Malik mansion

In the hall, Maliha and Daniyal were sitting on the couch, chatting in low voices. The air was light, but Maliha’s expression held a trace of worry.

“Bhai hides his emotions well,” she said, her tone soft and laced with concern. “But we know he’s hurt…”

Daniyal nodded thoughtfully. “Let’s do something to make him happy.”

“Okay, let’s think.” Both went silent for a moment, trying to come up with ideas.

“Should we make his favourite food?” Daniyal suggested hopefully.

Maliha scrunched her nose. “Come on, he’s not a kid who’ll forget everything with just good food. He might smile, but… I want him to feel happy — dil se khush karna hai bhai ko.”

Daniyal leaned back. “Let’s plan a holiday. New place, fresh air, a change of mood.”

“Huh… Will bhai really feel the change? You know how he is — he’ll be taking calls even on a mountaintop. The man is a walking office!” she sighed.

“Then what should we do?” she added, her voice now softer. “I can’t see him like this…”

Daniyal gave her a comforting side hug. “We’ll come up with something, don’t worry.”

Just then, Zayran walked past the hall and noticed their hushed conversation. Curious, he changed direction and joined them.

“What are you two scheming now?” he asked with a teasing grin. But as his eyes landed on Maliha’s somber expression, his smile faded. Sitting beside her, he gently patted her head.

“What happened, gudiya?”

Zayran rarely expressed emotions openly, but his love for his siblings ran deeper than words could ever show.

Maliha didn’t wait another second — she threw her arms around him and blurted, “Bhai, I can’t see Zarian bhai like this! I know he acts like everything’s okay, but it’s not. Everyone thinks Daniyal and I don’t understand anything — but we do. And we can’t watch him pretend to be fine anymore. Do something, bhai… please.”

She sounded like a child whose favorite toy had been taken away — innocent, emotional, honest.

Zayran’s eyes softened. He knew exactly what she meant. Zarian’s pain was hidden behind his calm face  but not invisible to those who loved him.

“Bas itni si baat?” he smiled. “Don’t worry, gudiya. I’ll make Zarian bhai happy.”

Both Daniyal and Maliha perked up. “How?” they asked in unison.

Zayran leaned back, a mischievous glint in his eye. “By giving him what he truly wants.”

“Huh?” Daniyal blinked. “Please elaborate…”

Before he could answer, a voice echoed through the hall — smooth, composed, with a hint of teasing.

“What’s going on? Gossiping without me? That’s not fair.”

It was Zarian.

He walked in and settled on the couch across from them, casually crossing his legs. His smile was warm, masking the storm beneath — a man choosing to smile for the people he loved, even when his heart was quietly bruised.

“So…” he asked, looking at them. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, they just want to see you happy,” Zayran said casually, leaning back on the couch.

“Huh? I am happy,” Zarian replied, frowning slightly.

“They mean real happiness,” Zayran said, his voice firm but not unkind. “Not this version you’re pretending to wear.”

Zayran had always been the one person Zarian struggled to keep his guard up around. His words, though blunt, often struck closer to the truth than anyone else's.

Zarian’s eyes widened for a brief second, but then softened when he glanced at Maliha and Daniyal their worried faces almost childlike in their silent concern.

With a gentler tone, he said, “I am happy. Why are you worrying, huh? When I have siblings like you, how could sadness even find a place in my life?”

A small smile tugged at both Daniyal and Maliha’s lips.

Zarian then turned to Zayran and gave him a look — a slight, sharp glance that clearly meant not here… we’ll talk later.

But Zayran wasn’t done. He smirked, ignoring the silent warning, and said, “Come on, Zarian. They’re not kids anymore. They understand. They just want to see you happy.”

“Yes, bhai! Zayran bhai even has a plan,” Daniyal added excitedly.

Zarian raised a brow, now half-intrigued, half-worried.

If there was anyone in this house unpredictable enough to act before thinking, it was Zayran. He had no filters, no brakes, and enough audacity to land in jail smiling.

“What plan?” Zarian asked, arms now folded across his chest.

“I can make you happy by fulfilling your incomplete wish. Simple.” Zayran replied, straight-faced.

Zarian’s brows drew together. “What?”

“Look,” Zayran continued, as if he were pitching a business deal, “You want to marry her. Your intentions are clean. You’ll keep her happy — no doubt about that.”

“Haan!” Daniyal and Maliha chimed in, nodding like overenthusiastic jurors.

They leaned forward like it was the climax of some grand suspense novel.

“So…” Zayran grinned, “Let’s just abduct her. Thoda pyaar, thoda kindness — she’ll fall for you eventually. You happy, she happy, we happy.”

Maliha and Daniyal gasped in delight. “Yes, bhai! Genius idea!”

But when they turned to look at Zarian, the excitement drained from their faces.

He wasn’t amused.

Zarian sat there — his face blank, fists clenched, jaw tight. And then he spoke, his voice calm, but laced with an unmistakable weight.

“Are you out of your mind, Zayran?” he said slowly. “This isn’t some TV drama.”

He paused, then took a deep breath, as if steadying the storm inside.

“Mujhe meri khwahishon se zyada unki izzat pyaari hai…
Main aisa koi kaam nahi karunga jisse unki izzat par baat aaye.”

(Her dignity means more to me than my own desires…
I would never do anything that could bring shame to her name.)

Iqra had been silently standing at a distance, listening to every word — especially his.

The moment she heard Zarian’s last line, a soft, proud smile curled on her lips.

She walked toward them, her presence calm but certain, and sat beside Zarian.

Leaning slightly, she whispered just enough for him to hear,

“I’m proud of you.”

Zarian’s clenched jaw relaxed. Her words were like balm to the storm building inside him.

For the first time in a while, a real smile touched his face — gentle, unburdened.

Then Iqra turned to Zayran, Daniyal, and Maliha. Her tone was firm, but kind — the voice of wisdom and warmth.

“I know you all care deeply for your brother — and that matters. But what you just suggested, no matter how harmless it seemed to you, was not right.”

She paused, letting the weight of her words settle.

“We call ourselves modern, progressive and yet, when something goes wrong, our first instinct is to question the woman.

We forget how deeply our actions can scar her dignity, her name.

So the next time you plan something like this, think first… about the girl.”

Then, turning slightly toward Zarian, her voice softened  but what she said next, struck straight to his heart:

“Aur jab aap kisi ki izzat karte hain… toh woh bataata hai ke aap unse kitni mohabbat karte hain.

Lekin agar aap unse mohabbat karte ho,

par unki izzat nahi kar sakte…

toh woh kuch bhi ho sakti hai — par mohabbat nahi.”

(And when you respect someone… it shows how much you love them.

But if you claim to love someone,
yet cannot respect them…
then it can be anything — but it’s not love.)

Zarian froze.

His heart skipped a beat.

"Mohabbat?”
woh sirf meri pasand hai na?

He didn’t say it out loud.

But the question… lingered in his silence.

Zarian's Room

Zarian was seated on the couch, his eyes scanning the account sheets scattered on the table in front of him. Numbers, margins, losses but for the first time, none of them held his attention.

He reached into his coat pocket for a pen, but the moment his fingers brushed against it, he stilled.

It wasn’t just any pen.

He pulled it out slowly — a sleek, customized pen with the letter ‘A’ engraved on it.

“Thank you, Mr. Malik… this is for you.”
Her voice echoed in his mind like a whisper from another world.

His gaze lingered on it for a second longer than he intended. Then, with a small shake of the head — half smile, half surrender — he stood up and walked over to a nearby drawer.

He opened it.

Inside lay only one other thing — a delicate bracelet adorned with tiny moon surrounded by stars. Ayeda’s bracelet.

A forgotten moment. A memory he had never really forgotten.

He placed the pen beside it — two fragile pieces of a connection he was still trying to deny.

His mother’s words rang in his ears:

“Aur jab aap kisi ki izzat karte hain…
toh woh batata hai ke aap unse kitni mohabbat karte hain.”

He exhaled deeply and turned to the quiet corner of the room — lost in thought.

Just then, the call for Isha filled the air:

“Allahu Akbar… Allahu Akbar…”

The sound grounded him.

He stood, did his wudu in silence, and made his way toward the mosque.

Under the soft glow of the prayer hall, after his salah, he raised his hands. His voice didn’t tremble but his heart did.

“Ya Allah…

Is kainaat mein jo bhi hota hai woh aapke hukm se hota hai.

Izzat dena ho ya zillat  dono aapke haath mein hai.

Mujhe nahi pata ke yeh sirf pasand hai ya woh ehsaas jo mohabbat kehlaata hai…

Lekin ek baat zaroor jaanta hoon

Unki izzat, mujhe meri apni izzat se zyada pyaari hai.

Agar kabhi unke khilaaf koi sawal uthhe…

Toh woh sawal mujh par le aana, Maula.

Un par kabhi koi aanch na aaye,

Unhe apni hifaazat mein rakhna,

Aur unka har qadam rehmat mein dhal dena.

Bas itna kehkar… main apne jazbaat aapke hawale karta hoon.

Aap behtar jaante hain, Maula.

Ameen.”

(O Allah…
Whatever happens in this universe, happens only by Your command.
Whether it is honour or disgrace —both lie in Your hands.

I do not know if this is just admiration,

or that deep emotion which is called love…

But there is one thing I know for sure Their honour is more precious to me than my own.

If ever a question is raised against them,
then let that question fall upon me, O Lord.
May no harm ever touch them.

Keep them in Your protection,
and turn every step they take into a blessing.

With these words…
I entrust my feelings to You.
You know best, O Lord.

Ameen)

City College.

The college campus was alive with its usual rhythm — some students sat in circles laughing over lunch, others rushed between classes, and a few played on the grass, lost in their games.

But in one corner, far from the laughter, tension brewed.

Fiza and her group stood like a storm waiting to burst. Her eyes were fixed on Ayeda — sharp, bitter, and filled with unspoken venom.

“Everyone's saying my father had said to make me top,” Fiza scoffed loudly, making sure her voice carried far enough.

“Well, guess what? My presentation was amazing — it deserved to be number one.”

A few students turned toward them, whispering.

Then came the line that made Ayeda’s breath hitch.

“And why isn’t anyone questioning Ayeda, huh?” Fiza’s eyes burned holes through her.

“The Chief Guest didn’t say a word about the other winners  but her victory bothered him enough to fight for it? Really? What’s going on between them?”

Her voice dripped with accusation — a quiet explosion masked as a question.

Ayeda’s eyes widened.

Her heart dropped.

She was used to people doubting her success. But this?

To question her character — her dignity — in front of the whole campus?

Her lips parted to say something.

Anything.

But no sound came out.

Her throat tightened, her hands trembled.

Students had now paused. Murmurs swirled around like poison in the air.

Her vision blurred with unshed tears not of weakness, but of injustice.

And just when the weight of silence threatened to break her down

“What’s going on here?”

A commanding voice sliced through the murmurs.

It was the Principal.

All eyes snapped to him as he walked toward the group, his expression unreadable.

He looked straight at Fiza.

Voice calm but cold.

“I heard what you were saying, Miss Fiza.”

“So this is how you rise? Not by working harder, but by tearing someone else down?”

Fiza’s smugness faltered.

Turning to Ayeda, his tone shifted — gentle, proud.

“You asked why Mr. Malik spoke up for her?”

“Because she earned it. Because her work — her words — held power. Because she gave a presentation that made an entire auditorium rise to their feet. Not out of sympathy… but respect.”

He paused, letting his words settle.

“You both are among our brightest students. But I will not tolerate this kind of behaviour. If you want to go far — rise by lifting yourself, not dragging others.”

With a final stern look, he turned and walked away  leaving silence behind.

Ayeda finally exhaled. Her shoulders dropped, not from defeat, but relief.

A quiet smile bloomed on her lips — small, but real.

She looked up at the sky, where the clouds drifted soft and slow, and whispered under her breath:

“Alhamdulillah...
Wa tu'izzu man tasha wa tuzillu man tasha."

(You honour whom You will, and You humiliate whom You will.)

She thanked Allah for preserving her dignity… not knowing someone else had already prayed for it.

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