Sultan:Her Wanted Husband (18+)✓

🥀🥀🥀 3 little munchkins🥀🥀🥀

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Sultan arrived home that evening to a crying daughter and a frustrated wife.

No sooner had he closed the front door behind him, that his expression shifted from carefully cultivated apathy to full-blown concern, his steps automatically quickening at the sound of the commotion coming from the living room.

"No, Gulbahar," he heard Mishti speak firmly. "Sweetie, you can't start crying every time someone denies you something!"

Hurrying down the hallway, he barely avoided stepping on a scattered toy as his small family came into view, forming a scenario that was as unfamiliar as it was unpleasant.

Mishti stood in the middle of the sunset-bathed room, hands on her hips and a stern furrow between her brows, dressed down in a white t-shirt and a pair of simple sweatpants and with her wavy hair caught in a disheveled bun. Gulbahar, small and precious and barely a year old, wobbled towards him on quick feet, face red and scrunched-up and marred with salty moisture.

"Papa!" she wailed, looking at him with big, tear-filled eyes and holding up her little hands, practically pleading with him to sweep her up into his protective arms.

His eyes softened in an instant, but Gulbahar's snap put him off initiating any action.

"Do not pick her up!" she demanded, glaring fiercely in his direction.

His head snapped up. "What?"

"You heard me!" she answered. "I know what you're planning. But she needs to learn that the world won't be served to her on a silver platter simply because she starts crying!"

"Papa!" Gulbahar wailed again, and Sultan did not waste any more time acting surprised at his wife's demeanor, instantly bending down to effortlessly lift his baby daughter in his embrace. Quieting slightly, Gulbahar pressed her wet face into his shoulder, her little arms wrapping around his neck, fists clinging needily to the material of his shirt.

"What is wrong with you?" He hissed, addressing his wife, as he started to rub comforting circles on his daughter's back.

"Oh, there you go," she spat. "Problem solved! You come home once a month, pick her up when she cries, and ruin what little sense of discipline I'm trying to instill into her!"

"Discipline?" he scoffed. "She's crying."

"Yes, and she shouldn't be! People don't cry every time things don't go their way!"

"She's a child!"

"Don't you dare!" Mishti snapped. "Do not even try to call me a bad parent."

"Well, there must be a reason why your daughter is crying while you're standing there, yelling at me!" he snapped back, without thinking, and instantly regretted the words that came out of his mouth.

For a second, Mishti seemed taken aback, unsure of how to react, but quickly seemed to recover; she let out a small, choked sigh of frustration and swiftly crossed the room, not sparing him another glance as she stormed out the door.

"Mishti jan—" he tried to call out, but she was already gone.

Anybody else probably wouldn't have noticed the tears in her eyes as she brushed past him—but Sultan wasn't just anybody.

Groaning, with his arms still full with a crying child, the mafia decided against following her. She'd cool down by herself.

Gulbahar ,on the other hand, was tiny and fragile and still clinging tightly to his shirt.

By the time he was finally able to escape the clutches of his crying child, Mishti was already in bed. Clad in green pajamas, she lay with her back to him, the covers drawn up over her shoulders and her brown luscious hair obscuring the half of her face that should have been visible even in the low light.