone is gentler "Oxford not easy, hmm?" "I'm fine," he lied.
His father sighed. "You don't have to lie to me. Just… consider therapy again." his father said with calm voice
"I'm not a fan of talking to people who get paid to fake concern." He replied his voice sharp as a blade There was a pause. "I know, beta (Son) . But even a mirror shows you what you look like, whether you like it or not." Rehman said nothing he just hung up.
Zara was still there "You're still talking to your ghost, Rehman," she whispered. "That's not healing."
"I don't want to heal." He replied not looking at her.
"You will," she said. "Or she'll break you."
He said nothing more just threw the cigarette away and walked off.
Later That Day
The courtyard outside the library buzzed with students clustered in cliques like birds on wires. The late autumn sun peeked through tangled clouds, casting long shadows across stone benches and scattered leaves but the only thing anyone talked about… was him.
Rehman Khan
He hadn't said ten sentences in total since arriving. He hadn't spoken to anyone at orientation. He didn't attend any mixers or group tutorials. And yet today, in Criminal Law, he had corrected one of the most senior professors at Oxford with the calm detachment of someone commenting on the weather. The reactions varied:
"Did you see his eyes? He looked high as hell."
"How do you not take notes and know everything?"
"He didn't even have a bag with him. Just walked in like a ghost in a Tom Ford suit."
"My flat mate said his dad is some politician or billionaire or something in Pakistan."
"I heard he got kicked out of Cambridge Twice."
The truth didn't matter. The myth had already taken shape. Abbigail stood near the outer edge of the crowd, sipping coffee from a paper cup she didn't remember buying. Her hair was tied in a pencil bun again. Her eyes were sharp, watching without looking. Her thoughts moved like chess pieces, deliberate and precise.
Gia approached her quietly. "You sat next to him."
Abbigail didn't answer.
"So? What was it like? Did he smell like money or smoke or both?"
She finally turned. "He smelled like he hadn't slept in days."
Gia blinked. "Oaf That's bad?" Abbigail shrugged. "Not bad. Just… wrong. Like he's pretending to be someone even he doesn't believe in." Zoey wandered over from another group. "People are saying he has a penthouse downtown and bodyguards who wait outside lectures. That true?" "One of them was parked outside this morning. Black SUV, tinted windows," Gia said. Zoey exhaled dramatically. "God. Why do I get the feeling we're in the opening chapter of some messed-up novel?"
Abbigail didn't smile. She just stared into her coffee, brows furrowed because something had shifted. She didn't know why he sat beside her. Didn't know why he spoke when he did. But she remembered the way his fingers tapped the desk like he was trying to anchor himself to something invisible. She remembered the way he looked at the ceiling, like he hated it and she knew with an eerie certainty:
Rehman Khan was hiding something huge and sooner or later, the cracks would show.
In His Apartment That Night
Rehman sat on the cold, carved bench under the sprawling shadow of the Bodleian Library. Rain threatened the horizon. Zara was gone. His father's words still echoed like an ache he refused to admit. He stared at the cobblestones until
Buzz. The screen flashed. a name he don't want to see MOM filled the screen.
He froze he didn't move he stared at the phone like it might detonate Buzz. He inhaled. Then slowly, he pressed accept.
"Rehman."
The voice hit him like a blade wrapped in silk controlled cold calm and still somehow more frightening than gunfire.
"Yes "A pause. As if she had already judged the tone of his voice and filed it in a report. "Oxford made you late for my call?" she said voice cold
"No. I was in class. "he replied quickly
"Then I suggest they teach you how to manage time before you study law." She never raised her voice. She didn't need to.
"Yes, Ammi." he said completely annoyed
"I saw your footage arriving at Heathrow Alone. No entourage. No coat. What are you trying to prove?"
Rehman's lips thinned. "That I'm not the one who needs protection." another pause.
"I've sent a new detail to monitor your location discreetly. You will not dismiss them this time." she said voice raising a bit.
"I don't want a tail in Oxford." he replied completely uninterested.
"You don't want a lot of things, Rehman including therapy. Yet here we are."
He sat straight and said a bit loud now "Again mom seriously?"
"You don't sleep. You drink like you're in a race with the Devil and you hallucinate your dead sister don't act like your father and I haven't noticed."
"I'm not hallucinating. Zara's with me." he said voice trembling
"She's dead," Amara said, voice suddenly cold as steel.
"She is not." He said like he knew it was a lie
She went on. "You may be my son, but you're also a Khan. We survive even through shame." she said proudly
"That's the difference between us," he said bitterly.
"I feel shame." "I don't have time for your philosophical tantrums," she snapped. "There's an embassy dinner next Saturday. The UK High Commissioner will be there. You will attend."
"I'll think about it." "You'll do more than think. You'll come. And wear something that doesn't look like you are going to a funeral." The line went quiet for a moment. Then, almost softer though it was hard to tell with her: "Have you been… good, son?" Rehman blinked. That tone. That fake sweetness like a knife dipped in honey.
"I'm surviving," he replied.
Amara didn't respond immediately. Then: "Call me tomorrow." then she hanged up. No goodbye. She never do goodbye's.
He dropped the phone beside him on the bench and closed his eyes. Wind cut across his cheek.
Zara appeared again, leaning on the bench, invisible to the world but too real to him.
"She sounds proud." she whispered.
"She's proud of the flag, not the boy holding it." he replied looking at the ground.
"She's still your mother." she said tapping his shoulder
"No. She's Pakistan's mother. I'm just her weakness." he said voice cracking a bit
Zara looked up at the cloudy sky.
"She's scared you'll break the illusion."
Rehman looked at her, tired. "Maybe I should."
Just then, a group of students passed behind him, whispering.
"…the billionaire's son…"
"…stormed out in the middle of class…"
"…did you see the shoes? Tom Ford loafers that's a whole semester of rent."
He exhaled sharply, stood, slipped the phone into his pocket, and walked away.
Back toward his dorm.
Back toward silence.
Meanwhile: At Abbigail's Apartment
"I don't like him," Abbigail said flatly. The apartment was cramped but cozy a three-bedroom walk-up with flickering lights and secondhand furniture. One candle flickered in the center of the coffee table, giving off a faint scent of cinnamon. Outside, the city murmured its night song. Nora looked up from her notes, eyebrows lifted "Who?"
"The Pakistani prince everyone's swooning over Rehman." Zoey snorted from the couch, legs curled beneath her in fleece pajamas "Because he's hot?" "Because he thinks he owns the world," Abbigail muttered. "He walked in like he was modeling for GQ, ignored everyone, and sat next to me like I was furniture. "Gia looked up from her camera, lens half-cleaned. "But he is brilliant," she said quietly. Nora nodded "The way he dissected that case People v. Cartwright? I mean, who just knows that offhand?"
"Sociopaths," Abbigail said. "Or people with nothing better to do than memorize textbooks to intimidate others."
"You're obsessed," Zoey said with a raised brow. "You sound obsessed."
"I'm not obsessed," Abbigail replied quickly Too quickly.
Nora watched her for a moment. "But you haven't stopped thinking about him."
Abby opened her mouth Closed it. She looked away. It wasn't because he was hot. It wasn't even because he was rich. It was because when he spoke in that seminar his voice low, flat, factual she had turned to look at him and seen something different. Not arrogance. Not pride. But something that looked almost like pain. Like a person holding something heavy they didn't want anyone to see. "He looked broken," she whispered.
Nobody replied right away. Zoey stretched, cracking her knuckles. "Look, maybe he is but broken doesn't excuse being a jerk. That's just trauma disguised as entitlement." "Agreed," Gia said. "Still… I don't think he knows how to talk to people. Like… not in a normal way. It's like he never had to." "I don't want to understand him," Abbigail muttered.
"Then why do you sound like you already do?" Nora asked. That silenced the room.
Outside, rain began tapping against the window. Abbigail sipped her tea, now cold. She saw him again in her mind—the way he slouched in the chair beside her, unmoving but deeply alert he way his voice cut through the professor's authority like truth spoken through rot and then that moment—the smallest one—his jaw clenching. She recognized that. She knew what it looked like when someone wanted to scream and couldn't. She'd seen it in herself. And whether she wanted to admit it or not, something about him was getting under her skin.
"What if he's not an asshole?" Gia asked softly.
Abbigail looked at her. "What if," Gia continued, "he's just surviving in the only way he knows how? What if no one ever taught him how to be gentle? What if no one ever showed him softness?" Zoey frowned. "Come on. He's not a child. He's a grown man. Billionaire or not, you don't get to treat people like props." Nora, unusually quiet, finally said, "Sometimes people break so early, they spend the rest of their lives pretending they're whole. "The rain thickened, drumming steadily.
Abbigail pulled her blanket tighter. "I don't want to care about him." "But you do," Nora said. "I don't," Abby insisted. "Okay," Zoey said lightly, standing and stretching. "Then don't. Just keep overanalyzing him for fun totally normal behavior." Everyone laughed Except Abbigail. That night, after they all went to their rooms, Abbigail lay awake in the quiet. Her fingers played with the frayed edge of her pillowcase. She tried to focus on her readings her assignments her budget anything.
But she kept seeing his face. Not the face in the tabloids or the profile photos with the smug smirk the one in class half-asleep red-eyed silent and the flicker of something haunted, just behind his voice. She turned over, sighed into the dark, and whispered to no one, "Why do I care?"
There was no answer. Only the sound of rain, and the silence of a scream that hadn't been heard yet.