Two days later, Arham finally opened his eyes, and Arsalan came to see him. Sahira, sitting by her son's bedside, didn't say a word. She refused to even glance at Arsalan. She focused all her attention on Arham, letting her turbulent thoughts slip away, one by one.
Arsalan stood frozen at the foot of the bed, his eyes tracing the outline of his son's small, bandaged body. It wasn't supposed to be like this—their first meeting. A child, barely more than a stranger, but so clearly his. Anger pulsed in his veins, the old betrayal rearing its head with a force that made his fists clench.
Sahira gently stroked Arham's face, her fingers trembling with emotion. Arham blinked and looked up at her with the same bright blue eyes as his father's. "Amma," he said, his voice weak but filled with warmth.
She kissed his small hand, her heart heavy with relief. Arham's eyes drifted over to the man standing by the edge of the bed. His head turned toward Arsalan, and his tired eyes, large and blue, blinked slowly as if trying to focus. He looked fragile, his face pale and his movements sluggish, still recovering from the surgery.
"Aren't you the dad from the picture?" he asked innocently, his words catching Arsalan off guard. His voice was barely a whisper and his words slurred with the weight of fatigue. His tiny hand reached out, but it trembled from weakness. His brows furrowed, confused but curious, as his eyes fluttered between Arsalan and Sahira.
The frown on Arsalan's face quickly morphed into a strained smile as he approached the bed.
"Yes," Arsalan said softly, kneeling by the bed so he was at Arham's level. "I'm your dad."Though he had no idea which picture Arham was talking about. Still, there was no denying the truth. This was his son. His blood. Five years ago, he had seen Sahira's pregnancy reports and had assumed she was dead—along with their unborn child. But now he knew how wrong he had been.
Sahira had deceived him, hiding their son away all these years. Anyone with eyes could see the boy lying in the hospital bed was Arsalan's. The resemblance was undeniable—the same blue eyes, the same dark black hair. The child was a perfect blend of his Indian-Italian heritage.
Arsalan clenched his fists, his blood simmering beneath the surface. Not only had Sahira betrayed him, but she had also robbed him of the chance to know his son. Yet he kept his face calm. Years of manipulating people had made him a master at masking his emotions.
"How are you feeling, son?" The word "son" felt foreign on Arsalan's tongue, as if it didn't quite belong. In all these years, he had never imagined fatherhood would be thrust upon him like this. Out of nowhere.
Arham's lips curved into a faint, tired smile. "Better, dad. But, Where… have you been?" His voice wavered, and he blinked slowly, as if each word took all the energy he had. "Amma… said you were… working."
It didn't feel like he was meeting his father for the first time. Instead, it felt like his dad had just come home from work, like he always did. Whenever they had asked about their father, Sahira had told them that their dad was busy working for them. And now, here he was, done with his work, and Arham was overjoyed.
Arsalan's throat tightened. He hadn't expected his first real conversation with his son to be like this, every word laced with exhaustion and innocence. "I was," he said, his voice thick. "I was working... but now I'm here."
Sahira stiffened beside him, her heart breaking at how much effort it took for Arham to speak. She gently stroked his hand, her fingers brushing his tiny knuckles as if her touch could soothe him. Arham blinked again, his lashes fluttering against his pale cheeks. "You'll stay?" he asked, his words almost fading, as if sleep was tugging at him.
"I'll stay," Arsalan promised, his voice soft, though the knot in his stomach tightened with each syllable.
Arham's smile returned, weak but sincere, and he shifted slightly in the bed. "We'll... play? When I feel better?"
"Of course, little man," Arsalan said, gently resting his hand on Arham's, the warmth of his son's tiny fingers making something crack open inside him. "When you're better, we'll play all you want."
"I can't believe I'm the first one to meet you, Dad!" Arham said proudly, his excitement cutting through his exhaustion.
"First?" Arsalan raised an eyebrow, glancing at Sahira. Confusion flickered across his face, as if he had misheard.
Sahira's throat tightened, her voice trembling as she finally spoke. "We have four sons."
Arsalan's disbelief was instant. How could she have borne four children—alone? At the time, they had been going through fertility treatments because Sahira couldn't conceive. Arsalan had been desperate for a child, convinced that having children would make everything better, make her normal again.
And now this. Rage bubbled inside him, threatening to spill over. Not just from the betrayal, but from the thought of all she had endured. Raising four children by herself. While he had been alive, wealthy, and capable of helping. Yet, she had chosen to struggle alone.
Arham's head whipped back to Arsalan. "Do you know them too? Have you met them yet?"
Arsalan's jaw clenched as the reality of what he had missed sank in deeper. "No," he replied softly, shaking his head. "I haven't met them yet."
Arham's eyes started to drift closed, the weight of the surgery and his young body's recovery pulling him back into sleep. But just before he succumbed to it, his small voice murmured, "Will you… meet them? My brothers?"
Sahira's heart ached. She lowered her head, unable to meet Arsalan's eyes. She could feel Arham's desperate yearning for his father—a yearning she had never been able to satisfy. Her hands trembled in her lap as guilt, anger, and love warred inside her.
Arsalan looked into his son's eyes, and for the first time in years, he felt something inside him shift. This wasn't just about reclaiming what he had lost. It was about rebuilding something new, something fragile and precious.
"I will," Arsalan promised, his voice firm. "We'll all be together."
Arham nodded sleepily, his eyes closing fully now. "Good," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "We'll… be together."
As Arham's breathing evened out, falling back into the soft rhythm of sleep, Arsalan rose to his feet, his hands clenched at his sides. He moved closer to Sahira, his voice low and sharp as he leaned toward her ear.
"You have no idea what you've done, Sahira," he whispered harshly, his words laced with venom. "You didn't just betray me—you kept me away from my sons. Everything's changed now. Don't think for a second I'll forgive you for this. Enjoy these last moments of freedom, because they won't last."
Arsalan shot one last glance at his sleeping son, then turned sharply on his heel, his footsteps echoing as he left the room. The tension remained thick even after he was gone, but Sahira exhaled slowly, focusing on her son's peaceful face.
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Time passed in a quiet blur. Outside, the world moved on, but inside the hospital room, everything was suspended in a fragile stillness. Arham slept soundly, his face soft, the strain of the surgery momentarily fading. The room was bathed in the muted light of the setting sun, the warm glow filtering through the blinds, casting shadows that danced on the walls.
Sahira sat on the small prayer mat she had brought with her, her hands raised in supplication. Her whispered duas filled the space around her, every word begging for her son's well-being. She prayed for his strength, for his recovery, and for the protection of the other children she had left behind. Silent tears streaked down her face as she bowed her head, her heart heavy but full of faith.
When Arsalan returned, the night had begun to fall. He walked in quietly, the door creaking open just enough for him to slip inside without disturbing the peace that had settled over the room. His eyes swept over Sahira, who was still in the middle of her prayer, her back turned to him, her form draped in a shawl. Her whispered words reached his ears, soft yet powerful, though he couldn't make out the details.
His gaze shifted to Arham, who was stirring slightly in his bed, his tiny body stretching under the covers. Arham blinked slowly, his blue eyes fluttering open. He looked a little better—less pale, his breathing steadier. Arsalan moved toward him, his presence pulling the boy fully out of sleep.
"Hey, little man," Arsalan murmured, his voice softer than before, though a hint of hesitation lingered in his tone.
Arham blinked up at him, his lips curving into a faint smile. "Dad?" His voice was still weak, but there was more clarity in it now. His hand reached out toward Arsalan, his small fingers curling as if seeking comfort.
Arsalan took his son's hand gently, his heart constricting at the fragility of the boy's touch. "I'm here," he said quietly.
Arham's eyes moved around the room, lingering on his mother, who had just finished her prayer. She turned toward them, her eyes soft, her hands still resting on her lap. There was a heaviness in her expression, but also relief as she saw Arham awake and alert.
Suddenly, the door opened wider, and Karim stepped inside, his cheerful voice breaking the stillness.
"Has our champ regained consciousness?" Karim asked cheerfully, stepping inside. His eyes gleamed with relief when he saw the small boy on the bed. Arham looked like a miniature version of Arsalan, Karim thought. It was uncanny.
For a moment, Arham's gaze darted between the new man and his mother, curiosity written all over his face.
"Amma, who is he?" Arham asked, his small voice full of curiosity.
Arsalan answered before Sahira could speak. "He's your uncle Karim."
"Uncle Karim?" Arham repeated, testing the name on his tongue.
"Your father's best friend."
"Assalamu alaikum, Uncle Karim," Arham greeted shyly.
"Wa alaikum as-salam, little champ," Karim replied with a grin. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine," Arham murmured, though he looked drained.
Arsalan crouched down beside him. "Alright, little man, you need to eat and take your medicine so you can get strong again. Then, you'll be running around in no time."
"Okay, Dad," Arham mumbled, but his energy was fading fast.
A nurse entered with a tray of food, and Sahira carefully picked up the bowl of steaming soup. She blew on it gently before bringing a spoonful to Arham's lips, coaxing him to drink. Though Arham kept turning his head away, Sahira's patience never wavered. She began telling him stories of the prophets, and slowly, he started sipping the soup.
Karim, watching the scene unfold, turned to Arsalan. "So, what's your plan? You were supposed to marry Svetlana by the end of the month…"
Arsalan's expression hardened. "Nothing."
"Nothing?" Karim repeated, surprised. "What do you mean?"
"For now, I'm focusing on my resurrected wife and my children."
"Children?" Karim asked, blinking.
Arsalan's voice was cold as he answered, "Yes. Apparently, I have four sons."
Karim's eyes widened in shock, but before he could respond, Arsalan cut him off. "Let's go. We'll talk later."
Karim, sensing his friend's mood, nodded and began to leave. But then, a small voice broke through the silence.
"Dad, are you going back to work? When will you visit us again?" Arham's voice was frail, barely above a whisper. There was a sadness there—a fear that his father would disappear again.
Arsalan froze, his heart twisting in a way he wasn't used to. For a moment, something softened inside him. Was this what fatherhood felt like?
He turned back and walked over to Arham, gently taking his son's tiny hand—the one with the saline drip—and holding it. His hand was so small, so fragile.
"I'll be back very soon, my boy. And this time, we'll all be together."
Arham's face brightened with hope, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten.
Arsalan's gaze lingered on Sahira. Her lashes fluttered as she hesitated, then slowly lifted her eyes to meet his. A silent current passed between them, a moment heavy with words unspoken. There was no mistaking the promise behind his gaze. Nothing would ever be the same again.
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Arham lay sleeping, his tiny chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Arsalan and Karim had left, and Valeria remained by her side to watch over the boy, urging Sahira to get some rest. But Sahira, stubborn and exhausted, hadn't even closed her eyes for a second. She had been taking care of Arham on her own, from feeding him to ensuring he took his medications. Every inch of her body screamed for rest, but she ignored it, holding onto her determination to stay awake and be there for her son.
Eventually, her body betrayed her willpower. Sitting on the floor by her prayer mat, Sahira's eyes drooped and closed. Sleep took her before she even realized, her head dipping forward in fatigue.
Arsalan's breath caught in his throat as he stood in the old, shabby hospital room. Despite its condition, it felt oddly like home. The sight of her—sleeping, her head hung in exhaustion—brought memories flooding back. He could still remember when she used to wait for him late into the night, dozing on the couch, just so they could have dinner together.
She stirred slightly, revealing her face. His blue eyes roamed over her features. She had changed. She looked older, worn down, with dark circles under her eyes and faint lines tracing the battles she had fought. He knew what those lines meant—four children born and raised all alone. He couldn't decide if she was foolish or brave for enduring it all without him.
He had never really cared about having children. He only wanted them to ensure she would never leave him, to tie her to him. But now, knowing he had four sons, something stirred in his chest. He couldn't name the feeling.
Arsalan moved closer, his gaze never leaving her. Despite the years of anger and bitterness, something always drew him to her. Her presence alone was enough to give him goosebumps, a reminder of the love he once had for her, a love that still lingered beneath the surface, buried under the layers of time and hurt.
But she had left him.
And only he knew the torment he had endured during those five long years. It had turned him into something else—a darker, more ruthless version of himself. The man who once lived was replaced by a figure who ruled the underworld with an iron fist, feared by all. Arsalan Ansari had become Ezel, the name that sent shivers down the spines of criminals all over the underworld. His family had always ruled the shadows, hidden from the media and public eye, feared and revered as the Black Shadow. Known by every criminal syndicate and mafia organization, the name struck fear across continents. Yet, despite its infamous reputation, no one truly knew who controlled it. Arsalan's grandfather, Gul Ansari, was a man of sharp intellect and an unbreakable love for his family. He protected their identity with a cunning mastery, weaving an illusion so intricate that the world never suspected who they truly were. To the public, Gul Ansari was a successful businessman who eventually entered politics, his name gaining influence across the nation.
Though he himself was uneducated, Gul left no stone unturned to ensure his five children received the finest education. From an early age, he taught his sons the ruthless, calculated tricks required to survive and thrive in the underworld. In every sense, Gul was a man who wore two faces—one beloved by society, the other feared by the shadows.
After Gul and Abrar Reza Ansari, Arsalan stood as the sole heir to the Black Shadow empire. His grandfather had always cherished him above all, recognizing in Arsalan the qualities that made him the perfect successor: cold, calculating, intelligent, and utterly fearless. Arsalan removed any obstacle in his path without hesitation, no matter how trivial. Soon, his reputation spread like wildfire, his name whispered with a mixture of dread and awe.
Despite his dual existence as a top neurosurgeon—a celebrated figure in the medical world—he was, in truth, the heir to a criminal empire that reigned through fear and manipulation. Rivals in India were constantly after his life, but the clever strategies Gul Ansari had embedded in him protected Arsalan from ever being caught or exposed.
Arsalan's lineage was further solidified by his father, Abrar Reza Ansari, who married Sofia Emmanuel, the eldest daughter of Vitterio Emmanuel—the Italian Capo dei Capi. Their union wasn't just a marriage; it was a bond between two powerful criminal dynasties. Sofia, captivated by Abrar Reza at first sight, eventually converted to Islam and married him, further tightening the grip the Ansari family had on the underworld. The Indian-Italian mafia connection was cemented, expanding their influence beyond borders.
To Gul, Arsalan was his reflection—the very embodiment of everything he had strived to build. Fearless, brilliant, and utterly ruthless, Arsalan's rise to power was inevitable. He didn't hesitate to eliminate anyone who stood in his way, no matter how inconsequential the threat. His notoriety spread far beyond India, and before long, he had garnered the attention of international mafia syndicates. He forged alliances across Asia, creating a network that facilitated illegal activities on an unprecedented scale. To the outside world, he was a brilliant surgeon saving lives; in reality, he was the shadow in which terror thrived.
But beneath all this, something else festered.
The day Sahira left, she took the last remnants of humanity with her. Arsalan's already fractured heart turned completely cold. Whatever kindness or warmth had once existed in him died the moment she walked out of his life. Her absence wasn't just a loss—it was the final push that turned him into the merciless figure he had become. He had thrown himself deeper into the underworld, distancing himself from anything that resembled love or compassion.
Without Sahira, the monster within him found freedom.
And now, the once-emotionless Arsalan felt his heart race as he approached her. She was back—after all these years—and suddenly, she was real again.
She shifted in her sleep, and he froze. Her face twisted in discomfort, her body trembling. Sweat dotted her forehead, and her peaceful expression vanished, replaced with fear.
"Wake up… why aren't you crying? Someone, please help… wake up," she mumbled in her sleep, her voice trembling with panic.
Arsalan's body stiffened. Is she still having nightmares?
The old memories hit him like a wave. She had suffered from depression after they lost their second child. It had been so severe that she had tried to take her own life.
Instinctively, Arsalan reached out, his hand hovering just inches from her face. The shawl covering her had slipped, revealing her tired face and disheveled hair. He hesitated but pulled his hand back before he could touch her.
Sahira jolted awake. Her eyes shot open, locking onto his, the black lenses masking his true gaze. Her heart pounded, not with love but fear. This man—this cold, calculating man—terrified her. She had never fully understood her feelings for him. She loved him, hated him, feared him. He could make her feel every emotion she had ever known, and others she didn't even have words for.
She turned her face away, her body tensing, as if trying to create distance between them without even moving. The rejection stung him. His jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring as anger bubbled beneath the surface. Arsalan's hands balled into fists at his sides, the muscles in his arms tightening as he fought the urge to lash out, not in violence, but to control the storm raging inside him.
He stepped closer, his voice sharp. "No, Sahira," he said in a low, dangerous voice. "Don't. You've already tested my patience enough. Don't push me further."
She flinched at the words, her breath quickening, but she didn't move.
Five years hadn't changed him—he was still the same man. If anything, time had only sharpened the edges of his cruelty.
Arsalan watched her closely, his gaze never wavering. He couldn't understand why he still felt this way—why he was still drawn to her, despite everything. There was nothing she could give him anymore, yet here he was, clinging to something that had long since been broken.
Her breath came faster now, her chest rising and falling in quick succession. She looked away from him, avoiding the hypnotic pull of his gaze. She was afraid—afraid that he would once again break down her defenses. But he wasn't ready to let her go.
He reached out, his fingers brushing her chin lightly, lifting her face toward his. She kept her eyes downcast, refusing to meet his gaze.
"Did you miss me at all?" he asked, his voice low, the question laced with bitterness. He moved closer, his breath mingling with hers. Still, she remained silent, her face hard and unyielding.
"Answer me," he hissed, his frustration mounting. She kept her mouth shut, her defiance clear as if she had nothing to say.
His gaze dropped to her lips. An array of emotions leashed inside him but instead of reacting with force, his hand dropped to his side, as if he was trying to stop himself from harming her.
"You can't escape me now," he said softly, more to himself than to her. His words, though harsh, carried a strange vulnerability, the desperation of a man who couldn't let go, no matter how much time had passed.
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