The night of the walima was nothing short of magical. The Khan estate glimmered under the soft glow of fairy lights, casting a warm hue across the beautifully adorned garden. The air was alive with music, laughter, and the scent of fresh roses. Guests mingled, congratulating the newlyweds, while traditional songs played in the background. The family’s pride and joy, Murtasim and Meerab, were the center of attention.
Meerab looked breathtaking in her deep red walima dress, embroidered with intricate gold threads. Her bangles jingled with every movement, and her hair cascaded in perfect waves, framing her radiant face. But as the night unfolded, Murtasim, standing at the far end of the gathering, couldn't help but feel the simmering tension growing within him.
His gaze had been fixed on Meerab for a while now, watching her laughter and joy as she danced along with the performers. Her cousins had urged her to join, and being the free spirit she was, Meerab had leaped into the fun without hesitation. The way she twirled with the dancers, her dress flowing elegantly with each movement, had captivated many eyes, but none more than Murtasim’s.
At first, he had clenched his jaw, trying to remain composed. This wasn’t the image of the traditional wife that the family upheld. And yet, Meerab had always been different. She was fire and freedom, and part of him admired her for it. But tonight—on their walima—he couldn’t let this slide. Not here, not in front of the entire family and guests.
As she spun around, lost in the music, Murtasim’s patience finally snapped. He wasn’t one to create a scene in public, but he could no longer stand idly by. His fists tightened at his sides as he made his way toward the circle of dancers. Meerab, unaware of his approach, laughed as she continued to twirl, her dress catching the light and making her look every bit the carefree bride she was.
And then, as she turned, she saw him—Murtasim—standing behind her, his gaze dark and intense. Her laughter faltered, and for a brief moment, her heart skipped a beat. His expression wasn’t angry, but it was enough to send a shiver down her spine. She took a small step back, instinctively trying to create space between them, but Murtasim took a step forward, closing the gap.
The world around them seemed to fade away as Meerab locked eyes with him. The music, the laughter, the crowd—it all dimmed. She knew that look. It was a mix of frustration and something deeper, something primal that made her pulse quicken.
Without breaking eye contact, Murtasim reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bundle of cash. Meerab’s breath hitched as he circled the money around her head in a traditional gesture of sadqa, a protective offering to ward off evil. His movements were deliberate, slow, and possessive, sending a clear message to anyone watching: she was his.
Once the ritual was complete, Murtasim handed the cash to one of the dancers. His eyes never left Meerab’s, and in one swift motion, he took hold of her wrist, the gentle yet firm grip making her stomach flip. “Let’s go,” he said, his voice low and controlled, but the fire behind his words was unmistakable.
Meerab didn’t protest. There was something about the way Murtasim held her wrist that made her heart race. His touch was possessive, but not harsh. He was angry—no, not just angry. He was furious, but in that quiet, dangerous way that made her both anxious and excited at the same time.
He led her away from the dancers, weaving through the guests, who were too distracted by the festivities to notice. Meerab could barely keep up with his pace, her wrist still firmly in his grasp as he pulled her toward the mansion. They passed through the grand entrance, up the staircase, and toward their bedroom, where the soft echoes of the music outside faded into the background.
As soon as they stepped inside, Murtasim let go of her wrist and turned to lock the door. Meerab stood by the bed, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she watched him, her pulse pounding in her ears. The room felt charged with an energy she couldn’t quite place, a mix of tension, anger, and something more.
