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The Imam Sahab's voice was steady, a calm amidst the storm brewing within the ornate room. "Do you, Alisha Shaikh, daughter of late Faris Shaikh, accept Ayan Khaild as your husband with a mahr of 50,00,000?" His question hung in the air like a guillotine blade, ready to fall.
Alisha twisted her fingers, her bangles making a nervous jingle that echoed through the silent hall. Every eye was on her, waiting for her answer.
The room was filled with guards, their guns tied menacingly on their waistbands, a stark reminder of the stakes. She could feel the weight of their gazes, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
"Do you, Alisha Shaikh, daughter of late Faris Shaikh, accept Ayan Khaild as your husband with a mahr of 50,00,000?" The Imam asked again, this time with patient persistence. Alisha's eyes welled up with tears, fear coursing through her veins.
Her head was bowed low, hidden inside the veil her stepmother had draped over her.
Her stepmother leaned in, her voice a venomous whisper. "Answer, Alisha. If you don't want to die." She punctuated her threat with a cold, calculating smile. Before Alisha step mother could muster the courage to stand, a guard placed a gun against her forehead, the metal cold against her skin.
"I told you not to force or warn her," Ayan's voice boomed, cold and commanding. The room fell into an even deeper silence, everyone gulping audibly.
Alisha's heart shattered into pieces. She didn't want this wedding. She was being forced, coerced by her own family.
The Imam, sensing the escalating tension, tried to diffuse it.
"Shab, we are doing nikah. Stop this drama." Ayan nodded, his eyes fixed on the spot where he knew Alisha stood, the curtains blocking his view of his soon-to-be wife.
His men took the gun away from her stepmother, the metallic click echoing ominously.
"Do you, Alisha Shaikh, daughter of late Faris Shaikh, accept Ayan Khaild as your husband with a mahr of 50,00,000?" The Imam asked once more, his voice unwavering.
Alisha took a deep breath, grasping at her courage. "Qubool hai," she choked out, tears streaming down her face. Her voice was barely audible, laced with the pain of a thousand broken dreams.
"Qubool hai," she repeated, her voice trembling. No one was there to counsel her, only for her. "Qubool hai," she said again, her heart aching.
"Do you, Ayan Khaild, son of Waleed Khaild, accept Alisha Shaikh as your wife?" The Imam asked, turning to Ayan. A smile played on Ayan's lips, a rare sight that sent shockwaves through the room.
His guards' eyes widened in disbelief, those holding the white curtain dropped their jaws. They couldn't believe what they were seeing—the ruthless Russian mafia boss smiling like a lost puppy in love.
Sam, ayan's secretary, couldn't contain his astonishment. "Holy fuck," he thought, watching Ayan smile for the first time in twenty years. That smile, a genius smile, lit up his usually cold, calculating face.
"Qubool hai," Ayan said, shattering Alisha's last hope but filling his own chest with a happiness he had long forgotten. He was marrying the girl he loved, the girl he obsessed over.
"Qubool hai," he repeated, each word crushing Alisha's hopes and dreams like someone was taking away the little peace she had left.
"Qubool hai," her heart ached, tears flowing freely from her eyes. She wept, but Ayan was unfazed, his pride swelling.
His men looked at him as if they were seeing aliens. The ruthless Russian mafia boss, who killed people mercilessly, was now tied to a fragile, innocent soul who had lived a normal life amidst monsters.
He had taken her, finally. Was she safe now? Or would his maddest obsession scare her? Could she ever accept him as her husband? Could he give her the love she wanted?
The story of Alisha and Ayan Khaild began here.
She was a green flag,
naive and innocent.
He was a red carpet,
dangerous and manipulative.
She loved cooking
he loved killing.
She believed in people easily
he didn't even trust his own shadow.
They were tied together, bound by fate. Would they find a happy ending, or would their differences tear them apart?
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