The ballroom at Beach Luxury Hotel shimmered under soft golden lights, its air thick with perfume, politics, and questions. Quiet murmurs filled the space as Karachi’s elite sipped their drinks and waited for the newlyweds to make their entrance.
Mustafa stood near the stage, his sherwani immaculate, his posture unreadable. Every gesture was deliberate. Every movement calculated. He scanned the room like a soldier on enemy ground.
Then she appeared.
Feef entered with quiet dignity, the heavy dupatta draped over her head, her gaze locked ahead. Mustafa met her halfway, placing a light hand on her back. Together, they walked down the parted aisle of power-brokers and politicians, whispers trailing in their wake like smoke.
“Just keep your eyes forward,” Mustafa murmured. “Don’t let them see anything.”
Feef didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
At the front of the room, Asad Isfahani stepped to the podium. He smiled, cool and commanding, as the cameras turned toward him.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Asad began, his voice slicing through the tension, “tonight we celebrate a union. A powerful one. Mustafa and Afifa—two legacies joined in strength. In vision. In purpose.”
Applause rippled across the ballroom, but it did little to thaw the chill beneath.
Asad raised his glass. “To family, to unity, and to the strength of new beginnings.”
Glasses clinked. Flashbulbs popped. But the unease remained. Everyone had heard the rumors. The bride, thought dead for a decade, now back—and married into one of the most powerful political families in the country?
Too convenient. Too clean.
Mustafa leaned in again. “Remember what we discussed. No one knows anything about the past. Tonight is about the future.”
Feef’s lips tightened.
A few minutes later, Usman Diwan approached the high table. His presence alone quieted nearby conversations. He looked straight at Mustafa.
“This is where we start?” he said, low and tense. “With all these eyes on her?”
Mustafa didn’t flinch. “It’s necessary. We control the narrative, remember?”
Usman’s gaze flicked to Feef. Something flickered in his eyes—protectiveness, fury—but it passed.
“If anything happens to her,” he said slowly, “I won’t forgive you.”
“She’s safe,” Mustafa said, eyes locked on him. “She’s untouchable now.”
Asad joined them, clapping a hand on Mustafa’s shoulder. “It’s a beginning. The press is here. The world is watching. You’ve done well.”
“Only the beginning,” Mustafa said quietly, scanning the crowd again.
Feef sat beside him, hands folded neatly, posture perfect—but she felt the walls closing in. She excused herself quietly, stepping away from the table.
Mustafa followed her without hesitation, catching up in the corridor just outside the ballroom.
“You’re fine,” he said softly. “You’ve played your part perfectly.”
“I don’t want to be here,” Feef whispered.
“You don’t have a choice,” Mustafa replied, his tone colder now. “This is your life. Make the best of it.”
“And if I can’t?”
He placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “Then I’ll make sure you do.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Only breathed—and then nodded, once.
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ChickLit"I..I nee..d to leave," she said trembling trying really hard to hide her fear as he inched closer towards her. He cut the phone call and an unknown emotion flashed in his eyes before it was masked away. "I... I did..not... see anything, ple...ase...
