---
“No… no, don’t do that,” Imaan’s voice wavered as she took a cautious step back. The kitchen felt suffocating, the warm aroma of spices now tinged with a growing sense of dread. Her heart pounded in her chest as she edged away, her eyes darting nervously toward the door. *What kind of people are these?* she wondered, a cold sweat forming at the nape of her neck.
Hina, still positioned by the marble countertop, continued chopping vegetables with a deliberate, almost sinister rhythm. The knife’s blade glinted under the harsh kitchen lights, matching the sly smirk on her lips. She glanced up, catching Imaan’s retreat, and a sense of triumph washed over her. She had won this little skirmish.
Imaan fled the kitchen, her footsteps echoing in the silent corridor. The hallway was lined with antique vases and ornate mirrors, each reflecting her frantic expression as she hurried to her room. Once inside, she leaned against the door, trying to steady her breathing. The room was bathed in the golden light of early afternoon, the sun’s rays filtering through the lace curtains and casting intricate patterns on the red carpet.
She moved to the window, her gaze distant as she absentmindedly rubbed her palms together. The world outside seemed so calm, so detached from the turmoil inside her. *What will Emad think?* she pondered, a knot forming in her stomach. But she quickly shook her head, as if trying to dismiss the thought. *Why do I care? He doesn’t love me, and I certainly don’t love him…* Yet, despite her attempts to convince herself, the worry lingered.
The old grandfather clock in the corner ticked steadily, each sound amplifying the stillness of the room. The air was heavy with tension, and the faint scent of jasmine from the garden wafted in through the open window. Suddenly, the sharp click of the door locking startled Imaan. Her heart leaped into her throat as she turned, rushing to the door. Her fingers fumbled with the handle, her pulse racing.
“Open the door!” she called out, desperation creeping into her voice. The house, usually filled with the soft hum of activity, now seemed eerily quiet. “Please… open the door,” she pleaded, her voice barely above a whisper as she pressed her ear against the solid wood, but there was no response—just an unnerving silence.
---
Meanwhile, Emad strode down the grand hallway, his presence commanding attention. The walls were adorned with intricate tapestries, and the polished marble floor gleamed under the crystal chandeliers. Maids scurried out of his way, bowing their heads in respect. He was a man on a mission, his expression unreadable as he led a group of well-dressed guests through the expansive estate.
“Imaan,” Emad called out as they approached the living room, his voice carrying an authority that was hard to ignore. But instead of his wife, Hina emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a floral apron. The scent of freshly cooked food clung to her as she approached, her eyes gleaming with calculated intent.
“Ah, Mr. Emad, your wife is truly beautiful,” one of the guests remarked, their eyes lingering on Hina. She responded with a practiced smile, the kind that reached her eyes but never touched her heart.
“Thank you,” Hina replied smoothly, stepping closer to Emad as if she belonged by his side. Her movements were graceful, almost rehearsed, as if she had anticipated this moment.
“But—” Emad began, intending to correct their misunderstanding, but Hina swiftly cut him off.
“Yes, thank you so much,” she interjected, her voice sweet but firm, as she nestled herself beside him. Emad’s jaw clenched, a storm of emotions brewing beneath his composed exterior. He could see the game she was playing, and it infuriated him.
