ISHQARA

2.1

Zohaira's pov

The walls of the Sikander haveli were as adorned as the soon-to-be wedded bride who was about to be rukhsat from the haveli. Decorative lights streamed down from the terrace to the ground, and expensive wine flowed like water. The haveli was so brightly lit that it could probably be seen from anywhere in Peshawar.

Guests mingled, business connections were made, and distant family members looked a bit confused while politicians sulked over the lost opportunity to form alliances with the most powerful mafias in the country.

But it was all as true as an oasis in the middle of a desert. A facade. A mirage.

I stood near the window of my room, fingers gripping the intricately carved railing, scanning the baraat below with a mixture of disdain, indifference, and annoyance. They acted as if this was a normal arranged marriage as if I were a shy, blushing bride. I was dressed in a traditional red lehenga, heavy with gold embroidery, a stark contrast to my usual power suits and cocktail dresses. My lips were painted bold red, and my neck and arms were weighed down with heavy gold jewellery, courtesy of my mother and soon-to-be mother-in-law. If anyone was excited for this wedding, it was definitely them.

The weight of the ensemble was nothing compared to the burden pressing down on my shoulders. I would have never agreed to this if my father hadn't emotionally forced me. The only one vocally against this marriage was my little brother, Haris. He is too innocent and protective of me. He was the reason I decided to enter the mafia, so he wouldn't be forced into it.

This marriage was a strategic move, orchestrated by my father to cement an alliance with the Pasha family. A move that would, in theory, end the territorial disputes and combine our forces to dominate the underworld completely. But to me, it was a gilded cage, locking me into a partnership I neither wanted nor trusted.

Haider Pasha was a shrewd man; he only made deals that were completely in his favour. He had nothing to lose in this alliance, as I was practically being sold to him. But he was sorely mistaken if he thought he would be getting a quiet, docile, and submissive wife who would warm his bed and keep the alliance. I didn't rule the Peshawar underworld for nothing.

My attention was grabbed by Haider Pasha himself as he stepped out of the car. If only he wasn't my sworn enemy, I might have swooned over him. He was dressed in a crisp and fitted royal black sherwani with a cream Peshawari Kulla on his head. He looked like a royal prince, exuding a cold and calculated charisma, looking just as disinterested in this wedding as I was. He was accompanied by his cousin brothers Zafar and Ayaan. His parents and his sister Rania stepped out of another car.

He looked up suddenly, and our eyes clashed. I did not shy away or look down. I wanted him to know exactly what he was dealing with. He gave me a challenging look, smirking and raising his eyebrow, and I responded with my own cunning smile.

This wasn't the first time we'd met. We attended the same school and university. Our rivalry was written long before the forced marriage or even the mafia takeover. We weren't in the same year, but we always competed for the top debate, top student election positions, and always at each other's throats because of our fathers' rivalry.

This was going to be a battle of wits. I wasn't a sacrificial lamb being sold to him. If he thought he could control our mafia by marrying me, he was sorely mistaken. My men didn't call me the Iron Lady for nothing.

I sat in front of the flower screen, with all the other women present. My mother was to my right, while my mother-in-law and sister-in-law sat to my left. I could see Haider sitting on the other side with a stoic expression. His brother Zafar was the same, keeping constant vigilance, and I could also see the outline of a gun in his sherwani pocket that any other normal eye would have missed.

But I didn't.

I had one tucked on my calf with a gun holster. With the country's top rival mafias, politicians, and businessmen present, you could never be too careful.

The qazi started the nikah ceremony by reciting verses from the holy Quran and turned to me first.

"Zohaira Iqbal Sikander Wald Iqbal Sikander, kya aapko, haq mehr 10,00,00 ke saath Haider Rafiq Pasha Wald Rafiq Pasha ke saath nikaah qubool hai?"

I looked at Haider through the screen to see his reaction. He remained as stoic as ever, but I could see the slightest bit of challenge in his gaze, promising to bring me to hell, a hell I was wholeheartedly going to accept in a few moments.

"Qubool hai," I said.

I repeated it two more times, and the women on my side started congratulating me. The only ones genuinely happy were my mother, mother-in-law, and sister-in-law. The rest of the congratulations felt more like taunts at finally being married at the age of twenty-seven. A woman of my age, leading a business, wearing Western clothes, and being unmarried for so long was scandalous as it was.

The Qazi then turned to Haider and asked him the same question.

"Haider Rafiq Pasha Wald Rafiq Pasha, kya aapko, haq mehr 10,00,00 ke saath Zohaira Iqbal Sikander Wald Iqbal Sikander ke saath nikaah qubool hai?"

He didn't even take a second before his voice boomed across the hallway three times in acceptance.

"Qubool hai."

"Qubool hai."

"Qubool hai."

The viewership response to the previous story was better than my expectations but I would still encourage my readers to comment wherever possible, even if it is constructive criticism(don't be rude or harsh) so that I can improve upon things that usually go unnoticed by me and also improve your reading experience.

Also, this chapter is shorter than my previous story because I'm new to writing and I am sort of experimenting with the length and POV that I am comfortable writing and can finish in a reasonable time. This chapter is also unedited as I have an exam tomorrow