30th March, 2019

"So you mean even if it's her fault, I have to say sorry?" Shumail asked, brows furrowed as if he were evaluating the merger of two billion-dollar companies.

His serious expression made the other three guys burst out laughing.

"Absolutely!" Zaid declared with dramatic flair, waving his hand like a courtroom lawyer. "Do you know what wives really want to hear from their husbands?"

"I love you?" Shumail offered tentatively, though it sounded more like a question than a declaration.

Zaid clutched his chest, feigning heartbreak. "Aw, that's cute. But nope!" He wagged his finger. "It's Sorry. S-O-R-R-Y. In every language. In every tone. On every occasion."

Shumail turned his head toward Aahil and Shahmeer with hope in his eyes—traitors, the both of them. They nodded solemnly like wise old monks.

With an exaggerated sigh, Shumail picked up a cushion and launched it at Zaid, hitting him square in the face.

"Hey! What was that for?" Zaid yelped, flailing dramatically.

"For turning my wedding into a war strategy meeting!" Shumail grumbled, folding his arms across his chest.

"Relax, Mr. Calm-and-Composed. We're just making sure you survive the first month of marriage," Aahil said with a grin.

"Yeah," Shahmeer added, "Think of this as your training montage. Rocky had a punching bag. You have us."

"It's not training, it's mental torture," Shumail muttered, but a faint smile betrayed his amusement.

It was late in the evening, and the boys had gathered at Shahmeer's place—officially to go over wedding preparations, unofficially to make Shumail question every life choice that had led him here.

Shahmeer's mother had taken full control of the bride and groom's outfits, while the rest of the wedding planning had been divided among the boys. They had unanimously agreed that Shumail, being the groom, was banned from doing any actual work—unless it involved sitting still, sipping tea, and nodding while people fussed around him.

Which, to be fair, he was doing quite well.

The living room of Edrisi Mansion was echoing with their laughter and the scent of freshly brewed kahwa. Amid all the chaos, it was the warmth of brotherhood that wrapped the evening in ease.

"You three need to stop scaring him," came Shahmeer's father's voice as he walked in, hands behind his back. The boys straightened up like students caught cheating on a test.

"You're giving him the wrong idea about marriage," the elder Edrisi chuckled, taking a seat beside Shumail.

"Honestly, Uncle, I'm reconsidering this whole 'getting married' concept," Shumail deadpanned.

The others burst into laughter again, unable to help themselves.

"Don't listen to them, Shumail," Shahmeer's father Ashraf said kindly, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Marriage is a responsibility, yes. But it's also one of the most beautiful bonds Allah has created. Sharing your life with the girl who is placed in your nikaah, finding your best friend, your companion, your soulmate in her—it's an incredible journey."

The room grew quiet. Even Zaid's dramatic energy stilled.

"There will be misunderstandings," Ashraf continued. "You'll have disagreements. But forgiveness... understanding... cherishing each moment you share—those are the things that make it worthwhile. Waking up next to her, watching her laugh with you, growing together in love and in deen—it's a blessing, Shumail. One you'll thank your Rabb for every day if you hold her hand and never let go."

Silence.

It was the kind of silence that settled in people, not just around them.

Shumail blinked a few times, quickly tilting his head down as he took in the words. His eyes glistened, but he held himself steady. Calm. As always. Only those who truly knew him could recognize the depth of emotion swimming behind that quiet smile.

"Wow, Dad. That was... poetic," Shahmeer said, blinking away the sudden surge of emotions.

"Ma Sha Allah," Aahil added, genuinely moved.

"Uncle, that was beautiful. JazakAllah," Shumail said softly. His voice held a lump, the kind that formed when memories of missing parents tried to sneak in. He cleared his throat and forced a small smile. "Thank you for saying that. It means more than I can explain."

Ashraf smiled and pulled him into a warm hug.

"You'll do just fine, beta. You have a good heart. That's all a husband truly needs."

Shumail held onto the hug a second longer, resting his head briefly on the older man's shoulder—just enough to draw in some of the warmth he'd always longed for but never voiced.

When the hug ended, Zaid cleared his throat loudly.

"So now that the therapy session is over, can we get back to the actual topic—the wedding night survival plan?"

Shahmeer groaned. "Zaid, for the love of caffeine, stop making it sound like a horror movie!"

Aahil leaned in. "But seriously, Shumail—make sure you do not forget where you kept the mehr papers. My cousin lost his on the day of the nikaah, and his wife still brings it up five years later."

"Maybe she's just trying to find her share of the stock market in there," Shumail said dryly.

The boys howled with laughter.

Zaid wiped a fake tear from the corner of his eye. "Man, he's calm and savage. Eram is in for a ride."

"That reminds me," Shahmeer added with a wicked grin, "are you prepared to share your desserts? Or should we add a clause in the nikaah nama?"

Shumail smirked. "If she touches my gulab jamun, there will be war."

"Spoken like a true husband!" Aahil declared, raising an imaginary toast.

"Alright, alright," Ashraf interrupted with a chuckle. "Let's not scare the poor lad again. Let him breathe."

The boys nodded in mock solemnity, but Zaid still couldn't resist leaning over and whispering, "Just remember... if you're ever unsure—say sorry and hand her chocolate."

Shumail shook his head, amused. "Are you guys planning to publish a handbook? 'How to Survive Your Marriage and Still Keep Your Dignity'?"

"Volume One: Apologize Now, Understand Later," Shahmeer quipped, raising an eyebrow.

"Volume Two: Never Comment on Her Cooking Unless It's a Compliment," Aahil added.

"And Volume Three," Zaid said proudly, "Don't ever—and I mean ever—delete her favorite K-drama to make space for your football match."

Shumail laughed genuinely this time, his earlier stress now a little lighter. "Remind me why I chose you three to be part of my wedding?"

"Because we're loyal, handsome, and incredibly resourceful?" Zaid offered hopefully.

"More like loud, annoying, and completely unqualified for emotional support," Shumail replied with a smirk.

But the truth was—this chaos, this teasing, this ridiculous banter—it felt like home.

He leaned back on the couch, watching his friends argue over who'd forgotten to pick up the wedding favors, and who was responsible for the flower arrangements. Shahmeer was waving a to-do list in the air like a sword, Aahil was defending himself with a cushion, and Zaid was dramatically pretending to faint from stress.

And in the middle of it all, Shumail smiled.

Not the calm, polite smile he usually wore for the world—but a soft, real one. The kind that said this was the good stuff. The in-between moments. The memories before the memories.

And yet, beneath the surface of that smile, something colder stirred—quiet, unreadable.

Like a storm waiting for its time.

***

The morning sun filtered through the heavy drapes of the Ibrahim mansion, casting golden rays on the polished marble floor. Inside a regal bedroom, Shumail stood still before an ornate mirror, buttoning the last clasp of his sherwani. Midnight blue, with intricate silver embroidery that shimmered subtly in the light—it was a look befitting the man who wore it.

"Hold still," Zaid said from behind, adjusting the collar. "You're not a mannequin, but you could at least pretend to be one."

Shumail raised a brow, unbothered. "I didn't realize you were applying for the job of a personal stylist."

"Only for your highness," Zaid quipped with a grin, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "Looking good, mister soon-to-be-married."

"That's subjective," Shumail replied calmly, though the corner of his lips hinted at a smile.

"You don't look nervous," Zaid noted.

"Because I'm not," Shumail said, fastening his cufflinks. "People expect the groom to fall apart on his wedding day. I prefer to let them down."

"Still mysterious even on your big day. Love that for you," Zaid muttered as he patted Shumail on the shoulder. "Come on, it's time."

The Ibrahim mansion had been transformed for the private ceremony. The scent of roses and jasmine lingered in the air, mingling with the quiet murmur of close family and friends. The nikaah was set up in the central hall—simple yet elegant, just like the man at the center of it all.

Shumail sat calmly on one side of the flower curtain that separated him from Eram. His posture was poised, hands resting lightly on his thighs. The maulvi sat between them, reciting the verses, his voice soft and rhythmic.

Eram, on the other side, looked ethereal in soft pastels. Her hands trembled slightly in her lap, her gaze fixed on the curtain. She knew he was there—felt it like a current humming through the fabric.

"Do you accept Eram Azam in your nikaah, with the agreed mehr?"

"Qubool hai," Shumail replied in a clear, measured tone.

"Qubool hai."

"Qubool hai."

The words fell like stones into a lake, causing ripples that would stretch across a lifetime.

Moments later, pens were handed over. Signatures were made. The contract was complete. A bond written in ink, sealed by destiny.

As the gathering erupted into quiet congratulations and murmured duas, Shumail stood and moved toward the curtain.

But before he could lift it, three figures materialized before him.

Zaid, Aahil, and Shahmeer.

"Hold it right there, Romeo," Zaid said, arms crossed.

"You want to see your wife?" Shahmeer added with a mischievous grin.

"Pay the toll," Aahil chimed in, wiggling his eyebrows.

Shumail looked at the trio with a blank expression that could've frozen lava.

"And what exactly is this toll?"

"Chocolate. Imported. Monthly supply for a year," Zaid declared.

"And season tickets to the cricket league," Aahil said.

"Plus a signed clause that says you can't ghost us after marriage," Shahmeer added solemnly.

Shumail regarded them for a beat.

"Done," he said, without missing a beat.

They blinked.

"Wait. Seriously?"

"I'm not one to bargain over what already belongs to me," he replied, voice smooth as ever. Then, leaning just slightly closer, he added, "Now move."

The boys jumped aside with theatrical bows as he stepped forward, pushing aside the flower curtain gently.

The first thing he saw was her eyes.

Soft. Nervous. Expectant.

"Assalamualaikum," he said, voice low.

Eram looked up, startled by how calm he seemed. "Waalaikumassalam," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

He didn't say anything else. Just stood there for a moment, taking her in, gaze steady but unreadable.

Then, with the ghost of a smile, he said, "You're mine now."

The way he said it wasn't possessive.

It wasn't loud or overbearing.

It was quiet. Definite. Dangerous in its certainty.

And for a heartbeat, Eram forgot how to breathe.

She felt the air shift. Like the world had tilted just slightly... and something powerful had awakened beneath the surface.

He didn't touch her. Didn't even reach for her.

But his presence felt like a promise. One she didn't know if she could keep.

One she didn't know if she deserved to keep.

She looked at the man who was now her husband—elegant in midnight blue and intricate silver, regal in restraint—and a cold wave of dread slid down her spine.

What would happen when he finds out? When all of this—this soft light, this gentle ceremony, this illusion—fractures under the weight of the truth?

She didn't know.

That was the terrifying part.

Because Shumail Ibrahim wasn't the type to rage. He wouldn't raise his voice or make a scene.

No, he would go still.

Quiet.

Sharp.

And that kind of silence... was the most dangerous of all.

Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest. Her betrayal lay dormant between them, like a sleeping beast with one eye open.

And yet—yet—somewhere beneath that ache, something warmer bloomed.

Because in this moment, wrapped in jasmine and vows and fleeting innocence, she was his.

Truly his.

And she wanted to hold onto it. Just for a little while longer.

So she smiled, soft and uncertain, and whispered to herself a silent prayer.

Ya Allah... protect him from me.

And protect me from the day he stops smiling at me like that.

Assalamualaikum guys!

How are you all doing?

How was the chapter? Your thoughts? ;)

Isn't Shumail the sweetest? I guess he's going to capture so many hearts with his charm and I also guess this story will break so many hearts with its plot twists! ○_○

Vote, Comment & Share this story with your friends and help it reach millions of hearts ♡♡

Until next time....cyaaao!