_Muskan_writes_01

In the world of the rich, only perfection is sought, but what happens when the children of the rich choose to defy this universal law?

They grew up together in the light of the crowd. He, however, received more light. As time passed, their differences lead them into different worlds. They grew apart in search of their personal glory. He was a famous biker, and her a business mogul. They, however were forced into each other's lives because of the clause in their late fathers` will. Marry, to inherate.

Competing With The Campus Hunk

The same words curled in Zain’s slanted handwriting every year, followed by that ridiculous line: "I hope you grow old and mildewed." 


Then, the gift. Always something that carved itself into my ribs. 


Last year, handmade pottery—a lopsided cup with our names glazed into the clay. The year before, a sunrise hot-air balloon ride, the city sprawled beneath us like a promise. 


This year? I wanted nothing. Not even the absence of a gift—because absence would still mean he’d thought of me. 


Our flight left tonight. One more day in this city, one more day of salt-stiffened hair and pretending not to see Zain’s silhouette lingering near the hotel balcony, watching. 


Mom and Aunt Leila packed inside, their laughter threaded with tension. I escaped to the beach, digging my heels into wet sand as the tide licked at my ankles. 


I didn’t turn. Zain’s shadow draped over me, his knee brushing mine as he sat. Too close. Always too close, even now. 


"I finished your gift before… everything." He held out an envelope, thin as a blade. "Open it alone." 


I snatched it, my nails leaving crescent moons in the paper. He waited for gratitude. I gave him silence. 


The envelope weighed nothing. Inside, a single key and a note: 


’A box was left on your doorstep.’ 


At home, I shoved the box under my bed. The key vanished into my junk drawer, buried beneath old headphones and dead batteries. 


We’d shared parties since we were six, blowing out candles on the same cake. This year, I told Mom I wouldn’t host. "Just a guest," I said. Aunt Leila’s face fell, but I couldn’t stomach another ritual dressed up as reconciliation. 


Yet at midnight, I found myself in front of Marco’s Bakery, our childhood spot. The owner recognized me instantly. 


"Blueberry cheesecake, right?" He slid the box across the counter. "Where’s the other half of you?" 


The words lodged in my throat. I paid too fast, clutching the cake like a grenade. 


Track practice the next morning was a much needed. 


Zayd leaned against his motorcycle, helmet tucked under his arm. "Welcome back," he said, as if I’d been gone for months, not days. 


"To school? Hardly worth celebrating." 


"To the track." He flicked my forehead. "This place misses you." 


I tossed his forgotten textbooks at him. "Fail your classes, and you won’t have a future to complain about." 


He stiffened. "My grandfather’s already decided my future. Shipping empires don’t need diplomas." 


"Because I want something that’s *mine*." His voice cracked. For a heartbeat, he looked as lost as I felt. 


I reached out, tucking a windblown curl behind his ear— 


He recoiled like I’d burned him. "Don’t touch me again." 


The bike roared to life, leaving me alone with the echo of his anger. 


Tonight, Zain’s party would be in full swing. Balloons, speeches, our families’ hopeful glances. 


I stared at the cheesecake box on my desk. A peace offering or a surrender? 


Under the bed, the unopened box seemed to pulse. 


I couldn’t decide which one terrified me more.


Chapter 21- I couldn`t keep my eyes of him