A/N: If you follow me on Twitter, you know I got obsessed with the idea of Meerab finding out she is a Khan under less dramatic circumstances. This story starts when Meerab is 18 and Murtasim is 21, and will follow them through every summer of their lives!

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At the tender age of twenty-one, Murtasim Khan had thought he had inherited all the musibats one could possibly inherit. His destiny, shaped by his father's death, had thrusted him into the role of a feudal lord, a mantle he didn't ask for, and one that came with a myriad of complex problems even his predecessors had been unable to unravel. It was a role too heavy for his youthful shoulders, and a life that seemed to be shaped more by obligation and duty than by the desires of his heart.

But as fate would have it, at twenty-one, Murtasim inherited a musibat he had never anticipated –the bane of his existence was actually Meerab Anwar Khan not Meerab Waqas Ahmed.

Meerab, a girl he had known since childhood but understood little, was the unanticipated daughter of his Anwar-Chacha.

If he were to rank television-worthy revelations in his family, that would take the cake. To him, the revelation that Meerab was family was somehow more shocking than when his mother's father had casually announced that he had an identical twin who lived in India. It was even more shocking than when he had discovered that his grandmother's sister wrote political novels under a pseudonym. He didn't even count the story of his uncle who had 13 children with women other than his wife as television-worthy, that man was just a disgrace.

Nothing had shocked him as much as when Chacha-Saab, who had been mostly absent from his life until his father's death, had revealed the truth about Meerab's parentage on her 18th birthday, it left him reeling.

He had just whispered no.

His mother had whacked him in the head and told him to shut up – everyone said he got his anger issues from his father, but he was sure his mother's disposition hadn't helped the matter.

For years, Meerab was just Meerab Waqas Ahmed, an annoying girl who had always been a part of the Ahmeds' visits. But on her eighteenth birthday, she was revealed to be a Khan, a daughter forsaken by her own father after her mother's death.

If the secret had shaken him less, he would have enjoyed her gobsmacked expression more, she had been about to take a sip of the mango shake in front of her when after a couple of sighs Chacha-Saab revealed that he was her biological father.

It was like in that moment the heavens had parted and he had received the answer he had had always sought. it made so much sense suddenly. For Murtasim had always wondered why his family was so engrossed in every detail of Meerab's life, so much so that he knew much more than he wanted to know about her.

Like the fact that she had started a Bachelors in Law (LLB) just last year – it had been a contested topic in his household for women in their families chose a short three-year Bachelors of Arts, at most a Bachelors of Education, to ensure they could teach their future children. A five-year LLB was a shock, and there had been a lot of back-and-forth that he didn't understand, until Meerab inevitably got her way, she always did.

He also knew that they all thought Meerab was utterly gorgeous, his mother left no opportunity to comment that she was the most beautiful in their family, he had never considered her a part of the family so he just rolled his eyes at that comment, she was...all right.

Murtasim also knew that they – meaning his mother and uncle - also thought that she had too many male friends, that she was not demure enough for their tastes, that she loved the colours pink and yellow, preferred books over movies, and so many other little things he didn't care for.

Meerab had always gotten the attention that even Haya, who lived in the Khan Household, did not receive. He had always wondered why. Anwar's revelation had given him the answers he sought, and the musibat he didn't ask for.

Meerab, a whirlwind of a girl, was now, by virtue of blood and lineage, a part of his life.

The universe had played a prank on Murtasim; he could no longer comment on or protest her presence in the grandeur of his ancestral home for she had a right to the house now, as much as he did. No more could he indulge in daydreams of banning her brief visits; she was officially in for the long haul. Even her fleeting birthday visits had him breaking out in cold sweat; imagining her as a permanent fixture was like picturing a cat at a dog convention. What was next, setting up a "Meerab's Palace" plaque by the front door?

She would be a regular presence in the Khan Haveli, and he could not digest that thought.

Every year, Meerab's short visits to the Khan Haveli were reminiscent of a tempestuous storm that unsettled the calm of Murtasim's life.

With an innate defiance, she never heeded to the house rules, challenging orders and often leaving chaos in her wake. Her ears always seemed tuned in to catch whispers and confidential conversations, leading to a cascade of gossip or confrontations. Midnight escapades were her specialty, with Murtasim losing countless hours of sleep, searching for her after she'd stealthily sneak out. His personal effects weren't safe either; she had an uncanny talent for mischief, hiding his study materials, replacing ink with water, and creating riddles for him to solve just to locate a book.

And then there were the animals.

He hated the animals.

Meerab's heart melted at every stray, leading her to create a mini-zoo in the Haveli with cats, dogs, and last year, to Murtasim's utmost exasperation, it had been a stray goat – who she had named Khushbakri Khan – and refused to let go of.

Khushbakri Khan had hated Murtasim, the creature seemed to have a vendetta against Murtasim, and would charge at him with narrowed eyes whenever their paths crossed. It was almost as if the goat knew that Murtasim had plotted its exit plan.

In the past, all this commotion would wrap up in a day or two; a stern talk from him, a sulky face from her, and she'd make her exit. But now, the tempest named Meerab wasn't just passing through; she'd pitched a tent for the entirety of summer, turning his life into a three-month-long reality show. It felt like cosmic payback for him having sent Khushbakri Khan off to the slaughterhouse the moment Meerab had turned her back.

He was sure that Khushbakri Khan had cursed him.

Meerab, whose very existence seemed to challenge the status quo, was now his problem for a whole summer.

The annoying girl who was once a mere acquaintance was now a cousin he was forced to understand. Forced to protect. Forced to accommodate into his already complicated life.

His life was filled with inherited responsibilities, unforeseen challenges, and a newfound musibat.

The problem, Murtasim realized, wasn't merely Meerab's existence in his life.

The real problems were how easily she seemed to disrupt the life he had so carefully tried to construct since his father's death, his inexplicable curiosity, the concern he felt when he looked into her sad eyes, and the unsettling feeling that his life was about to change irrevocably.

She disrupted the harmonious cadence of their household. With eyes too large for her face, Meerab would dart glances between family members, like a wounded animal deciding whether to defend or launch an attack. She found solace in the presence of Maryam, his younger sister, but to the rest, she remained as distant and wary as a creature in unfamiliar territory.

Murtasim tried to ignore the glistening tears that pooled in her eyes, and it was easy at times because she was truly driving him to the brink of insanity. Meerab had always been different, nothing like the women who graced the corners of his household, she wasn't quiet, she questioned everything – she always had but before he had gotten away with yelling at her but if she was to be a permanent member of the household, he knew he couldn't do that.

He wanted to ignore her, just like he ignored Haya, but Meerab wasn't someone that could be ignored.

Even right then, he wanted to ignore her but couldn't.

She was wandering in the sprawling gardens alone past midnight, her figure bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight. She wore a white pajama set, the semi-translucent fabric doing little to hide her figure, and on top of that the bottoms were shorts that left her long legs on display. It was a rather warm night, and while she was free to wear whatever she wanted in the privacy of her room, the gardens were open, and there were eyes that would linger when they shouldn't.

A mixture of protectiveness and irritation gnawed at him, compelling him to descend the grand staircase head out towards the garden. He found her sitting alone on a stone bench by the time he arrived, lost in her thoughts, oblivious to the inappropriate nature of her attire and how high her shorts were riding up, it was even worse up close.

"Meerab, go inside." Murtasim's voice echoed through the tranquil gardens, his tone firm, authoritative. "Or go change at least."

Her response was instantaneous, her eyes narrowing into a defiant glare, her lips curling into a scowl – as always. "And why is it any of your business what I wear, Murtasim?" She spat, her tone laced with contempt.

"Your clothes are practically see-through and those shorts are non-existent." It was an exaggeration, he knew that.

"There is nothing wrong with what I am wearing, I am not in public, everyone is asleep, and I was sitting here alone before you decided to come bother me. The problem here is the fact that you're staring."

A flame of indignation flared within him and he scoffed. "I am the last person who would stare, I couldn't care less, but the guards..." He gestured vaguely towards the estate's perimeter. "...they aren't family. And as the head of this house, it's my duty to ensure that every woman under its roof is respected."

His words were met with a scoff, a bitter, disbelieving sound that seemed to reverberate in the stillness of the night. "I am not a woman of your house." She retorted, her voice rising, an undercurrent of hostility palpable in her tone.

"Whether you like it or not Meerab, you are." Murtasim responded, his own voice steeling with resolve. "Your father is my uncle. That makes you family, and as family, there are certain rules you must abide by."

Her incredulous laughter rang out, breaking the hushed silence. "Rules? Your rules?" She sneered, her disdain for his words written clearly across her face as she got up, standing in front of him. Her long legs were deceiving for she was more than a head shorter than him. "I am not your responsibility, Murtasim. I won't have you, or anyone else in this godforsaken family, dictating my life." She moved closer with the words.

He remained unfazed by her outburst. "It's not about dictating your life." He reasoned, trying to keep his temper in check, it was always impossible with her and he could already feel the anger bubbling inside him. "It's about safeguarding your honor, our family's honor." He could hear the whispers already, the maids would say things like did you see what she was wearing, they already made comments about the modest western clothing she wore in broad daylight.

And there it was again - that scoff, that dismissive shake of her head, that fiery, defiant spark in her eyes that he absolutely abhorred.

"Just listen for once, Meerab." Murtasim commanded, a note of finality creeping into his voice as he stepped closer, looking down at her, his anger simmering. He stood in front of her with his arms crossed, towering over her, attempting to impose a semblance of authority over her.

Her scoff echoed in response, a derisive sound that matched her dismissive body language. She looked away, deliberately ignoring his presence. "No." She retorted nonchalantly, her voice brimming with defiance.

Murtasim's anger simmered at her stubbornness. "Badtameez!" He called out.

"Just for not listening to you?" She asked, turning to look at him, an eyebrow raised in challenge, stepping closer. Her chocolate brown eyes shone in the moonlight, reflecting a defiance that echoed her words as she looked up at him.

"Do you listen to anyone, Meerab?" He shot back, frustration seeping into his tone.

She shrugged, the action casual, almost indifferent as she sat back down on the bench. "When they make sense." She responded, her tone laced with subtle mockery as she crossed her legs, as if to annoy him further.

Sensing the futility of his attempts to make her listen, Murtasim took a step back, releasing a sigh of exasperation. Then, making a decision, he moved to sit on the bench. His presence commanded respect, and he knew that his proximity would shield her from unwanted eyes.

"Is it really that difficult to show some respect?" He asked her, turning to look at her, his gaze firm and resolute. "Or is it just me that you have a problem with?"

"Respect is earned, and yes, mostly you." She shrugged.

"Why are you up so late?" He asked, changing the topic, hoping to break the tension lest a shouting match break out in the garden and wake up the whole house. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Why do you care?" Was her immediate response, her words laced with an undertone of bitterness. It seemed their conversation had reached an impasse, and Murtasim found himself grappling with the challenge of this new musibat in his life.

"Because you're disturbing my sleep." He replied, his words blunt and honest, he rarely got the chance to sleep properly, and he had been about to head to bed when he caught sight of her roaming the gardens.

"I didn't ask you to come here." She countered, her tone cold and detached.

He sighed heavily, leaning back on the bench and running a hand through his hair. The conversation was going nowhere, and they both seemed to know it. They lapsed into silence for a while, the only sounds were the chirping of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind.

Finally, he spoke again. "Did you know?" He asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"About my true parentage?" She didn't wait for him to clarify, her words dripping with bitter sarcasm.

He hummed, not trusting himself to speak.

"Of course not, never even suspected it...I used to say that I was a spitting image of my mother...well adopted mother...like an idiot." She replied, a hollow laugh escaping her lips. "Weird, isn't it? To not know who you are, or think you're someone you're not. No longer an Ahmed. But not quite a Khan."

"Why not a Khan?" He asked, genuinely curious.

"I don't fit in with all of you. Especially with you and your anger and controlling behavior." She stated, her voice growing colder.

"I am not controlling or angry!" He defended, his tone heated, as he got back up, wanting to tower over her.

"Oh, you are!" She shot back, getting up herself. "This morning you yelled at me for wanting to go out alone. Now you came down to yell at me because of my clothes. You have a serious problem, Murtasim."

He could feel his anger rising again. "I do not-"

"See? Do you hear yourself?" She interrupted, a wry smile playing on her lips. "Proved my point."

"If you're going to stay here, act like you should." He said, the words heavy and tense.

"You don't control me." She retorted, her voice firm and unyielding, her finger poking his chest.

"I control everything here." He replied, his tone matching hers in its stubbornness, refusing to back down.

She laughed then, a sharp, bitter sound. "This birdhouse is controlled by a 21-year-old boy?"

"Man," Murtasim bit back, the word "boy" leaving a sour taste in his mouth. Being merely 18 when he had to take up the mantle of a feudal lord after his father's demise, he was often belittled and called 'boy' by the serfs who refused to acknowledge his authority. The reminder of that title was a blow to his pride each time, pushing him to constantly prove himself.

She simply rolled her eyes. "One that can't even grow a proper beard?" She quipped. "Man." She scoffed.

Sometimes he wondered if he could kill her and get away with it. Just like he had with Khushbakri Khan.

"I run the very reasons you're able to sit in this house securely and eat." He reminded her, stepping closer, invading her space.

"I didn't ask to be here." She snapped back, her gaze hard and defiant, so different from how she smelled – of vanilla and flowers.

"You're ungrateful." He accused, his temper flaring.

"I am just not grateful to you, Murtasim. People aren't grateful by force. " She said, her voice as cold as her expression.

"You're impossible." He muttered, his hands clenching into fists.

"Maybe I am." She retorted. "So why are you trying?"

"It turns out you're my cousin." He replied, as though that explained everything.

"And that means something?" She asked, the challenge evident in her eyes.

"It does when you're out here dressed like that and crying." He pointed out, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Are you concerned that I am crying or about the people that will see me crying?" She questioned, her eyes burning into his.

The crying.

"The people." He said aloud, his voice barely audible.

Her lips curved into a bitter smile. "And this is the whole problem with this family." She said, her voice filled with scorn. "You don't care about people, just about how things look. I wouldn't have been given away if you all cared about people."

"I was three when you were born, I didn't even remember you, so you can't blame me." He defended himself.

"I don't." She replied, her tone distant.

"You should be happy." He stated, trying to look at the silver lining.

"Why? Because I no longer have an identity?" She shot back, her words bitter.

"Overnight you've become the heir to two families - the Ahmeds and ours." He pointed out.

"I don't care for money." She dismissed him easily.

"Because you've always had it." He retorted, frustration edging his words.

She remained silent, her face unreadable in the dim light.

"Sometimes...it's important to try to find the positive in all the negatives." He said, attempting to sound wise. "If you're only looking at the bad things, it'll be depressing."

She snorted derisively. "Like you have had things to deal with. I know what feudal lords, especially young ones, are like." She glared at him with an accusation in her eyes.

Murtasim felt a flare of anger at her words, the raw accusation stinging more than he'd like to admit. To be lumped into the category of typical feudal lords was something he vehemently resisted. He had been striving every day, pushing boundaries, trying to steer away from the archaic traditions and oppressive ways that were so closely associated with his title. Especially with his youth, the villagers had been quick to judge, assuming he would be just like the Malik boy or other young men they had encountered. But he was making a conscious effort to be different, to bring about change. Meerab's cynical view felt like a slap in the face, invalidating his efforts and struggles.

"Oh, do you?" He arched an eyebrow, a derisive sneer on his lips. "Enlighten me, how are we feudal lords?"

"You, with your grand houses, lands and luxury cars. People to do everything for you. You just sit back and enjoy the benefits of being born into a wealthy family." Her words were caustic, striking him like a whip. "You exploit the weak, use them for whatever you want, and crush anyone who stands in your way."

His eyes hardened at her accusations, but he let her continue.

"I've heard the stories," she continued, "about young girls, women even, getting exploited, all in the name of power and maintaining your feudal stronghold."

Murtasim's eyes darkened, his jaw clenching involuntarily. Of all the accusations thrown at him, this was the one he despised the most. The undercurrent of mistrust the village men harbored, casting wary glances whenever their daughters were near him, even though some of those very girls sought him out, trying to get his attention. He had always maintained a boundary, never allowing any transgressions, nor had he ever looked at them with anything other than respect. It infuriated him that despite his conscious efforts, they all likely believed what Meerab was saying but would never say it to his face like she was.

"You think that's who I am?" He shot back, the words tumbling out harsher than he intended.

"You tell me." She retorted, crossing her arms over her chest, her body language challenging.

"Not everyone's the same. You can't label everyone with the same brush."

"Oh, so you're different then?" She taunted, her tone skeptical.

"Yes." He said firmly. "I am."

"You expect me to believe that?" She laughed bitterly. "After seeing the world you come from? And witnessing your controlling behaviour? I'm not that naive, Murtasim."

He stepped closer, his movement deliberate and calculated, until they were mere inches apart. He could feel the quickened pace of her breath and the warmth emanating from her, even through the layers of their clothes. The intensity of his anger was palpable in the charged space between them, his towering presence leaving her with little room to maneuver.

"You know nothing about me, Meerab." He gritted out. "You come here for a couple of days every year."

"And yet I know enough about your world to know what to expect from the likes of you."

"You think you do." He corrected, a hardened edge to his voice. "But you know nothing about my struggles, the responsibilities I carry, the pressure to continue a legacy I never asked for."

"Boohoo." She rolled her eyes. "Must be tough being the rich, powerful lord, driving around in a brand-new Mercedes."

"See, there you go again." He said, exasperation seeping into his voice. "Judging me, my life, my struggles, without knowing a thing about me. You're not as different as you think you are, Meerab."

"You're wrong." She shot back, her tone icy. "I am different. Because unlike you, I don't exploit or hurt people to maintain my status."

"Like I said, you don't know me, Meerab." He repeated, his tone final, leaving no room for further argument.

"Oh, pray tell then, what do you do with your whole day?"

"I manage estates, deal with politicians, solve disputes, ensure the welfare of those who work on our lands and yes, deal with insubordinate people." He retorted, his patience running thin.

"But you exploit them!" She accused, her voice raising a notch. "You use their labor, underpay them and treat them like they are beneath you."

"You think you know so much about me, about us, don't you?" He was glaring at her now, his temper flaring. "Just because you've heard stories and read some articles, you think you've figured it all out?"

"I've seen enough." She said defiantly, meeting his gaze head on.

"But you haven't." He hissed, leaning in. "You seek out only what reaffirms your beliefs. You have no idea how hard it is, how much work and effort goes into this, how many sleepless nights I've spent dealing with problems that you can't even imagine, ones that help people rather than exploit them."

She held his gaze, unyielding and unconvinced. He realized then, that convincing Meerab was going to be an uphill battle. But if there was one thing he had inherited from his father, it was his steely determination. And he would use it to ensure that Meerab, now a part of his family, understood what being a Khan truly entailed.

"Go inside and sleep." He sighed, tired of her.

"No."

"So stubborn." He murmured under his breath.

The corners of his mouth quirked up into a small smile despite himself. "All right then." He sighed, leaning back on the bench and looking up at the moonlit mansion that towered in front of them. "But I should give you a heads up. This side of the house... it's not like the rest."

She turned to him, curiosity sparking in her eyes. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, trying to hide the smirk that was threatening to appear on his face. "Oh, you know, just that there are sometimes weird sounds, and stuff. Creaking doors, footsteps when no one's around, voices whispering."

He could see her stiffen out of the corner of his eye. "Why?"

He shrugged again, a dramatic sigh leaving his lips. "I don't know, really. Maybe because it was empty for quite a while when we lived in the village. Or maybe...maybe it's haunted. But I'm sure you're not scared, right?"

He saw her pause, a faint shiver running down her spine, the defiant spark in her eyes still very much alive despite her slight fear. "I am not scared of anything!" She retorted, but her voice had lost some of its earlier fire.

"Of course." He agreed, the hint of amusement in his voice. "That's why I'm going inside first."

Her eyes widened. "No, I am going inside first!" And with that, she spun around, attempting to dash inside.

But her haste led to her tripping over her own feet. His reflexes were quick, and he caught her before she fell. But she pushed against his chest, releasing herself from his grip. "Get away from me!" She hissed, her pride bruised. With that, she stormed inside, her long legs moving faster than he had ever seen them, leaving him behind on the porch.

He watched her disappear inside, shaking his head with a sigh. "Musibat." He muttered under his breath, before following her inside, glad that she was only staying for the summer.

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A/N: Sooooo, what did you think? What was your favourite part? What do you think is going to happen? What are you most excited to see?!