War Of A Queen

چھٹا باب

"When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves."

 — Viktor E. Frankl

I was sitting in the dining room, the air thick with tension as I had an awkward breakfast with Salaar's family. The clinking of cutlery against plates was the only sound, each person lost in their own thoughts. The grandeur of the dining room, with its ornate chandeliers and lavish table settings, felt oppressive, a gilded cage that reminded me of my predicament.

Salaar's grandfather, Dada ji, sat at the head of the table, his stern eyes surveying everyone with an air of authority. Beside him sat Bahaar Begum, her gaze as cold and calculating as ever. Anabia was next to me, her presence a small comfort in this hostile environment. Salaar was seated across from me, his expression unreadable.

As I picked at my food, trying to appear composed, Salaar cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention. "I have an announcement to make," he began, his voice commanding. "I will be leaving for Turkey tomorrow."

A murmur of surprise rippled through the room. Dada ji's eyebrows knit together in a frown. "Turkey? What business do you have there, Salaar?"

Salaar leaned back in his chair, a smug smile playing on his lips. "A business deal that requires my immediate attention. I will be gone for a few weeks."

I couldn't help the wave of relief that washed over me at the news. The thought of Salaar being away, even for a short time, felt like a reprieve from the constant fear and tension. But my relief was short-lived as Salaar continued.

"And I want Zara to come with me."

The room fell silent. My heart sank, the brief flicker of hope extinguished. Dada ji's frown deepened, and he shook his head firmly. "No, Salaar. Zara cannot leave. The ruksati has not been done yet."

Ruksati, the traditional farewell ceremony, marked the formal departure of a bride from her parent's home to her husband's. It was a deeply significant event, and without it, my departure would be seen as improper.

Salaar's eyes darkened with anger, his jaw clenching. "Why not? She is my wife now."

Dada ji's voice was stern. "Traditions must be respected. She will stay here until the ruksati."

Salaar's gaze flicked to me, his eyes narrowing. I could see the storm brewing behind them, his anger palpable. But I also saw something else—a twisted suspicion, a misunderstanding that made my blood run cold.

"Fine," Salaar said through gritted teeth. "But don't think I don't know why you want to stay, Zara."

Confusion and fear gripped me. "What are you talking about?"

His eyes blazed with fury. "You think I don't see the way you look at him? You think I don't know about you and Azlaan?"

The accusation hit me like a slap. Azlaan, my cousin, was someone I had always been close to, but Salaar's hatred for him ran deep. The mere mention of Azlaan seemed to ignite a fire in Salaar, and now, he was using it against me.