Murtasim Khan had many battles in his life. As the head of his family, he had dealt with business rivals, land disputes, and enough political intrigue to fill an entire library of soap operas. But nothing—absolutely nothing—could have prepared him for the battle he currently found himself losing.
The Sofa.
A seemingly harmless piece of furniture that had taken up residence in his bedroom like an unwelcome guest, standing between him and the one thing he wanted most—Meerab.
Since their marriage, Meerab had made it clear that she was not ready to share a bed with him. Of course, she’d worded it in her usual fiery way: “You will sleep on the sofa, **Murtasim Khan**, or you’ll be sleeping outside.”
Murtasim had agreed, reluctantly, thinking it would be temporary. After all, how long could she possibly hold out? A week? Two weeks? He could endure that. But weeks had turned into months, and the sofa had become his bed, his prison, and his nemesis.
And Murtasim Khan was fed up.
He wasn’t a man used to backing down from a challenge, and this sofa was no exception. Tonight would be the beginning of his revenge. Tonight, he would get rid of it, and finally, he would be able to sleep next to his wife like any normal husband.
---
It was the dead of night, the perfect time for Murtasim to enact his brilliant plan. Meerab was asleep, curled up on the bed with her back to him, completely unaware of his impending mission. The faint sound of her steady breathing filled the room, and Murtasim felt a pang of guilt. But it was fleeting—this was a battle he needed to win.
He eyed the sofa across the room, sitting there smugly as if it were taunting him. That smug, oversized chair had seen him at his lowest—waking up with a stiff back, nursing sore muscles after endless nights on its rigid cushions. Enough was enough.
Murtasim crept out of bed, glancing at Meerab to make sure she hadn’t stirred. He padded silently over to the sofa, his heart pounding with the adrenaline of someone about to commit a minor crime.
“Say goodbye, you stupid thing,” he whispered to the inanimate object.
He grabbed the armrest and began dragging the heavy sofa toward the door. The thing was bulkier than he remembered, but he was determined. Halfway through, the sofa made a horrendous creaking noise, and Murtasim froze, glancing over his shoulder at Meerab, who shifted slightly but didn’t wake up.
Letting out a breath of relief, he continued his mission, tugging the sofa out of the bedroom door with a triumphant grin.
Once the offending piece of furniture was in the hallway, Murtasim grunted as he moved it toward the servant's quarters.
"Abbas will take care of it in the morning," he muttered to himself.
Finally, when the sofa was safely out of sight, Murtasim straightened up and dusted off his hands, a satisfied smirk on his face. “Now, let’s see you come back from that.”
---
The next morning, Murtasim awoke to a soft nudge from Meerab.
"Wake up, Murtasim," she called out softly, sounding more like her usual distant self. “Breakfast is ready.”
Murtasim, still half-asleep, rolled over—on the bed. His heart leaped with joy. **Finally**, he thought. **Finally, I'm waking up in the same bed as my wife. This is what victory feels like.**
But that joy was short-lived. When he opened his eyes fully, something horrible caught his gaze. There, at the foot of the bed, as if mocking him, sat the sofa. The very same one he had dragged out of the room the night before.
