❝ 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 ❞

The car wheels crunched over the drive way as the haveli, that rose pale against the night, its columns glowing under the garden lamps.

The trimmed lawns looked at him, the iron chairs in their perfect circle waiting for a family that never sat together.

Aslan stepped through the carved doors, the scent of polish clinging inside.

His shoes clicked against the marble before the maid’s slippers came across the rug… she was already clearing plates from the dining hall, stacking them quickly, head bowed.

Dinner was over and he had missed it, as always.

He had a meeting thus he went to office straight from Tizmat’s place. He did not think the meeting would drag on for two hours.

The staircase curved up before him, a red Persian carpet unfurling up, chandeliers scattering fractured light across gilded ancient portraits.

His eyes ignored them without pause.

“Late again,”

His father’s voice carried from the hall.

Aslan glanced sideways.

The old man sat upright in his high-backed chair, waistcoat still buttoned though the night was warm, prayer beads resting near his hand. His silence was more command than speech.

Anand and his wife, Zubaida sat nearby on the divan.

They looked smaller here, shrunken by the house’s scale. Her dupatta was tied behind her waist, her hands smelling faintly of onions. Zubaida smiled faintly at him and quickly dropped it when his father’s gaze cut across.

“I’ve had dinner”

He turned to the stairs, his eyes catching a glimpse of his father’s assistant.

Aslan did not glance back.

Rizwan lingered there, in plain white kurta, sleeves rolled. That boy never quite belonged in this house, but was never quite absent either.

He dipped his head when Aslan glanced, as though acknowledgment was duty enough.

Aslan didn’t linger in the hall to wait for his mother to appear.

He climbed the carpeted stairs two at a time, the weight of the crooked light of the chandeliers and their eyes sliding off his back.

Upstairs, Aslan entered his room.

He shrugged off his coat, unclasped his watch with steady fingers and set it on the dresser.

The mirror reflected him back exactly what he was. He adjusted his collar, unbottoned the top three buttons.

He roamed in the room lazily doing so when on the side table, almost hidden, he saw a portrait… of his late wife.

The photograph had dulled a little with time.

He picked it up, gaze scanning the features he had once known so closely. The delicate tilt of her lips, the light in her eyes. He felt… nothing.

No tug, no ache.

That chapter had been sealed long ago, folded into the corners of his chest where no memory was allowed to breathe.

He placed it back with care, as one sets aside an object rather than a memory.

But as he turned, something caught.

Her eyes.

For a moment, he froze, then turned back. He stared at the photograph again, harder now, as if willing it to change.

That glimmer… the spark.

He had seen it somewhere recently. Somewhere else.

Memory slotted sharply into place.

Tizmat?

The way her eyes had lit at the mention of Rafiq’s son. That small look of hope. That ridiculous, stupid shine.

The way she dared to believe someone might rescue her.

His jaw tightened.

No.

Not her. She wasn’t allowed that.

He felt disgust curl in his stomach.

At her naivety.

At her weakness.

The photograph stood still, her eyes gazing back.

He looked away at last, a bitter laugh caught at the edge of his mouth.

“Dreaming is not for the weak.”

His lips curved.

“And if Tizmat thought her eyes could hold such a light… someone has to crush it.”

He lay back on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, the ceiling above him carved in neat squares of light and shadow. He closed his eyes.

But the darkness did not stay dark for long.

It slowly filled with the same set of eyes.

Not the dull, downcast gaze Tizmat usually wore in the haveli, not the fear that made her flinch when Taiji’s voice sharpened, not the timid glances she threw like offerings. Today, it was something else.

That moment when her lips had almost curved, when hope had dared flicker, when a man’s name had set a glow in her face.

His hand flexed over the sheet. His jaw clenched.

He had buried light before…

He had put it in the ground with his wife, locked it away where it could not touch him. But tonight it had returned, mocking him. And not from someone strong, not from someone worth remembering. From her.

The thought disgusted him.

Tizmat was weak.

Her voice cracked even when she tried to defend herself, her hands trembled when asked the simplest of questions. She had no right to dream. And yet she had looked up, lashes low, cheeks warming, as if someone might hand her a life carved in flowers and laughter.

“Pathetic.”

His lips curved faintly, not in amusement but in something darker.

If she thought she could find that with a man, she was mistaken. If she thought she could belong anywhere outside a shadow, she was delusional.

He turned to his side, arm pressing into the pillow.

Sleep did not come to him.

The image replayed again and again… her eyes, daring to glimmer.

He hated it.

He hated that it lingered. He hated that it reminded him. He hated that in her weakness, she carried a shade of what he had once lost.

“…someone will have to remind her what darkness feels like.”

***

The house was quieter than it usually was.

With Taiji, Tauji, Devendra, and Sehmat gone to a relative’s wedding, the walls didn’t echo with orders.

For the first time in weeks, Tizmat’s room felt like it belonged to her.

She sat cross-legged before the mirror, her comb tugging gently through her hair. An old cassette player hummed beside her, its song soft and filmi… filling the room with a kind of sweetness she had forgotten she could still have.

A thin smile touched her lips.

She swayed a little, humming along… lifting a strand of her hair just to watch it glint in the afternoon light.

This wasn’t routine… It was hers.

And then the bell downstairs suddenly rang.

Her heart lurched.

They’re back? Oh God, if Taiji heard the songs…

Tizmat froze, comb still tangled in her hair.

Taiji mustn’t hear the music, mustn’t see her sitting idle. Panic swept through her veins. She snapped the player off, silence crashing down on her soul.

Her dupatta flew behind as she rushed down the stairs, anklets scattering sound over the marble. Breathless, she pulled the heavy door open.

And the world stilled.

It wasn’t them.

It was Aslan.

He filled the doorway, a dark kurta pressed sharp against his shoulders, the faint gleam of his watch catching the dying light. The scent of his cologne, wood-smoke and musk, slid past her like a shadow slipping into the house before he even moved.

Tizmat’s fingers tightened on the brass handle.

“A-aap?… I thought—”

He didn’t let her finish. His shoulder brushed the carved frame as he stepped past, not so much entering as claiming.

“As-salaam,” his voice was low, not warm.

A sound that turned her blood thin.

She turned after him, confused, fumbling for words.

“They—they aren’t home. If you wanted Tauji—”

“I know.”

His reply cut her off without sharpness, but with something worse… certainty. He knew. He had known they were gone.

Her throat closed.

“Then… why…?”

He stopped in the center of the hall, turning just enough to look at her. His eyes caught her loose hair, the quick rise and fall of her chest. Her dupatta still lay crooked on her shoulder, betraying the girlish chaos upstairs.

“You look… different,” he murmured, as though testing the word on his tongue.

Her heart lurched.

“I—I wasn’t expecting anyone—”

She could not finish.

“You weren’t expecting me.” His voice dropped lower. “Good.”

She swallowed. She had nowhere to go.

“You’ve been dreaming,” he said suddenly.

Not a question. A statement.

Her lips parted.

“What?”

He tilted his head, eyes fixed.

“Don’t deny it. I saw it. In your eyes. That glow. That hope.”

He took a step closer, the scent of his cologne thickening, the sound of his shoes deliberate against the marble.

“You think you’ll be rescued. That some man will arrive with flowers and promises.”

Her breath shivered. “No—I—”

“Lies.” His voice cut sharper, but he didn’t raise it.

He didn’t need to. Each word landed heavyily, inescapable.

“I wasn’t—” she tried, her hands clutching the edge of her dupatta like a shield.

His arm lifted suddenly, bracing against the door beside her head. His other hand pressed against the cold of the wall, boxing her in without touch.

The space between them thinned, shrinking until she could hear the steady thrum of his breath.

“Don’t play the fool with me, Tizmat.” His eyes burned down into hers. “I know weakness when I see it. And you… you’ve built your whole life on it.”

Her chest caved, panic and something sharper twisting inside.

“Please… move…”

“Dreams,” he whispered, leaning just enough for her to feel the weight of the word against her cheek, “are not for the weak.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Then let me—”

“No.” His hand shifted, the sound of his knuckles brushing the wood loud in the silence. “You won’t waste your life waiting for someone else to hand you a home. You’ll stop dreaming altogether.”

Her eyes flew open, meeting his.

“Why—why do you care?”

For a moment, silence drew in.

His jaw flexed. Then his lips curved… not soft, but a certain cruel.

“Because you’ll marry me.”

The words dropped like stone.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

“W-what—?”

“You heard me.” His voice was calm, arrogant and final. “You’ll marry me, Tizmat. And you’ll learn your place. There will be no Rafiq’s son, no filmi husband, no dreams to glow in your eyes.”

Her throat closed.

“You’re… you’re joking.”

Her voice faltered.

“Do I look like I joke? Ever?”

His voice was stern.

He leaned closer, until the faint musk of his cologne curled around her like smoke.

“If you’re going to live, you’ll live under me. And I’ll make sure every illusion you hold breaks.”

Her breath caught, fingers shaking as she hugged her kameez more tightly.

His gaze unsettled her a second longer.

Then he lowered his arm, took a step back, and air surged into her lungs as if she were underwater.

But he didn’t leave.

Instead, he pulled a chair from the corner of the hall and sat down with deliberate ease, his posture relaxed… a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Aslan leaned back, crossing one ankle over his knee, as if this was nothing more than an evening pastime.

And in a way, it was.

He was studying her.

Tizmat's body froze. Her hands struggled against the fold of her dupatta, silence weighing down upon her like a scream if he had only shouted it.

She longed to run up to the top floor, to lock herself into the usual silence. She longed to weep, to shriek, to rage and ask him why he said all that. But under his gaze, she could do none of it.

Her throat burned.

Her throat was on fire by now.

Her legs bore her stiffly, toward the water jug on the sideboard. If she just poured a glass… if she just moved normally as if nothing had occurred… perhaps she could blend into the furniture once more.

The glass clinked too loud against the rim, water trembling in the jug.

Her hand shook. She pressed her lips together, forcing herself to remain steady. He said nothing and only watched.

When she turned back, glass in hand, his eyes met hers.

They were cold and amused.

She sat on the edge of the sofa, knees pressed together, spine rigid. She placed it before him like a ritual.

The water sat untouched on the table, her hand frozen in her lap. She tried to steady her breathing, to mimic silence, to disappear.

The tick of the clock grew unbearable.

Then his voice broke it.

“Back to being a shadow already? Good.”

Her chest tightened.

The words stung sharper than a slap, precisely because he hadn’t raised his voice.

He rose, smooth and unhurried, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. His shoes clicked once, twice, against the marble as he walked past her.

She didn’t look up. She couldn’t.

The heavy door opened and closed.

Moments later, the distant growl of his car drifted into the night low.

It was more like the sound of triumph. But not hers.

TO BE CONTINUED