Zain couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Zayra’s voice had been shaky, and he knew she was hiding her pain. The thought of her crying alone, pretending to be fine, gnawed at him.

"What if I hurt her?" he muttered, gripping the steering wheel of his black Mercedes. Without a second thought, he floored the accelerator, desperate to see her, to make sure she was okay.

Suddenly, it started to get very dark, and strong winds began to blow. Heavy rain poured down relentlessly.

Zain was driving fast, wearing a black shirt, his eyes focused on the pitch-black highway ahead. The storm raged around him, but he didn’t slow down.

At the turning point, Zain’s car crashed into a truck. The rain was falling so heavily that he couldn’t see anything. The crash was loud, and his car flipped upside down with a horrible sound.

People rushed to the scene, their hearts racing as they saw the wreck. Zain was unconscious, trapped inside the car, and the petrol was leaking out, spreading on the ground. It was dangerous, and the car could catch fire at any moment.

Through the rain and chaos, a faint sound came from inside. "Zayra… Zayra…" Zain’s weak, broken voice called out, even in his unconscious state. Her name was all he could say, as if she was the only thing on his mind.

The rescuers paused, shaken by the sound, then quickly worked to pull him out. They knew time was running out.Just as they got him out, the car suddenly exploded into flames.

The heat from the fire was intense, and the flames shot up into the sky. If they had been even a second too late, Zain would have been burned alive. Everyone stood still, shocked by how close they had come to losing him.

They rushed Zain to the hospital, his body limp and covered in blood. The blood flowed heavily from his wounds, soaking the stretcher beneath him. His body was bruised and battered, every inch marked with dark purple spots, signs of the brutal impact.

The doctors immediately assessed him, their faces grim. One looked up, his voice cold and steady, but filled with sorrow. "There's no chance he'll survive this," he said, his words hanging in the air like a death sentence. He turned to the nurses. "Prepare the operating room Now."

Zain lay there, unconscious and helpless on the stretcher, his breathing shallow and uneven. His face was pale, his body a broken shell.

The doctor looked at the nurses and then turned to the others, his voice serious and urgent. "I need his parents to sign the consent form immediately. This operation is extremely complicated, and there's a high chance he might not survive."

"The operation is full of risks," the doctor added, his words heavy with the gravity of the situation.

One of the people who rescued him spoke up, his voice filled with frustration and anger. "We don't know who his parents are. We found his car on the road, wrecked. He was hit by a truck, and the driver just left him there dying, alone. The truck driver ran away, leaving him to bleed out. We got him out of the car and brought him here."

The doctor’s face hardened, but his tone remained urgent. "His family must sign the consent form. We don’t have time to waste."

The boy was slipping away, his breath shallow and labored. Every second felt like it could be his last.

This version intensifies the situation, focusing on the urgency and emotional tension.

“Wait,” someone said, their voice shaking with realization. “I recognize him now… It’s Zain. Yes, it’s Zain.”

A murmur of recognition spread through the room. “He’s Mr. Armani’s son,” another person said, their voice filled with awe. “The biggest businessman in the country.”

“I saw him on the news recently, right before his birthday,” someone else added.

More people began to chime in, all confirming the same. “Yeah, I saw him too.”

One of the paramedics turned to the doctor, urgency in their voice. “Doctor, it’s really important that we save him. He’s just 18. He has so much ahead of him.”

As if on cue, a phone call was made, and soon, Mr. Armani arrived, his security guards in tow, rushing through the hospital doors. His eyes were wide with fear and concern as he quickly approached the doctor and signed the consent papers, his hand trembling as he did.

Mr. Armani glared at the doctor, his voice cold and threatening. “You will save my son, Zain, at all costs. If not, I will destroy your career and your hospital.”

He leaned in closer. “Remember, Zain is my only son. This hospital runs on my donations. So, if the operation fails…”

Mr. Armani's words hung in the air, heavy with menace. “Just think about what I’ll do to your hospital.”

The doctor, visibly shaken, nodded quickly. “Relax, Mr. Armani. I will save Zain, no matter what.”

With that, the doctor rushed into the operating theater and began the urgent treatment.

Meanwhile, Mr. Armani, his mind racing, picked up his phone. He called Mr. Alessandro, Arish’s father, the owner of the country’s most prestigious hospital. His voice was calm but laced with power. “I need your best surgeon here, now. Zain’s life depends on it.”

The reason Zain wasn’t being transferred to Mr Alessandro’s hospital was simple time was against them. The treatment had to start immediately, or it would be too late.

The surgeon arrived quickly, and the operation began. Outside, Mr. Armani was pacing, his nerves tight with stress, his mind consumed by worry for his son.

Hours later, the operation finally ended. Mr. Armani rushed to the doctor, his voice filled with desperation. “How is my son?”

The doctor looked at him with a tired but relieved expression. “He’s out of danger, for now. But the next 24 hours will be critical. He has internal injuries that could still be life-threatening.”

Then, with a softened gaze, the doctor added, "Throughout the operation, he kept whispering her name... Zayra, over and over, as if it was the only thing keeping him alive. I think you should call her. Her voice... it might be the one thing that brings him back to us."

Mr. Armani’s heart sank, his face tight with fear. He sat by Zain, the weight of the situation pressing on him. The sterile air felt suffocating.

All night, he watched Zain, unable to look away. The silence in the room was heavy. Tears filled Mr. Armani’s eyes as he saw his son so vulnerable. The pain of nearly losing him was overwhelming, and his sobs mixed with the beeping of the machines.

Meanwhile, at home, Zayra couldn’t hold back her tears. The thought of Zain cheating on her with Aria, and the feeling that he had lied to her, crushed her. Her heart ached with betrayal, and in her anger, she stormed to her father.

Unable to control her emotions, she stormed into her father’s study, her voice raw with hurt. "Dad," she said, barely holding back a sob, "I trust you. You always know what’s best for me. Let’s leave Milan I’m ready I can’t stay here anymore."

Her words were filled with pain and frustration, the weight of her confusion evident in every syllable. She just wanted to escape it all.

Mr. Astor looked at Zayra, his concern deepening. "Zayra, are you really okay? Do you want to leave, or are you doing this just for me?" He paused, noticing her red eyes. "Why are your eyes so red? Were you crying?"

Zayra quickly wiped her face, forcing a calm tone. "No, Dad. I wasn't crying. My eyes... I was just wearing contact lenses."

She straightened up, trying to appear composed. "You can go to my school tomorrow and ask the teachers to let me take my exams early so we can leave."

Mr. Astor’s brow furrowed. "Zayra, do you really want to leave Milan? Last time, you were so upset about it. You even got angry, which you never do."

Zayra’s heart tightened, but she kept her voice steady. "Yes, Dad. I’m ready to leave Milan and all the people I care about here." Her words hung in the air, but deep down, she felt a sharp ache. She wasn’t sure if she was making the right choice, but the weight of everything—of Zain, of the confusion—was too much to bear.

Zain's life slipped away in the hospital, while Zayra, her heart shattered, turned her back on him, walking toward a future without him. The distance between them felt infinite, as if destiny itself had torn them apart.