Sanlang adjusted his tie, the sound of his heartbeat barely louder than the hum of the bustling set around him. He was standing in front of a stark white backdrop, under the harsh glare of multiple spotlights. The air smelled like hairspray and the faint, metallic tang of new designer clothes. Zedra had convinced him to join her for yet another shoot—this one for a high-fashion brand that was looking to make waves. A new campaign, one that would take him even further into the limelight.
"Okay, Sanlang. This is your big moment," Zedra had said before the shoot started, her voice full of mischief as she adjusted the sleeve of his jacket. "You're about to be the face of this campaign. I need you to look more than just pretty. I need you to embody this look. You're not just a pretty face. You're the future."
He had rolled his eyes at her dramatic flair, but there was truth in her words. The fashion world was relentless, and Zedra wasn't going to let him coast by on looks alone.
The set was full of movement. Stylists scurried around with clothes in hand, makeup artists brushed over models, and photographers barked out orders. It was controlled chaos.
"Let's get the shot, people!" the photographer, a tall, wiry man with a penchant for dramatic scarves, shouted. "Sanlang, take a step to the left! Yes, right there!"
Sanlang took a breath, trying to center himself. He wasn't nervous anymore—he'd been doing this long enough to know the routine. But something felt different today. Maybe it was the way the light hit his face, or the fact that, in the back of his mind,Maybe it was that lingering hope he couldn't shake off.
"Okay, turn your head slightly to the left. Good. Now give me a smirk. I want something intense. You're selling the fantasy. Make them want you," the photographer instructed.
Zedra, always present, gave him a quick thumbs up. "Yeah, that's it! Give them more, baby."
Sanlang did as he was told, leaning into the moment, trying to forget the knot in his stomach. His gaze shifted through the camera lens, the bright lights blinding him for a moment. But his mind wasn't focused on the camera—it was on her. He could imagine her reaction to his smirk. That critical look she always gave him when she was impressed but never showed it. Will she notice this? he wondered.
A sudden voice broke through his thoughts.
"Hold that pose, Sanlang!" Zedra called from the sidelines, her tone laced with approval. "You look divine. Now, give me some mystery. You know, the kind that makes women faint. Make them dream of you."
Sanlang's lips quirked up in a grin. "Fainting women, huh? What a life."
Zedra shot him a look. "Exactly. That's the life you're going for now. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
As he continued to pose, another stylist rushed over to adjust the collar of his jacket. Sanlang barely noticed, his mind still wandering. The shoot was important. But it wasn't the only thing tugging at his thoughts. There was always this nagging feeling, this inner turmoil, that no amount of glitz and glamour could fill. No matter how many campaigns he shot, no matter how many charity events he attended, the ache for remained.
"Alright, let's switch it up," the photographer called again, breaking through his spiraling thoughts. "This next shot is a little more casual. I want you in motion—let's see how the jacket moves. Make it feel effortless, like you're in a hurry to meet someone important. No hesitation."
Sanlang took a step back, preparing himself to shift gears. Zedra walked over, giving him a small wink. "Casual, huh? I bet you'll look good in anything."
"Do I get a cut of your commission for this praise?" Sanlang shot back with a grin.
"Sure. I'll send you a thank-you card with my appreciation," she said with a wink, crossing her arms.
The next few shots came and went, with Zedra occasionally calling out instructions, giving him a thumbs up or a sarcastic comment that made him smile. It was like a dance—the photographer gave him a direction, and Zedra followed with her feedback. He was a puppet on a string, but oddly enough, he didn't mind.
"Okay, Sanlang, this is the big one. We're doing something a little… different now," the photographer said, his voice more serious than before. "I want something raw. Like the world is watching you, but you don't care. Like you're ready to burn it all down."
Sanlang paused, a slight flicker of doubt crossing his face. This wasn't just posing anymore. This was showing a side of him that most people never saw.
Zedra's voice cut through the moment. "You can do this. You've been through worse."
Sanlang smirked. "That's why I'm perfect for this."
Zedra rolled her eyes. "Just don't look like a deer caught in headlights."
The photographer counted down, and Sanlang's posture shifted. He leaned slightly forward, his gaze intense. For a moment, it wasn't about the clothes or the campaign. It was about something deeper, something darker that he couldn't shake off—the feeling that there was a life he should've had, that there was something he was missing. The ache , even if he didn't want to admit it, colored everything he did.
The flash from the camera was blinding, and he held the pose, giving the photographer exactly what he wanted. A fire. A desperation that he felt deep inside but would never admit to anyone.
"Perfect," the photographer muttered. "That's it, Sanlang. That's the shot we've been waiting for."
Zedra was the first to break the silence, clapping her hands. "You see? That's the guy I was talking about. That's the real you."
Sanlang dropped the pose and exhaled sharply. It felt like he had just run a marathon.
"How was that?" he asked, brushing his hair back from his forehead.
Zedra's eyes gleamed with approval. "That was more than just 'good.' That was great. You've got the look, Sanlang. That fire in your eyes—keep that. That's the stuff legends are made of."
Sanlang gave a half-smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Just don't expect me to cry over it. I'm not some tortured artist."
Zedra chuckled, walking over to him with a bottle of water. "Don't worry. No one's asking for tears. Just keep being you—that's all anyone wants from you."
As he wiped the sweat from his brow and took a long drink, Sanlang couldn't help but feel a small pang of doubt creep back in. Is this really all I want? What do I really want?
---
Noor stood on the balcony, the chill of the night air biting at her skin as she stared into the vast, indifferent sky. The moonlight bathed her in silver, yet she felt like a shadow—disconnected, untouchable. Her flute rested against her lips, the soft tune escaping in slow, mournful notes, as if the music could somehow echo the sorrow trapped deep within her.
Yet no matter how hard she played, the pain remained.
She let the music drift off into the night, her eyes closing briefly, allowing herself to be consumed by the memories that were always just out of reach. He had asked her, once—his voice laced with an urgency that made her heart stutter in its rhythm.
"What do you want from me, Noor?"
The question still haunted her, a question with no answer. What could she even say? What could she want from someone she could never have?
Her fingers tightened on the flute, the wood warm beneath her touch, the question echoing in her head again. She thought of the man who had asked it, his gaze both warm and cold, the way he had looked at her—like he knew everything, yet still wanted more.
It felt like a cruelty now, the way he had looked at her then. How could he even ask that of her? Of someone so broken?
What did I want?
She exhaled slowly, the sharp sting of a tear threatening to fall as she remembered that night. The night when everything had felt so simple, so alive.
---
"We don't know how much time we have left," his voice had been low, threaded with something raw—something desperate, as though he had already tasted the bitterness of regret.
Her heart had skipped a beat, the words stirring something inside her. But instead of answering, she had just reached for him, desperate for the touch that seemed to anchor her in a world that was slipping away.
"Then let's stop wasting time." Her voice had been trembling, barely above a whisper, yet full of unspoken meaning.
He had held her tighter, his hands like iron, yet soft, as if he understood that she was breaking in his arms.
"Even if the sky fell and the oceans dried up, I'd still choose you. Every time."
His words had felt like salvation. But even as she held onto him, she knew it was a lie. Time had never been on their side. Nothing was eternal.
"You're my constant. My always," she had murmured, but she had known. She had known that no matter how hard they tried, they could never stop the inevitable.
---
The vision flickered away like a dying ember, and she was left in the cold, staring at the moon.
I wonder what it is that I want...
But even as she asked herself that question, she knew the answer was lost. It had always been lost.
---
Meanwhile, inside the grand estate, the ever-present tension between Zeyla and Maya had escalated to an all-too-familiar argument. The two women, though allies in many ways, could never seem to get along without their moments of friction. Tonight was no different.
Zeyla, ever the sharp-tongued presence, had been on a tirade since dinner, her words slicing through the air like a blade.
"You can't keep this up, Maya," she spat, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "You're just as much a puppet as the rest of them. You think you're here for some cause? Please. You're nothing but a servant in disguise."
Maya's fists clenched at her sides, the words striking deep, though she refused to show any sign of weakness. Her voice was controlled, but the venom behind it was palpable.
"I'm here for her because she's the only person who has ever cared," Maya shot back, her eyes narrowing. "You wouldn't understand. You're too busy trying to manipulate everyone around you to get what you want."
Zeyla's lips curled into a mocking smile, her eyes glittering with an unsettling amusement.
"Oh, how noble," she said, her tone thick with sarcasm. "Lady Noor's little soldier. Do you really think she sees you that way, Maya? You're just a tool in her grand plan. Everyone is."
Maya's temper flared. "I'm not blind, Zeyla. But at least I have the decency to see beyond my own selfish desires."
The two women stood face-to-face now, the tension so thick it felt like the very air would crack under the weight of it.
Zeyla smirked, taking a step closer, her eyes cold and calculating.
"Do you really think you're the one she depends on? The one who means anything to her? You're just a distraction. The moment something more important comes along, you'll be forgotten, just like the rest of them."
Maya's chest tightened, the sting of Zeyla's words sinking in, but she fought the rising emotions.
"You're wrong," Maya said quietly, her voice low but steady. "Madam doesn't see me that way. She never has. But I... I choose to stay. Because I believe in something more than your games."
Zeyla paused, her smirk faltering for the briefest moment before she regained her composure.
"You believe in her? That's cute," Zeyla murmured, her voice dripping with condescension. "Well, I hope you're not too disappointed when she doesn't need you anymore."
Maya didn't respond. She just stared at Zeyla, feeling a pang of sadness mixed with something else—something dark and cold. The pain of knowing she was right, even if she didn't want to admit it.
---
Noor's flute once again sang through the night air, but the sound was different now. It felt like a cry, a desperate wail beneath the beauty.
In the distance, Zeyla and Maya's voices had quieted, but the tension remained.
Noor closed her eyes for a moment, trying to push away the creeping darkness, the unspoken question that haunted her day and night.
What is it that I want?
The moon hung heavy in the sky, as if watching over her, judging her. But there was no answer, only silence. And the cold, unforgiving truth that she may never find it.
And somewhere, deep inside, Noor wondered: will I always remain a shadow, haunted by the ghosts of what could have been?
And as the flute's mournful notes faded into the cold night, the only answer was the wind, carrying away her unspoken thoughts into the void.
------
The night air was cool and crisp as Maya and Zeyla stood at the edge of the garden, the tension between them having momentarily subsided. The distant sound of Noor's flute drifted toward them, a mournful melody that seemed to echo through the stillness of the estate. The notes were soft at first, like the whisper of an old secret, but as the music swirled through the air, it became something more—a haunting, soulful cry that seemed to carry the weight of everything they had been through.
Maya, her eyes still lingering on the ground, let out a long breath. She felt her anger, her frustration with Zeyla's words, dissipate, swallowed by the quiet sorrow that was in Noor's music. There was something profoundly vulnerable in the notes, something so painfully beautiful, that Maya couldn't help but let herself sink into it.
Zeyla, who had been silent beside her, seemed equally entranced by the music. She looked at Maya, her usual sharpness replaced by something softer, something reflective.
"She's lost, isn't she?" Maya murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Madam Noor... she carries too much on her own."
Zeyla didn't answer immediately, instead listening to the notes that seemed to weave a tapestry of unspoken words between them. After a moment, she spoke, her voice softer than usual.
"She's always carried more than anyone could understand. More than we can ever imagine."
Maya frowned, a heavy thought clouding her mind. "But what if... what if she needs us to understand? What if there's something we're not seeing? Maybe... maybe she's not as strong as she lets on."
Zeyla's gaze sharpened, but there was no anger in it—only quiet resolve. She shook her head slowly, as if the very idea of questioning Noor's strength was something she couldn't bear.
"We serve her, Maya. We don't question her. That's what she needs from us."
Maya looked at Zeyla, searching her face for any sign of doubt. But there was none. Zeyla's eyes were steadfast, a flicker of something deep and unwavering in them, a loyalty that ran far beyond anything Maya could comprehend.
"You don't wonder, Zeyla? Don't you ever feel like there's something... more? Something we don't know? About her?"
Zeyla's expression softened, but her resolve never wavered. She took a step closer to Maya, her voice low and firm.
"I trust her. I trust Madam Noor with everything I have. She's the one who saved us all, who gave us purpose. And it's that trust that binds me to her, no matter what."
Maya's thoughts swirled. She knew Zeyla was right in many ways. Noor had given them everything—everything they had was because of her. But the yearning inside her, the need to know why Noor was so distant, so cold, so wrapped in her own pain, gnawed at her.
"But what if that trust is blind?" Maya whispered. "What if she's hiding something from us... something that could change everything?"
Zeyla's gaze softened even further, and she sighed, almost as if the weight of the world was pressing down on her. She reached out, placing a hand on Maya's shoulder, her touch surprisingly gentle.
"Maybe she's hiding it because it's not ours to know. Maybe it's something that only she can carry. We don't need to understand everything, Maya. We just need to be here. To serve her."
The music from the flute swirled around them, its haunting melody filling the space between their words. It was like Noor was speaking to them, her pain bleeding through each note. Maya closed her eyes for a moment, letting the music wash over her. There was something about it that made her want to know more, to understand everything. But deep down, she knew Zeyla was right. Some things weren't meant to be understood. Some things were too fragile to be touched by anyone else.
The silence between them lingered for a moment, and then Maya spoke again, quieter this time.
"You really believe in her, don't you?"
Zeyla nodded, her gaze never leaving the direction of the music.
"With everything I am. And I always will."
Maya's gaze softened, her tension slipping away as the music continued to fill the air. The questions, the doubts, they lingered still, but for now, they didn't matter. The bond between them, between her and Noor, was more important. For now, Maya could trust Zeyla's belief. She could trust the music, the sadness, and the unspoken promise that Noor, despite everything, was worth it.
The moment stretched on as they stood together, listening to the haunting beauty of the melody that filled the night. In that fragile silence, there was a rare understanding between them—an unspoken agreement that they would follow, no matter what.
"We serve her, Maya," Zeyla said again, her voice quieter now, but more certain than ever.
Maya didn't answer, but her heart understood. For now, that was enough.
------
The city stretched before him in a cascade of golden lights, shimmering beneath the vast night sky. Sanlang leaned back in his grand marble tub, the warm water lapping at his skin, a glass of whiskey dangling between his fingers. The ice clinked softly, melting slowly as he swirled the amber liquid, his gaze lost in the endless sprawl of the skyline.
Zedra had finally left for her overseas projects, and for the first time in weeks, he was alone. Truly alone. No cameras, no staged smiles, no instructions on how to be the man the world wanted. Just silence. And in that silence, there was only one thought. One image. One person.
Noor.
Sanlang exhaled sharply, pressing the rim of the glass against his lips but barely taking a sip. His other hand rested against the edge of the tub, fingers gripping the stone as if grounding himself. He had spent days, weeks, pretending his attraction to her was just admiration. Just fascination. But in this solitude, in this drunken haze of city lights and whiskey, there was no space for lies.
He wanted her.
His mind betrayed him, filling in the gaps of his hunger with images that burned through his restraint. The way her silk dresses clung to her body, the way her long hair cascaded like black ink, her fingers—slender, precise—playing that damn flute under the moonlight. He remembered the curve of her lips, the sharpness of her gaze, the way she never let anyone close.
But what if she did?
His breath hitched. What if, just once, she let him touch her? Feel her warmth against him, hear her whisper his name with that quiet, unreadable voice? He closed his eyes, tipping his head back, letting the thought consume him. Her scent, the way her fingers would tangle in his hair, the feel of her beneath him—
Sanlang's eyes flew open.
What the hell was he thinking?!
A deep, horrified groan escaped his lips as he sat up abruptly, nearly sloshing water out of the tub. His face burned, not from the whiskey, but from sheer mortification. Had he really just—? Had he seriously—?
God.
He dragged a wet hand down his face, half tempted to dunk his head underwater and never resurface. This was insane. He was insane. Fantasizing like some desperate, love-starved fool over a woman who barely acknowledged him beyond polite necessity?
Get a grip, Sanlang!
He shook his head vigorously, trying to rid himself of the lingering heat in his body and the absolute disgrace of his own thoughts. This wasn't him. He wasn't some reckless, infatuated teenager with no control.
And yet, as he sat there, staring at his reflection in the window, he knew the damage was done.
Noor had seeped into his veins. And now, no matter how hard he tried, there was no purging her from his system.
With a long, miserable sigh, Sanlang slumped back into the water, covering his face with his hands.
He was doomed.