The office was buzzing that morning.
Zafar, as usual, stayed locked away in his corner office. But Zoha? She had a visitor.
A man stood at reception—tall, charming, dressed in a sharp grey suit with a crooked smile that clearly had history.
"Is Zoha working here?" he asked the receptionist.
Before she could answer, Zoha stepped out of the elevator and stopped cold.
"Rayyan?" she breathed.
He grinned. "Still remember me, huh?"
The entire office seemed to hold its breath as he walked toward her and pulled her into a hug.
Zafar, watching from the glass wall of his office, felt his jaw clench so hard it hurt.
He didn't recognize this man.
But he recognized the way Zoha smiled—like a memory had just walked back into her life.
And he hated it.
"Why are you here?" Zoha asked, still stunned.
"I had a meeting in this building. Saw your name on the board. Thought I'd say hi."
Zafar stepped out of his office like a storm.
His presence shifted the room. His eyes were ice.
"Zoha," he said sharply.
She turned. "Yes, sir?"
"Inside. Now."
Rayyan raised a brow. "She's working for you?"
Zafar didn't even glance at him.
"She works with me. Not for me. And she doesn't entertain personal guests during work hours."
Zoha's stomach twisted. The way he spoke—it was more than cold. It was territorial.
She followed him into his office, the door closing behind them like a slammed gate.
"What was that about?" she asked quietly.
"I don't like strangers hanging around my company."
"He's not a stranger. He's an old friend from college."
Zafar stepped closer, eyes dark. "Old friend or not—you don't let men hug you in front of the whole office like that."
Zoha frowned. "I didn't plan it! You're overreacting."
His voice dropped, laced with something dangerous. "Maybe I am. But I don't like the idea of another man touching what's—" He stopped.
Zoha's eyes widened. "What's what, Zafar?"
He looked away, fists clenched.
"Say it," she whispered.
Silence.
"You don't get to act possessive," she said, voice shaking, "if you're not willing to admit what I really mean to you."
His head snapped up.
"You mean more than you should," he said, voice rough. "That's the damn problem."
That night, Zoha sat alone in her apartment.
She stared at her phone, wondering if he'd call. He didn't.
But he didn't need to.
She could still feel the weight of his stare, the fire in his words, the ache he left behind.
He wasn't just cold anymore.
He was burning—and she was starting to burn with him.