It was past midnight. The room was quiet, the only sound was of the soft breeze rustling against the curtains.

Ayeda was fast asleep, curled slightly on her side, her face turned towards Zarian. Her breaths were calm, her features serene almost angelic under the soft glow of the moonlight spilling through the window.

But Zarian couldn’t sleep. His eyes refused to leave her. He lay there wide awake, staring at her as though still trying to convince himself that she was real. That she wasn’t a dream, not some fragile illusion that would vanish if he blinked too long.

She was his wife now. 

A word slipped past his lips in a whisper, trembling with emotion

“Meri begum…”

(My wife...)

A single tear escaped, trailing down his cheek. He quickly shut his eyes for a second, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of what Allah had blessed him with.

And then, like a lantern glowing in the dark, her words returned to him---words that had carved themselves into his heart:

“Rab ne aapko mere liye chuna hai… aur Rab ke faisle kabhi ghalat nahi hote, Mr. Malik.”

His lips curved into a smile, soft and unrestrained. The heaviness in his chest lifted, replaced by a warmth he had never known before.

Slowly, his breathing eased, his gaze still resting on her as though he was afraid to lose even a moment of this sight.

And somewhere between a prayer and a dream, with her words echoing in his heart, Zarian’s eyes finally grew heavy. Still smiling faintly, he drifted into sleep, his last thought wrapped around her… his begum, his blessing and answers of his prayers.

.

.

.

It was 8 a.m. Zarian was already freshened up, sitting on the couch in grey trousers and a crisp black polo-style shirt, scrolling through his phone.

A moment later, Ayeda stepped out of the bathroom, dressed in a deep red anarkali frock. Her hair, freshly washed, cascaded in soft waves down to her waist, glistening as the morning light touched the damp strands.

For the first time, her head wasn’t covered.

Zarian’s eyes lifted instinctively. For a heartbeat, he simply stared... first at her, then at her long, medium-brown hair.

The word slipped out before he could stop it, this time clear and audible

“Mashallah.”

Ayeda paused, catching it. Turning slightly, she smiled softly and replied,

“JazakAllah.”

Zarian froze, eyes locking with hers for just a second before panic washed over him. Embarrassed at being caught, he quickly dropped his gaze back to his phone, pretending to be deeply absorbed.

Ayeda moved toward the dressing table, towel in hand, gently drying her hair.

Zarian, however, couldn’t resist stealing glances at her from the corner of his eyes. And each time she caught his reflection in the mirror, he would immediately snap back to his phone as if nothing had happened.

Finally, as she picked up a comb and began running it through her hair, Zarian’s gaze lingered a second too long. Ayeda cleared her throat deliberately. He jolted and buried himself back into the screen again.

A knowing smile spread on her lips. Meeting his eyes in the mirror, she said with playful sweetness,

“Apki hi biwi hoon, Mr. Malik… dekh sakhte hain aap.”

(I’m your wife, Mr. Malik… you can look at me.)

At her words, Zarian’s ears turned red, the flush spreading to his neck. He shut his eyes for a moment, utterly flustered, trying to hide the smile tugging at his lips.

Seeing his face Ayeda couldn’t hold back anymore, her laugh spilled out, light and musical, filling the room.

Ayeda adjusted her dupatta and turned to him with a gentle smile.

“Chalein?” she asked softly.

(Shall we go?)

Zarian rose, his gaze steady on her, and said in a low voice,

“Aap kuch bhool rahi hain, Miss Khan.”

(You're forgetting something, Miss khan)

Her brows arched, her eyes narrowing playfully. Taking a step closer, she replied,

“Bhool main nahi rahi… aap bhool rahe hain. That I’m no longer Miss Khan.”

Her lips curved as she whispered, “I’m Mrs. Malik now.”

The words hit him like a wave. His heartbeat stuttered, his lips parted, but no sound escaped. Mrs. Malik. The title echoed in his chest, warm and overwhelming.

A helpless smile spread across his face, and he looked away for a second, cheeks burning with a shade of red he couldn’t hide.

Ayeda watched him with amused tenderness, shaking her head. She spared him further teasing, her voice turning gentle again.

“Waise… kya bhool gayi main, Mr. Malik?”

(By the way.. What I'm forgetting, Mr.  Malik?)

Clearing his throat, he pointed toward the side table, where a small velvet box rested.

“The ring,” he murmured.

He picked it up and stood before her. She extended her hand expectantly, only for him to nervously place the entire box into her palm.

Her eyes flickered with amusement.

“Box kyun de rahe hain?”

(Why are yoy giving the box?)

Realization struck him; he fumbled, chuckled under his breath, and quickly opened it. Taking the ring between his fingers, he held it out awkwardly.

Ayeda tilted her head, her tone soft but commanding.

“De kyun rahe hain… pehnaiye.”

(Why are giving it.. Make me wear it)

Zarian froze, staring at her as if the world had gone still. She gave him a small nod, reassuring yet teasing.

A slow smile tugged at his lips. His voice came out husky, uncertain.

“Pehna du?”
(Shall I?)

Her eyes gleamed with warmth.

“I’m waiting, Mr. Malik.”

That one sentence undid him. He reached for her hand, his fingers brushing against hers, and the faintest tremor betrayed the storm of emotions he carried---love, awe, disbelief that she was truly his.

Ayeda felt the trembling of his hand. Without hesitation, she gently placed her other hand over his, steadying him.

That simple gesture was more than touch; it was acceptance, comfort and belonging.

Their eyes locked. Time stood still. Slowly, reverently, as if performing a sacred ritual, Zarian slid the ring onto her finger.

The metal was cold, but the moment burned with warmth. His gaze lingered on her hand, tracing every delicate curve, before finally rising to meet her eyes.

In that silence, something unspoken passed between them... something fragile yet powerful.

This wasn’t just a ring.

It was a vow.

A promise.

A beginning neither of them had expected, yet both now belonged to.

Ayeda admired the ring glimmering on her finger and smiled softly.

“Kitni khoobsurat lag rahi hai na?” she murmured.

(Isn't it looking beautiful?)

Zarian’s gaze lingered first on her, then on the ring, before he replied quietly,

“Khoobsurat toh lagna hi tha… aapke haath mein jo hai.”

(Of course it had to look beautiful… after all, it’s in your hands.)

It was the first time that morning her cheeks flushed crimson. She quickly turned her face away, trying to hide it.

“Haatiye… kuch bhi keh rahe hain aap,” she muttered, attempting to move past him.

(Move aside.. You're saying anything.)

But her hand was still in his, and Zarian tightened his grip gently, stopping her.

He stepped closer, leaned down, and whispered near her ear, his voice a soft caress..

“Sach keh raha hoon... Aap zaada Khoobsurat lag rahi hain, begum.”

(I’m telling the truth… you’re looking even more beautiful)

The word begum sent a shiver down her spine. Her face turned a deeper shade of red, matching the hue of her frock, and goosebumps rose on her skin. She lowered her gaze, biting her lip to steady her racing heart, her grip unconsciously tightening around his hand.

Straightening, Zarian gave her a small smile, his voice warm yet composed.

“Chalein?”

Ayeda only nodded, still flustered, and without letting go of her hand, he led her out of the room, her heart still fluttering at the sound of the word that lingered in her ears: begum.

They walked out as husband and wife, but love had only just begun to write their story.

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