Chapter 1 – The Man Who Felt Nothing

The city moved beneath him like a silent chessboard. Cars weaved through the streets in obedient lines. People, too small to matter from this height, rushed like ants between glass towers.

Rehan Sehgal stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of his 51st-story office, one hand in his pocket, the other loosely holding a glass of scotch he hadn’t touched.

Behind him, the room was silent—sleek furniture, minimalist art, and not a speck out of place. Just like him.

“Do you ever stop working?” came a voice from the door.

Rehan didn’t turn. “I don’t consider existing in silence to be work, Zayn.”

Zayn Raichand walked in, uninvited as always, holding two coffees in hand. He placed one on Rehan’s desk and perched himself on the edge of the couch.

“You’ve been standing there for forty minutes.”

Rehan finally turned, the sharp angle of his jaw catching the early morning light. “Do you want something, or are you here to discuss my posture?”

Zayn smiled. “Actually, I have two things. One, we have to finalize the approval for the Westview cultural zone acquisition. And two...” he hesitated, “you’ve been invited to the city’s Winter Gala.”

Rehan raised an eyebrow. “A gala? I don’t do charity circles.”

“It’s not charity,” Zayn said carefully. “It’s… political. The cultural committee is backing it. If we want that land, you’ll have to play nice for one night.”

Rehan stared at him. Cold. Calculated. “Fine. But I’m not dancing.”

“God forbid,” Zayn muttered with a smirk. “Try not to scare the artists.”

“I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to win.”

---

That night, Rehan walked into the Winter Gala like a shadow moving through light. Dressed in black, no tie, no smile. His presence turned heads—not out of admiration, but apprehension.

Zayn trailed behind, greeting people effortlessly, carrying both their social weight.

Rehan scanned the room. Music floated through the air — soft piano over murmurs of laughter. The venue was part art gallery, part ballroom. A wall of paintings caught his eye.

"That one," Zayn said quietly beside him, nodding to a piece — a canvas swirled in chaotic blues and golds, like a storm trying to become sunlight.

“It’s called Unspoken Bonds.” A soft voice answered from behind.

Rehan turned.

There she stood — poised but gentle. A simple dress, paint-stained hands, and eyes that had seen more life than she let on. Not beauty in the obvious sense. Something deeper. Rooted.

“I’m Jen Shah,” she said, offering a polite nod. “I own the studio that painted this collection.”

Zayn smiled. “You’re the eldest Shah sister?”

Jen nodded, noticing Rehan’s piercing gaze on her — unreadable, unkind. She tilted her head slightly. “You don’t like it?”

“I don’t like abstract emotion masquerading as art,” Rehan said coolly. “It’s messy.”

Jen didn’t flinch. “Then maybe you’ve never experienced what it’s trying to say.”

Zayn choked slightly on his drink.

Rehan’s jaw tightened. “And what is it trying to say?”

Jen walked up to the painting, gesturing to the stormy brushwork. “That even in chaos, people can be held together by invisible threads. Love. Family. Loss. Bonds that don’t need words.”

Rehan stared. Not at the painting. At her.

He didn’t reply. He turned and walked away without a word.

Zayn gave her an apologetic look. “That’s the most he’s spoken to anyone tonight. You’ve left a dent.”

Jen smiled softly. “I wasn’t trying to.”

---

Outside, Rehan lit a cigarette and stared at the sky.

Invisible threads.

He scoffed.

He didn’t believe in anything he couldn’t control.

Not love. Not family. And certainly not people like her.

But something about her words clung to him like smoke he couldn’t exhale.

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