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Author's Note
"This story holds a very special place in my heart. It was my very first novel, originally written back in 2015. For years, it existed only in a handwritten 'hard copy,' tucked away in my drawer. I was always paralyzed by fear—the fear that people might mock my writing, laugh at my ideas, or judge the story too harshly. Because of that lack of courage, I never dared to convert it into a digital format or share it with the world.
Now, after many years of reflection, I have finally found the strength to step out of my shell and share this journey with you.
I originally wrote this novel in Urdu, and I have personally translated it into English. Please keep in mind that translation is a delicate bridge; some words in Urdu carry deep, cultural nuances that are difficult to mirror perfectly in English. You may find grammatical flaws or stylistic inconsistencies, but I have done my best to preserve the essence of the story.
If you enjoy the world of Kayan and Hooreen, or if you would like to see an enhanced, professionally edited version of this book, please let me know in the comments section. Your feedback and encouragement mean the world to me.
I hope you fall in love with these characters just as I did ten years ago. Happy reading!"
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"You find my very existence repulsive, don't you? You hate yourself when I come near you—that's what you keep telling everyone, right? That worthless Sumara came to me and suggested I form the kind of relationship with her that you never established with me. Enough! I've tolerated all of this, but no more. Now, let me show you who Kayan Zarar really is!"
"What are you saying? Kayan... you are mistaken..."
"Shut up! What I'm saying is exactly right." Saying this, he pushed Hooreen onto the bed, threw off his shirt, and leaned over her.
"No... Kayan... please... you're misunderstanding me... You can't do this to me... you'll regret this deeply... don't... You aren't in your senses... please, Kayan... No... no..."
"I've only just come to my senses..." Kayan replied as he untied the strap of her robe. His grip grew tighter and harsher. She cried, screamed, and struggled to free herself, but Kayan was beyond reason; a madness had taken hold of him.
When she opened her eyes, she found herself still in Kayan's grip. Freeing herself, she tried to get up, but Kayan pulled her back into his hold, speaking in a voice heavy with intoxication and drowsiness.
"You can't leave that easily."
Saying this, he leaned over her once more.
"Kayan... for God's sake... leave me. Let me go. You got what you wanted, now please..."
"Where are you going yet? This has only just started. Your punishment begins now." Once again, she was trapped in his grip. The only difference this time was that she lay there motionless and lifeless. After Kayan fell asleep, she got up, put on his shirt which was lying nearby, and went into the bathroom. She turned on the shower and stood under it, eventually sinking to the floor in tears. The cold water drenched her. Her tears flowed uncontrollably.
"Kayan, you destroyed my pride, my love, my respect—everything. Did you forget everything in your intoxicated state? Why, Kayan? Why? I will never forgive you... You are a horrible man..."
She sat under the shower crying for a long time until the cold water numbed her senses, and she became oblivious to the world around her.
Two Years Earlier: The Sialkot Sports Gala
Kayan sat in the elevated VIP enclosure, the plush leather of his chair feeling oddly stifling against the backdrop of the sweltering Sialkot sun. Around him, the air was thick with the scent of freshly cut grass, popcorn, and the high-pitched fervor of thousands of voices. To anyone else, it was a celebration of youth and energy; to Kayan, it was a loud, colorful distraction from the millions of rupees worth of deals waiting for him in his office. He checked his watch—a habit of a man who measured life in minutes—and sighed. He was only here to satisfy his father's social obligations to Chaudhry Suleman.
From his vantage point, the stadium looked like a moving mosaic. Rows of students in vibrant greens, blues, and yellows marched and cheered. However, his analytical gaze eventually snagged on a small pocket of stillness.
Near the edge of the track, a group of about twenty students stood like a patch of gray in a rainbow. While other teams were practicing their sprints or chanting school anthems, these children looked defeated. Some sat on their kit bags with their heads down; others scanned the stadium entrance with anxious, watery eyes. They looked orphaned in a sea of celebration. Kayan found himself leaning forward, a rare spark of curiosity piercing through his boredom. What—or who—were they waiting for?
Then, the atmosphere shifted.
It started as a ripple among the children. One young boy pointed toward the main gate, his face transforming from despair to pure, unadulterated radiance. Slowly, the entire group stood up, their posture straightening as if an invisible current had just been switched on.
Kayan followed their line of sight.
Through the dust motes dancing in the sunlight, a figure emerged. She wasn't just walking; she was moving with a frantic, graceful urgency that seemed to command the very air around her. Against the backdrop of the stadium's grit, she looked like a vision from another realm.
She wore a long, flowy purple frock that caught the breeze, paired with practical black jeans and white sports shoes—a jarring yet perfect blend of elegance and readiness. A black dupatta was wrapped carelessly yet stylishly around her neck like a muffler, and her long, dark hair was pulled back into a high ponytail that swung with every hurried step.
As she drew closer to her students, the "practical" businessman in Kayan completely vanished. He forgot about his meetings, his disdain for the gala, and the tea cooling on the table beside him. He watched the way her fair skin glowed under the sun, the way her rose-petal lips parted as she offered a breathless, laughing apology to the children.
When she finally reached them, she didn't just stand there—she knelt, she hugged, she laughed. The children crowded around her like ducklings finding their mother, their faces now glowing with the same light that seemed to emanate from her. Her smile was a physical force; it felt as though the stadium's roar had suddenly faded into a distant hum, leaving only the image of her laughter in high definition.
Kayan remained behind the one-way glass of the VIP lounge, invisible to the world, yet feeling more exposed than ever. He was a man who prided himself on control, yet in that single, fleeting moment, he felt the reins of his own heart slip through his fingers. He had come to Sialkot to build an empire, but as he watched the girl in the purple frock, he realized he had just encountered something he couldn't buy, trade, or negotiate with.
He didn't just look at her. He stared until the image was burned into his memory, and for the first time in his life, Kayan Zarar forgot to check his watch.
"Oh no, I'm so late today! The students must be waiting, and the Principal is going to insult me. Why did I start watching a movie last night? That's why I'm late..."
Sitting in the car, she was talking to herself. The van driver stopped outside Jinnah Stadium. Thanking him, she started walking briskly.
She made her way through the crowd, walking fast without caring about her surroundings. Dressed in a purple frock, black jeans, white sports shoes, and a black dupatta wrapped around her neck like a muffler, she wore a white watch on one hand, and her long hair was tied in a ponytail. With her fair, radiant complexion, long lashes, and lips like rose petals, she looked like a Houri (celestial beauty) who had accidentally descended to this world.
Seeing her, all the students gathered around her, and she began apologizing with a laugh. Her smile was so captivating that Kayan found himself lost. He was sitting in a VIP section of the stadium—a place designed so that the person sitting there could see everyone, but no one could see them. She was in a spot where he could easily watch her while she, oblivious to everything, was busy with her students. He watched her, entranced. He didn't even realize when the function ended. He only came to his senses when she vanished from his sight. He went outside to find her, but she was nowhere to be seen.
"What happened, son? Why the rush? Are you looking for someone?" Suleman Sahib asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"Nowhere, Uncle... I was just about to head home and thought I'd see you first."
"So soon? Come home, meet your Aunt as well. You can't leave without meeting her—she won't let me hear the end of it." He said laughingly and mischievously.
Kayan smiled and replied, "Uncle, don't worry about Aunt. She won't say anything. Just tell her there was an urgent meeting. I'll definitely come next time. For now, please excuse me."
After saying this, he left. All the way back, he kept thinking about the girl with the enchanting smile. Eventually, he tried to push her out of his thoughts, thinking it was just a temporary attraction. He assumed these feelings would fade—that it was just a crush and nothing more. He was unaware that the man who called the word 'love' a lie had actually fallen for a girl. He was a practical man who had always kept his life away from such emotions; he thought these things only happened in movies.
"Papa! We won! My students played so brilliantly. Papa, not just the boys, my girls were no less either. I'm very happy!"
She was hugging her father, Ilyas Sahib, and excitedly telling him about the victory. Before he could respond, Khalima Begum, who was cleaning rice, slammed the plate on the table in anger.
"What is the need to bring the whole house down? I've told you a thousand times that girls should keep their voices low. And what is this look? Go and change immediately."
Hearing her words, Hooreen became sad. Ilyas Sahib spoke up:
"Really, Begum? Even in this day and age, you say such things? Times have changed. There is no difference between a girl and a boy today. Our Hooreen dresses are according to the occasion. Go, Hooreen, wash up, and then we'll eat together."
Hooreen left, but Ilyas Sahib had seen the moisture in her eyes. After she left, he turned to Halima Begum.
"Begum, you're always picking on Hooreen. She's grown up now; your behavior hurts her."
"It hurts me too, seeing her like this. Ilyas, no matter how much the world changes, it remains the same for a woman. I'm afraid that what happened to... might happen to her too."
"Stop it, Begum! God forbid such a thing ever happens. Take these thoughts out of your mind. That child is innocent; it's not her fault."
Hooreen was the only child of Ilyas Sahib and Halima Begum, but since childhood, Halima's behavior towards her had been like this. She never spoke to Hooreen with affection, whereas Ilyas Sahib's life revolved around her. Halima loved her too, but some unknown fear kept her distant, making her irritable and prone to taking her anger out on her daughter. Because of this behavior, Hooreen was very attached to her Papa.
The Arrival of the Jaguar
As Kayan pulled his current car into the sweeping driveway of the Zarar mansion, the golden hues of the setting sun hit something that made him slow down. Parked right in the center of the porch was a beast of a machine.
It was the latest model Jaguar, its body a deep, midnight black that seemed to swallow the light. The chrome accents sparkled, and the sleek, predatory curves of the car reminded Kayan of himself—built for speed, power, and dominance.
He stepped out of his car, his eyes locked on the new arrival. He circled it slowly, his fingers itching to feel the steering wheel.
"She's a beauty, isn't she?"
Kayan turned to see his father, Zarar Sahib, standing on the marble steps of the entrance, a satisfied smile on his face as he leaned against a pillar.
"The 5.0-litre V8 engine," Kayan murmured, more to himself than his father. "You actually got the SVR edition."
"Only the best for a Zarar," his father replied, descending the steps. He tossed a heavy, leather-bound key fob toward Kayan. Kayan caught it effortlessly mid-air.
"I noticed you've been looking a bit restless lately, son. Sialkot must have been more draining than you let on. I thought a new toy might distract you."
Kayan's grip tightened on the keys. Restless. Was it that obvious? Even now, the image of the girl in the purple frock was flickering in the back of his mind like a persistent ghost.
"It's perfect, Dad. Thank you," Kayan said, his voice regaining its usual cool composure.
"Don't thank me yet," Zarar Sahib teased, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "I actually bought it as a birthday surprise for Harem. She's been complaining that her convertible is 'so last season.'"
Kayan's eyebrows shot up, and a small, arrogant smirk played on his lips—the first real expression he'd worn all day. "Harem? She'd probably scratch the rims within a week. Besides, she doesn't know the difference between a piston and a spark plug."
"She is your sister, Kayan," his father laughed. "She has a right to the family garage."
"Not this one," Kayan said, his tone final. He walked over to the driver's side and tapped the roof of the black Jaguar. "If I like something, it's mine. Tell Harem I'll buy her whatever jewelry she wants for her birthday, but this car stays with me."
Zarar Sahib chuckled, shaking his head. "You were always like this. Even as a child, if you set your eyes on a toy, no one else was allowed to touch it. You have a very dangerous habit of possession, Kayan."
"It's not dangerous if you have the power to keep what you claim," Kayan replied.
He opened the door, the scent of fresh, high-grade leather wafting out. As he sat in the driver's seat, the digital dashboard glowed to life, a vibrant red. For a moment, he stared at the steering wheel, his mind wandering back to the stadium.
He had claimed many things in his life—luxury cars, business deals, respect. But for the first time, he had seen something—someone—he wanted to claim, yet didn't even know her name.
"Are you going to take it for a spin?" his father asked, leaning down to look through the window.
"Later," Kayan said, his gaze fixed straight ahead. "I have some things to look into first."
"Business?"
"Something like that," Kayan muttered.
As his father walked back toward the house, Kayan sat in the silence of the luxury cabin. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, staring at the blank screen. He was a man who didn't believe in fate, yet he felt a strange, magnetic pull toward a memory he couldn't shake.
He didn't know that this possessiveness, his father joked about,would soon turn into an obsession—one that would lead to the very room where Hoorain would eventually lose everything.