Murtasim Khan, the stern, no-nonsense patriarch of Khan Haveli, feared very little in life. He had faced ruthless enemies, settled land disputes, and led his people with an iron fist. But today, as he paced nervously outside the bedroom door, his heart raced faster than it had during any of those challenges. The cause? Meerab, his sharp-tongued wife, who was currently inside the room and probably plotting his doom.
It had been a long, nerve-racking day, all thanks to one Haya—his creepy, overly-obsessed cousin. She had cornered him earlier in the garden, yet again, with her doe-eyed gazes and absurd remarks about their "destiny" together. Unfortunately, Meerab had spotted them from the balcony. The furious, deadly glare Meerab had given him had frozen him on the spot. He was terrified, yes, terrified of his wife’s wrath.
His mind drifted back to that ill-fated moment.
---
**Earlier That Day:**
Murtasim was inspecting the rose bushes near the garden, minding his business, when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He sighed deeply. That feeling could only mean one thing—Haya was near.
Before he could escape, Haya had glided towards him, her dupatta trailing behind her like some kind of ghostly apparition.
"Murtasim," she cooed, standing a little too close for comfort.
He took an instinctive step back, nodding curtly. "What is it, Haya?"
"I was just thinking...we spend so much time apart," she said, batting her lashes as if they were heavy weights. "We should spend more time together, don’t you think? For old times’ sake?"
Murtasim’s eyes darted around the garden, desperately looking for an exit. "No, we shouldn’t," he said firmly, taking another step back.
But Haya was persistent. She closed the gap between them again, lowering her voice to an almost conspiratorial whisper. "Meerab doesn't deserve you, you know. But I...I do. I've always been the one for you."
Before Murtasim could shut down this madness, he felt a burning gaze from above. His head snapped upward, and there she was—Meerab, standing on the balcony, arms crossed, murder in her eyes.
His heart sank. **Oh no.**
Meerab didn’t say a word, but her silent, deadly glare communicated everything she was thinking. Murtasim froze, realizing he was caught in the worst possible situation: alone with Haya, and being accused of God knows what in his wife’s eyes.
"I...I need to go!" Murtasim stammered, sidestepping Haya and nearly tripping over a plant as he made his escape.
---
**Present:**
Now, he stood outside his bedroom door, gathering his courage. He took a deep breath, straightened his kurta, and pushed the door open, bracing himself for the onslaught.
Meerab was sitting on the bed, arms still crossed, her expression a mix of anger, suspicion, and...was that amusement? Oh no, she was going to make this painful.
"Finally decided to show your face?" Meerab’s voice was ice cold.
Murtasim gulped. "Meerab, let me explain—"
"Explain what, exactly? How you were having a cozy little chat with Haya, who, by the way, has been making googly eyes at you for months?"
"It wasn’t cozy!" he blurted out. "I was just—"
Meerab raised an eyebrow. "Just what? Humoring her delusions about the two of you riding off into the sunset together?"
Murtasim groaned, rubbing his face with his hands. "No! I was trying to get away, but she cornered me!"
