Qubool Hai (MeeraSim FF)

68 - Ishq - London IV

Murtasim physically bristled at the waiter's excessive doting that went above and beyond. The playful gleam in the worker's eye suggested a blooming attraction to the girl in the ruby blouse. It hung regally from her feminine frame, the sleeves playfully billowing with her  every movement. Naano's gifted gem elegantly glinted in the same hue upon the ring-donned hand curled under her chin. A softly curved smile graced her face.

Murtasim was already irked from the discovery of an admirer in university whilst they were wed and now someone else dared to look at her for a second longer than necessary. So Murtasim stared back to get his attention, displeased with a sour taste in his mouth as the waiter fumbled on his words and slid another pastry onto Meerab's plate without being asked to.

''That's enough, thank you,'' Meerab replied in her usual poised voice, fingertips skimming the rim of her wide plate in a hint to him to shoo.

Murtasim watched her; she was enraptured by the sweet treat, mouth subtlety watering at the piped chantilly cream, laced with thick specs of vanilla. The muscles of his throat clenched with annoyance, every fibre of his being tempted to slap the man for loitering unnecessarily around his pregnant wife who only continued to take short sips of her tea.

The man searched for another meagre excuse to linger, a languidness overtaking his presence, ''Have you seen our dessert counter, Miss? There's a rotating selection that I insist you try—'' The man let his hand rest on the top of her chair, it was nowhere close to touching Meerab but the interest was obvious to all 3 onlookers.

Unable to push the annoyance away for a single second longer, the irk surmounted in Murtasim snapped free like a rack of explosives, ''It's Mrs. She's my wife.'' He declared, slow, loud and clear to the waiter in his eyeline. His irritation was uncaged; she was his Meerab Murtasim Khan, just as inscribed on the solid gold bangle on her wrist, her heart, and the new DNA weaving in her womb.

The waiter flinched at the knife-sharp tone. ''Of course, sir,'' he mumbled, head lowered as he returned to duty.

Both of Meerab's friend squealed in their seats, wowed by his primal and unrestrained need to be territorial. He was living up to the 'feudal lord' whispers that Meerab had fed them, mostly fibs but the gun penchant had rung true to his surrounding rumours.

And in her seat, Meerab was strangely proud of the association and victory, licking her lips at the delicious payback. Now, the baby would not be named Muzammil, and it was nice for Murtasim to know that he was not the hottest thing in town — she was.

The tense air in the spacious restaurant dissipated and Meerab even took a spoonful of the yuzu tart and hovered the spoon in front of Murtasim. He rejected the tangy treat, ''iske bhook nahi hai, Meerab.'' His plate held the remnants of decadent chocolate cake, some half-eaten eclair and a sandwich that fell short of the delicacies he was accustomed to at his palatial home in Hyderabad. (I'm not hungry for it, Meerab.)

Hanna turned to Rabia, inviting, ''Let's go and take some pictures.'' They both left to a rich spiralling staircase some meters off.

''Kis cheez ke bhook hai phir?'' She whispered with a suggestive tone, the heat of her hand sinking through the hardy material of his formal trousers. (What are you hungry for?)

''He wanted you, Meerab,'' Murtasim grumbled, a crease formed between his eyebrows as he replayed the fable of Meerab's admirer his ample opportunity to bask in Meerab's company while her husband was at the other side of the world.

Feigning ignorance, Meerab luxuriated in his unbridled jealousy and gulped the dessert down. Cream caught onto the corner of her mouth and her tongue eagerly darted to lick her lips clean in an effort to entice him to normalcy. ''Aise he raho. Gussa karte hue bahut acche lagte ho,'' she chimed before shoving the last spoonful in her mouth. Citrus curd and floral vanilla coated her tongue and melt down her throat. Around them, people perched on plush seats of turquoise velvet. Lashings of the midday sun flood in through the overhead windows, making the scene regal and toasty. (Stay like this. You look so hot whilst annoyed.)