"You walked into the lion's den, sweetheart," he whispered, stepping closer. "And lions don't let go so easily."
He looked down at her leg, at her trembling hands, and the fear in her eyes.
"A beautiful young girl like you," he chuckled, "shouldn't...
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Mishti
I sat on the hanging swing chair, legs tucked under me, the slow creak of the chains the only sound accompanying my thoughts. A soft wind brushed past, swaying the floral dupatta draped loosely over my shoulder.
Below, chaos reigned in the courtyard.
Workers bustled around like ants, carrying trays of sweets, boxes of decor, loading up cars. Some strung marigold garlands from the terrace railings. Others rolled out carpets in shades of red and gold, as if the universe had decided to rub salt on my open wounds in style.
No, don’t get mistaken. It wasn’t our wedding.
That ship sailed the day my husband laughed in my face and accused me of dreaming about alimony and a happy life with my best friend.
No. These were the glorious preparations for Zara’s forced marriage.
Yes. Forced. And yes, I’m calling it that.
Apparently, Mr. Khan thought playing wedding planner for his cousin was the best way to vent his unresolved rage. And Zara? Well, last night she threw her usual drama—screaming, sobbing, flinging her bangles at the wall like she was in a tragic TV serial.
"I won't eat. I won't drink. I’ll die!" she declared.
I caught her ordering pizza on Zomato 20 minutes later. Double cheese burst with extra olives.
And now she was stomping around the house like a rejected saas-bahu villain, throwing tantrums over the colour of her mehendi outfit, while my poor mother-in-law looked like she aged ten years overnight.
How could I smile when the man I called my husband stared at me like I was some scheming witch out to trap him? When every word I spoke was dissected for lies? When my love was questioned and my tears dismissed?
He hadn’t spoken a word to me since that night. Just icy stares and curt nods. He withheld the nikah. Withheld—not cancelled. And knowing Sultan... anything withheld could explode without warning.
I heard a distant scream. Zara again. This time it was about the gold set not matching her lehenga.
I sighed, rubbing my belly gently.
“You hear that, baby? That’s your aunt Zara being forced into a lifetime commitment. And your dad? Well… he thinks your mom wants to run off with another man.”
The wind rustled the dupatta over my face and I didn’t move it.
Because I didn’t want anyone to see the tears crawling down my cheeks.
