Khaani is a twenty-one-year-old girl who grew up in a loving household. The eldest daughter, twin to a brother, sister to younger ones, and the jaan of her family, she was named to be the female Khan.
Unlike her namesake, however, bravery is a concept foreign to her. She avoids fights, is scared of the smallest things, and is sensitive at heart. But all happy sunshine stories drown in storms, and Khaani’s story is no exception.
On her twenty-first birthday, Sarim—Khaani’s twin brother—is shot and hospitalized, his wounds too severe, leaving him in a coma.
The man responsible for it?
Major Iqbal.
A decorated ISI major, son of a military brigadier turned politician, who controls the politics of Pakistan at his fingertips.
When grief-ridden Khaani demands justice and punishment for Iqbal, how will she navigate through it when the whole world seems to be against her?
Especially when her brother’s gunehgaar is unapologetically, irrevocably, and dangerously obsessed with her.
STORY DISCLAIMER ♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧
⚠️ CONTENT WARNING / DISCLAIMER
This story contains dark and mature themes, including but not limited to: obsession, stalking, possessive behavior, morally questionable dynamics, and consensual non-consensual elements (CNC). Reader discretion is strongly advised.
Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.
The tags mean exactly what they say. If these themes make you uncomfortable, please do not proceed.
The relationship dynamics portrayed in this story are not healthy and are not meant to represent real-life relationships. This is purely a work of fiction exploring darker themes and psychological dynamics.
This story is inspired by actor Arjun Rampal and his portrayal of Major Iqbal, and not the real-life individual or the historical figure associated with the name.
Everything in this story is fictional and created for narrative purposes only.
STORY TAGS ♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧
Tags: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dark Themes, Explicit Sexual Content, Consensual Non-Consent (CNC), Dubious Consent, Stalking, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Manipulation, Morally Grey Characters, Dark Romance, Toxic Relationships, Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Possessive Male Character, Stalker Behavior, Watching From Afar, Psychological Manipulation, Control Issues, Jealousy, Protective to an Unhealthy Degree, Slow Burn Obsession, Morally Questionable Decisions, Fictional Morality, “If I Can’t Have You No One Can” Energy, Devotion Taken Too Far, Touch Her and Die Energy, Inspired by Arjun Rampal’s portrayal of Major Iqbal, Author Chose Violence, You Were Warned, Please Read The Tags.
AUTHOR'S NOTE ♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧
Hello everyone. I apologise for disappearing. I’ve been mentally exhausted for the past two weeks, which is why I couldn’t write at all. Everything seemed to break down on me at once — that incident, personal issues at home, and my PCOS — and it honestly felt like a dam collapsing all at once. It took me some time to gather myself and come back.
But I want to thank all of you for your support and patience. It truly means a lot to me, and I will continue writing.
Also, just to clarify — this story is based on the Pakistani drama Khaani.
I will soon make a masterlist for this too. I will give updates regarding my other fics as well, don't worry. Your girl is back now. :)
They were terrible: the constant fuss of the medical staff in every emergency, the white walls that seemed to suck the soul from your body, and the wafting scent of antiseptic that left you feeling suffocated. She despised them with all her heart.
She had never imagined herself in these tiled, disinfected rooms, staring at a machine that whirred mechanically and echoed the heartbeat thudding inside her brother’s body.
Her brother was a man who always had something to say. He was only silent when forced to be. Otherwise, his mouth was moving constantly. Just like hers.
And why wouldn’t it? After all, he was her twin brother.
It had been three days since he last spoke. Here, on the hospital bed, he lay almost lifeless, with machines and wires pumping life into him. How had it happened? In a matter of minutes, the careful life they had built had collapsed.
All because of a man named Major Iqbal.
Three days ago
“BABA!” Khaani screamed, jumping onto the nearest elevation—the drawer—as fear crawled through her body.
“KYA HUA?!” Her mother rushed in, looking around for a burglar, while her father barged in with a bat. “Kya hua, Khaani? Why are you screaming?”
She pointed at the big, unmoving roach near her pillow, shivering at the mere sight of the insect. “B-big one! Near my pillow!”
Her parents let out a tsk. Her father braved his way to the pillow, tossed it aside, and the bug remained still. Khaani shrieked again, hiding her face behind the window curtains, soft whimpers trembling from her mouth.
“Khaani, this is a fake roach,” her father said, picking it up as if it were just a leaf and not a disgusting-looking cockroach. “Get down from the drawer, beta.”
“But fake?” she asked, uncertain.
Just then, loud, voracious laughter boomed through the room. Her twin brother, Sarim, and her younger sisters, Sana and Sara, piled in, laughing at her frozen figure on the drawer. Khaani understood immediately. It was their ploy to scare her.
Of course. What better fun than scaring the eldest daughter in the house, who was, ironically, a coward—even with the name Khaani.
“Tum logo ki khair nahi!” Khaani shouted, launching herself at her siblings as they shrieked and tried to fend her off.
Her mother pulled them apart, twisting Sarim’s ear. “Sarim! How many times have I told you not to scare your sister? Tujhe pata hai na woh thodi—”
“Darpok hai,” Sarim finished, earning a sharper twist. “Ammi, it hurts!”
“Darpok nahi… naazuk hai teri behen,” Sonia said, drawing an indignant ‘haw’ from her eldest. “At least birthday ke din pe toh chhod do usko! Saalgirah hai tum dono ka! Make her happy, make her smile. Why do you want to make her cry first thing in the morning?”
“Because,” Sana cut in, settling on the bed beside her father and hugging his side, “it’s sick entertainment, annoying her!”
Her father, Salman, laughed, then disguised it as a cough under his wife’s deadly glare. “Sana beta, you can’t say that to your sister!”
“Aur tujhe mere haathon se mukke khaana, mera paidaishi haq hai!” Khaani shot back, chasing Sarim through the house as laughter echoed.
She was named Khaani.
Her name had several meanings: sweet, delightful. But the one her parents had imagined, when she was a pink little thing in their hands, was brave. Khaani, the female version of Khan.
And she was an utter disappointment to it.
She grew up afraid of every new thing: insects, creatures, the dark, the unknown, even people. She was always the first to avoid fights; a brawl would break out in the street and, before anyone could blink, she’d be miles away.
It wasn’t something her parents taught her. It was something she absorbed from the world around her. Melt away into a corner and you’ll be much safer.
That fear settled into her skin, ran through her veins, and became second nature—cowering back into the safe bubble of home and family.
“Beta, do you really need to go today?” her mother asked Sarim, feeding him a spoonful of kheer. “It’s your birthday. I’m pretty sure they’ve received your application. They won’t mind a small delay.”
Sarim smiled and shook his head, sliding his portfolio and resume into the small, new briefcase—a birthday gift from Khaani last year. Khaani watched from the doorway as the leather caught the light: smooth, expensive, worth almost three months of her savings. The bracelet Sarim had gifted her sat heavy on her wrist.
“Ammi, I have to make the best impression, right? If I’m late, they’ll think I’m a tardy man, and that’s against what you taught me. Just bless me that I get the scholarship and come home with good news.”
Sonia smiled warmly, patting his head and offering him another spoonful despite his protests. “Inshallah, you will get it. I just know it. Come back soon, okay? Don’t get ‘lost’ with your awara friends. We’re celebrating at home. I don’t want you to—”
“Okay, Mumma! Please, I won’t! I’m getting late now—” he said, rushing out.
But before he could leave, Khaani stopped him. “Good luck, champ,” she said, bumping his fist. “And wear some perfume, for God’s sake. Don’t go killing the officials with your manly testosterone.”
“Bitch,” he retorted.
“Bastard,” Khaani shot back.
Sarim walked away, then glanced around and flashed her the middle finger over his head. Khaani huffed, amused, as she headed back inside, secretly praying he’d get the scholarship—not that she would ever admit it to his face.
She got ready in a yellow salwar kameez, slipped on dainty earrings, and left early for the mall to find Sarim a birthday gift. It was their tradition: one expensive but thoughtful present every year. What began as gift cards and messy DIY explosion boxes had grown into leather bags, earrings, and bracelets, each bought with months of careful saving.
Centaurus Mall was crowded even on a weekday, packed with people who were too unemployed, pockets full of daddy’s money, or too unbothered to go out on weekends and wanted one day of peace from the usual Saturdays and Sundays. Khaani fell into a different category: graduated, currently unemployed, and here on a mission to buy Sarim a watch.
What had Sarim bought for her? The set of Penguin Publishers classics she’d hinted at a few days ago? Another piece of jewelry? As much as she loved jewelry, even as an investment, she hoped for something else.
A sharp, cool gust from the air conditioner hit her as she entered Nizam Watch Store, and she welcomed it with open arms; Islamabad’s summer had become unbearable. It was the kind of store where you felt underdressed the moment you walked in: low lights, a hum of faint jazz, and glass cases lining the walls with an array of watches.
A saleswoman appeared at once, greeting her and looking Khaani up and down—something every store worker did, and something Khaani didn’t particularly mind.
“Can you show me something affordable? I have a budget of five thousand,” Khaani said.
The woman’s smile faltered for a split second, then returned in a saccharine, professional curve. “Of course!”
Khaani bent over the display case, squinting at a slim silver piece with intricate carvings—majestic enough for Sarim’s hairy gorilla hands. It had a steel build, leather straps, and Roman numerals that would make Sarim complain it was too corporate and materialistic, and yet he’d treasure it like diamonds.
She was determined to stay under budget, a resolve she’d made in the auto on the way here. Then the fare had been one hundred and fifty rupees, and she’d started to regret it. But she loved Sarim too much to turn back.
The glass door swung open again with a small, muffled screech. Khaani stayed focused on the watch, weighing other options even as her mind clung to the first one, when she heard a voice. A male voice.
She couldn’t make out the words, only the bass reaching her ears. God, that was a beautiful voice.
The air in the room shifted; the salesmen straightened, on their best behavior—a sharp contrast to how they’d been when she walked in. From beneath her lashes, Khaani noticed the saleswoman’s eyes darting toward someone else again and again, but she ignored it. She preferred to mind her business, not whip around at the sight of some rich person—common enough in a mall like Centaurus.
“I like this one. Can you pack it?” Khaani pointed to her first choice. “Is there a gift-wrap option as well?”
“Yes ma’am, please go to the billing counter,” the saleswoman said, pointing. Khaani nodded, digging into her handbag for the debit card, which had become a victim of the trenches that were her purse. She fished around, unable to find the thin card—until a decorative high-rise display went unnoticed and she stubbed her foot against it, stumbling forward.
The world tilted for a second, a shriek escaping her lips. This was it. Her dignity, in such a posh place, was going down the drain the moment she hit the marbled floor.
But the impact never came.
A warm hand encircled her waist, steadying her back against the rock-solid chest of a man. The scent of expensive cologne and cigar hit her nostrils; it was not pungent or repulsive, but strangely comforting, unraveling her. She felt tiny in his hands, almost engulfed by his frame as he held her close after the near fall.
“Mohatarma, aap theek ho?” the voice asked.
She opened her eyes, looked around, and then finally looked at him.
The world stopped for a split second as their eyes met. Ya Allah.
He was tall, towering over her with the easy advantage of a foot. He stared back with obsidian eyes. His long beard framed his face in a flattering way, a testament to his age and experience, yet he did not look unnervingly old. He simply looked weathered by a few events that had failed to steal the handsome features beneath the rough exterior.
He was dressed in a dark gray dress shirt and pants. The fabric felt like pure cotton against her palm when she accidentally brushed it. Everything about him screamed voracious money, status, and danger.
But God, he was handsome.
“Uh… ji. I am fine—there’s this elevation, and I didn’t notice it,” Khaani blabbered, offering an explanation as her cheeks flushed crimson. She was suddenly aware of her surroundings, of everyone looking at her.
“Hmm,” he said simply, releasing his grip on Khaani’s waist. He held out his card to the cashier. One click, the machine whirred out a receipt, and he walked away with a small bag hanging from his hand.
“Shukriya, Major sahab!” the cashier called out. The man—Major sahab. Was that his name, or a title? He did not even acknowledge it, simply fading into the crowd of the mall.
That was rude of him, Khaani thought, her nose scrunching slightly. She had yet to come in contact with rich people who were genuinely kind and polite.
Even as Khaani walked out of the mall and rode back home in the auto, sacrificing another one hundred and sixty rupees this time, she could not forget him.
In her small and humble life of twenty-one years, she had met only a handful of people she could not forget. A few of them were movie stars she had come across in Islamabad malls, but other than that, none had made an impression on her the way he did.
The scent of his cologne still lingered on her.
Hours passed after she came back home. Sarim called just minutes after she got down from the auto, telling them he had been accepted for the scholarship. Her whole family screamed ecstatically. Her father cried tears of happiness while her mother thanked God several times. Khaani left all the work and began cooking his favourite sweet to celebrate.
Sana and Sara made plans to empty Sarim’s pockets under the excuse of a congratulatory party. The house remained decorated, the cake chilled in the fridge, and the gifts waited patiently to the side for the twins to open together.
Khaani felt her life could not be more perfect. It was perfect. A small world, a happy bubble she had built with her parents and siblings. She could ask for nothing else, only for this happiness to remain constant after the challenges her parents had faced in Khaani’s childhood.
Her phone rang. The ringtone of an unfamiliar caller broke their quiet, happy bubble. “Assalaam walekyun. Kaun bol rahe hain?”
“Ji kya aap Khaani Ali Khan ho?” a female voice asked. Khaani did not recognise the voice. She was hearing it for the first time.
“Ji,” Khaani answered.
“Ham Islamabad International Hospital se baat kar rahe hain. Aapki relation ka ek shaqs, Sarim Ali Khan, hospitalized hain. He got shot and is under emergency surgery.”
With one phone call, the beautiful life she had built collapsed in a few seconds.
I am a possessive man. Mera pyaar junoon hain aur meri barbaadi bhi. Jab main mohabbat karta hain, woh haseena meri ruh hain aur unki ruh ko koi aur ka naam se mile, yeh muhje bardasht nahi hota.
Isiliye I married khaani. @iqbal-ki-jannat-nasheen-begum
My antics might be bit extreme, but it was needed. So I abducted her and married her.
