INNOCENT BILLIONAIRE

Prologue

Echoes of Absence in a London Twilight

The rain-slicked cobblestones of London glimmered under the amber streetlights as dusk draped Heathrow in a misty veil. Haider stood outside the airport, his lean frame clad in a black leather jacket, its collar turned up against the persistent drizzle. Dark jeans hugged his legs, and his polished boots tapped an impatient rhythm on the wet pavement, mirroring the agitation in his heart. His phone, gripped tightly, was a lifeline to a connection slipping through his fingers like the raindrops around him.

“Pick up, Shikha, come on,” Haider muttered, his voice sharp with frustration, barely audible over the hum of taxis and distant city clamor. He had asked Anaya to relay a message to Shikha, the fiery woman whose raven hair cascaded like a midnight river and whose eyes danced with untamed mischief. He could almost see her now, draped in her signature scarlet kurta, the fabric flowing like molten flame, lost in her own world, ignoring his calls with that infuriating nonchalance. She’ll be the death of me, he thought, his jaw tightening.

With a sigh, Haider dialed Kabir, his best friend, whose voice broke through the line like a burst of sunlight. “Hey, buddy!” Kabir’s tone was as vibrant as the neon signs illuminating London’s Piccadilly Circus, a world away from Haider’s current gloom.

“Hey,” Haider replied, his voice heavy with the weight of a transatlantic journey and unspoken worries.

“You in London now?” Kabir asked, already aware of Haider’s departure from Los Angeles.

“Yeah, landed a few hours ago. I need your help,” Haider said, pacing beneath the airport’s glass canopy, the rain a soft percussion accompanying his restless steps.

“Everything good there?” Kabir’s concern was palpable, cutting through the static of the call.

“London’s alive, chaotic, you know? But Shikha… she’s not answering,” Haider admitted, his breath fogging in the chilly air, his dark eyes scanning the bustling terminal as if it held answers.

“Don’t worry, man. I’ll see what’s up with her,” Kabir reassured, his voice steady as an anchor. Haider pictured him in his sleek LA apartment, lounging in a navy blazer over a crisp white shirt, jeans perfectly tailored, the city skyline sparkling through floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Thanks, Kabir. I owe you,” Haider said, a flicker of gratitude warming his chest.

“Nah, you don’t owe me a thing. Our dads might be at war, but we’re brothers. Got another call—talk soon!” Kabir’s line went silent, leaving Haider with the rhythmic patter of rain and the distant roar of London’s evening traffic.

That day, beneath the somber gray of a London twilight, Haider didn’t just lose Shikha’s voice. The city’s vibrant chaos couldn’t shield him from the storm brewing within, one that would soon unravel the bonds he held dear, leaving accusations and heartbreak in its wake.