Wrongly Accused

Chapter 53

The mall thrummed with a restless energy, a chaotic symphony of voices, footsteps, and rustling shopping bags that scraped against my nerves like a blunt knife. I trailed a few paces behind Amaira and Sharmila, my sister's laughter cutting through the clamor, sharp and radiant. Amaira's smile was softer, a delicate curve that didn't quite reach her eyes, but it was genuine, warm, and so utterly undeserved. Guilt gnawed at my chest, a persistent ache that refused to relent. I'd hurt her, dragged her into the shadowed, vicious world I ruled a realm of blood, power, and unrelenting vengeance and yet here she was, indulging Sharmila's every whim with a tenderness that pierced me. She sifted through racks of clothes, offered opinions on makeup, and laughed at my sister's excited chatter with a patience I couldn't fathom. Amaira treated Sharmila like family, like someone worth cherishing, while I'd treated her like a pawn in my ruthless game of retribution. Revenge had consumed me, blinding me to the fundamental humanity she embodied. I hadn't seen it before, not until her quiet strength forced me to confront it. She'd taught me what I'd lost: not every wound needs to bleed for justice to be served.

Watching them together, so close, so carefree, stirred a pang I didn't want to name. Since when had they grown so tight? Sharmila's giggles, Amaira's gentle teasing. It's like they'd woven a world I wasn't part of, and it stung more than I'd admit. I sighed, shoving my hands deeper into my pockets, my eyes locked on them. On her. Always her. And then there was him. Rehan, the leech, hovering like a vulture circling its next meal. Why the hell was he even here? Mamu's flimsy excuse about him being Sharmila's tutor, a professional professor, no less, was pure nonsense. A male tutor? For my sister? I'd pressed Mamu for answers, but he'd shut me down, telling me to mind my own damn business. Since when was Sharmila not my business? Now this fool was glued to them, trailing Amaira with those soft, pathetic eyes that made my blood simmer. He looked at her like she was the answer to every question he'd ever had, and it took every ounce of restraint not to gouge those eyes out and feed them to my dogs. One wrong move, and he'd learn exactly who I was.

We stepped into the clothing store, the air thick with the scent of pristine fabric and opulence. The workers moved like skittish mice, their eyes darting to me, then away, fear etched into their tight, forced smiles. They knew who I was. They always did. My name, Suhail, carried weight, a whispered warning of what I could do with a single nod. Amaira, oblivious to the undercurrent of dread, offered to pick out clothes for Sharmila, her voice light but steady, like she was anchoring my sister in this sea of silk and satin. Sharmila beamed, practically glowing under Amaira's attention, and I couldn't look away. Not from her. From the moment we'd stepped into this cursed mall, my eyes had been on Amaira, tracking every step, every flicker of emotion across her face. She thought she could blend into the background, that no one noticed her quiet moments, but I did. I saw the way her fingers lingered on a rack of dresses, the way her lips parted slightly when something caught her eye. She was a puzzle, intricate and maddening, and I couldn't stop trying to piece her together.