16th Sept, 2019

One Year Later
Istanbul, Turkey

"Yes, Mr. Charles. My secretary will send the documents to you by evening. Pleasure doing business with you," Shumail said, his voice smooth but distant.

"I had thought the official contract signing would be done face to face, Mr. Ibrahim?"

"Apologies for the letdown," Shumail replied, sliding a hoodie over his head as he grabbed his keys. "But I’m currently out of the country. Still, business doesn’t stop, so here I am—working remotely, barely surviving on cup noodles and international guilt."

Mr. Charles chuckled lightly. "Just saying, Mr. Ibrahim. But I’m happy to have signed this deal with you. I hope we succeed together."

"I hope so too. Take care, Mr. Charles."

"You too, Mr. Ibrahim."

Shumail ended the call and slipped his phone into his pocket. Locking the apartment behind him, he descended the stairs and began walking to the convenience store down the road. Afternoon sun bathed the old Istanbul street in gold, but he hardly noticed. Hunger gnawed at his stomach—he had skipped breakfast again. The same way he’d skipped it yesterday. And the day before.

As he walked, he plugged in his earpods and dialed his secretary.

"Good morning, Ms. Rose. It’s me. How’s work going?"

"Good morning, sir. I’m trying my best to handle everything and keep you updated. How are you doing?"

For a split second, guilt tapped at his conscience. He’d dumped a mountain of responsibility on her shoulders. Though he had assigned others too, it wasn’t the same as having the CEO in the office.

"I'm not doing really well—but hey, why ruin someone else’s mood," he muttered under his breath, then quickly cleared his throat. "I'm absolutely thriving, Ms. Rose. Called to tell you I faxed the signed documents. Please make sure Mr. Charles’ secretary gets them personally."

"Understood, sir."

"Anything else?"

"Sir..." her voice hesitated, "Mr. Aahil, Mr. Zaid, and Mr. Shahmeer have been dropping by the office often. They keep asking for your contact. What should I tell them?"

Shumail froze in his tracks. In the cold emptiness of Istanbul, those names wrapped around his chest like a warm blanket.

A small, crooked smile appeared on his lips.

"Next time they come," he said softly, "tell them I'm coming back this week."

"Really, sir? That’s... such a relief," she breathed.

"Should I inform Mrs. Ibrahim too?"

Eram.

The name hit like a sucker punch.

Her name alone was a key—one that unlocked doors he'd bolted shut with every ounce of his resolve. His heart twisted. He closed his eyes momentarily and exhaled. Just ahead, an elderly couple walked past holding hands, reminding him painfully of what he’d once hoped to have.

Of what he almost had.

Of Eram’s laughter echoing down their hallway…

Of her mock-serious lectures on why coffee deserved its own emotional support group…

Of the way she once teased:

“You, Shumail Ibrahim, are the inventor of emotional caffeine.”

“What does that even mean?” he’d asked, grinning.

“It means you’re bitter, necessary, and somehow addictive.”

He had laughed.

But that day at Flora & Beans, her laughter had barely faded when his smile did too.

Because he’d seen it.

A glint. A lens. A flash—faint, but deliberate.

He didn't flinch. Just leaned back into the booth, cool as always. Eram was sipping her cold brew, smirking as she accused him of being the "human equivalent of glitter—annoying but oddly charming."

He smiled. Played along.

Under the table, his fingers moved with practiced calm.

He texted Rehan.

To: Rehan

Plate #BDM 374 parked across Flora & Beans. Zoom lens. Tinted windows. No movement.
Run a quiet trace.
And Rehan—don’t flag it. No noise. Just a name and background.
Urgent.

"Earth to Shumail," Eram had said, tossing a straw wrapper at him. "Are you zoning out or mentally arguing with your coffee again?"

"Neither," he replied, eyes warm. "Just marveling at how someone so small drinks coffee like she's prepping for war."

"It's survival," she shot back. "Try living in my brain without caffeine."

"Oh, I imagine it’s a chaotic paradise—glitter, rom-com quotes, and you arguing with ceiling fans."

She burst into laughter again, her eyes glowing.

His phone buzzed.

Delivered.

No reply yet.

But he trusted Rehan. Always did.

Then... the car disappeared.

Just like that. Quietly. No revving engine. No screech. Gone.

But not unnoticed.

He hadn’t mentioned a word to Eram. Not then.

Five minutes later, his phone buzzed again.

Rehan:
Not a civilian. No digital footprint. Fake plates. Burn number linked to a dummy email. Someone’s careful. Digging more.

He'd responded instantly.

Keep it off record. Shadow the source. No alerts.
If this traces back to Eram—I want to know before I blink.

***

Three days after the incident at Flora & Beans, Shumail stood by the window of his office, the skyline washed in amber hues as evening crept in. His phone buzzed again—this time, not a message, but a voice note.

Rehan: “We caught him. The guy in the car. Tail was easy once he slipped up near Karaköy. He’s in the safehouse. Quiet. Waiting for your call.”

Shumail's jaw clenched. He replied with a single line:
“I’m on my way.”

***

In the dim interrogation room of the safehouse, the man who had been watching them sat in silence, hands bound, face shadowed. His camera had already revealed enough—dozens of photographs of Eram, some of Shumail, taken over weeks. The lens was custom. The intent, obsessive.

“You don’t look like a paparazzi,” Shumail said, stepping in. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

The man finally spoke, voice shaky. “I was paid. I don’t even know her name. I was just given a photo and asked to follow her. That’s it.”

“Who paid you?”

The man paused. Then muttered, “It was a woman. Middle-aged. Spoke in clipped Urdu. Said she was watching someone betray her family.”

Shumail’s eyes narrowed. The edges of the picture were snapping into place.

He stood, nodded at Rehan, and left.

***

Back at his apartment, Rehan had set up a full digital profile on Eram. Lines of code blurred across the screen as he pulled data from hospital records, school archives, and protected government databases. Nothing flagged her as criminal, unstable, or even mildly suspicious.

Then something clicked.

Zain Azam. Minor. Age: 10.
Currently under the temporary care of the Child Welfare Association of Ontario. Parental status: deceased. Legal custody status: pending.

But the real blow came next.

Emergency contact and listed next-of-kin: Mrs. Safia Ansar—Shumail’s aunt.

Shumail stared at the screen, heart stuttering.

His aunt. Again.

But this time, her claws had sunk deeper.

“She’s threatening her with the kid,” Shumail said under his breath, eyes locked on the screen. “Zain’s in the system, vulnerable. She’s probably telling Eram that one forged document—one fake signature—and he’ll be listed as eligible for adoption.”

Rehan nodded grimly. “Exactly. She’s not the legal guardian yet, but she’s close enough to manipulate the system. If Eram doesn’t comply, your aunt could easily push through fake custody papers and erase Eram from the picture entirely.”

Shumail’s jaw tightened.

“She’s cornered her,” he said. “Eram’s helping her not out of loyalty… but because she’s terrified she’ll lose him.”

“And from the looks of it,” Rehan added, “your aunt’s using that fear to get Eram to do everything she’s asked, from meeting you to making you fall for her.. All under the threat of Zain being taken away.”

Shumail leaned back in his chair, rage carefully contained behind a mask of thought.

“She thinks she’s untouchable,” he said quietly.

Rehan glanced at him. “What now?”

A slow, grim smile curved Shumail’s lips.

“Now? We make her feel very touchable.”

***

A few days later Shumail was at the Child Welfare Association.

The lobby of the Ontario Child Welfare Association smelled faintly of floor polish and institutional calm. Light filtered in through large glass windows, casting squares of sunshine across worn linoleum. Somewhere nearby, a child was laughing—sharp, high-pitched, and unbothered.

Shumail didn’t smile.

He stood at the front desk, dressed in a muted navy suit, posture calm but eyes sharp. He presented his ID to the receptionist without a word.

The woman behind the desk—a tired-eyed caseworker in her late fifties—glanced at the ID, then at him. “You're here to see Zain Azam?”

Shumail gave a curt nod.

She hesitated, studying him for a moment longer than necessary. “You're not on his contact list.”

“I’m not here to speak to him,” he said. “I just want to see him. From a distance.”

She considered that, then slowly stood. “Alright. Follow me.”

The hallway they walked down was long and sterile, lined with faded bulletin boards filled with crayon art and laminated parenting pamphlets. As they passed, a few children peeked from open doors, curious.

The caseworker stopped at a viewing window—a thick pane of glass looking into a large indoor playroom.

“There,” she said, pointing.

Shumail’s eyes followed her finger.

Zain.

Sitting alone at a table in the corner, a small figure hunched over a puzzle, mismatched socks peeking from beneath too-long jeans. His head was down, lips pressed in concentration as he worked on fitting the last few pieces.

He looked… tired. Not the physical kind, but the weight-of-the-world kind. Ten years old, and already learning to carry things no child should.

Shumail’s throat tightened, but his face remained unreadable.

“He’s been quiet since he got here,” the woman said softly. “Keeps to himself. Polite, though. Says ‘thank you’ when we give him his meals. Doesn’t talk much about his sister.”

“He misses her,” Shumail murmured.

The woman turned to him. “If you’re close to the family, you should know—Zain’s at risk of being assigned to permanent foster care. We’re still evaluating custody petitions. No one has filed a formal claim yet.”

Shumail’s gaze didn’t leave the glass.

“What would it take,” he asked quietly, “for someone to win custody?”

The woman blinked. “Well… it depends. The applicant would need to show emotional and financial stability. Proof of housing, clean legal record, and steady income. The court needs assurance the child won’t suffer again under care.”

“And if the applicant is… a single woman? The sister?”

“She’d have to prove she’s capable. Emotionally stable, financially independent, with a support system. If she has none of those, the state won’t risk it.”

Shumail exhaled slowly. “But if she were married?”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “It would… certainly strengthen her case. A stable household—dual income, permanent residence, legal marriage license—that would push her to the top of the list. Assuming no other red flags.”

Shumail nodded absently.

His eyes were still on Zain.

The boy had just completed the puzzle. A picture of a forest trail. He didn’t smile—but he sat back, satisfied. A small, private triumph in a world too big for him.

That was the moment something shifted in Shumail.

His shoulders squared, spine straightening with quiet purpose.

No more waiting.

He turned to the caseworker. “Thank you,” he said.

She blinked. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes,” he said, already walking back down the hallway.

There was no need to watch longer. He’d seen enough to make a decision.

He was going to marry Eram.

Not for love. Not for appearances.

But to give her—and that quiet boy in the corner—a fighting chance.

A name. A shield. A weapon against the woman who’d been playing puppeteer far too long.

***

The silence in the apartment was heavy.
Too heavy.

Eram was curled up on the edge of the couch, her knees pulled to her chest, breathing uneven. Her fingers trembled as they clutched the fabric of her sleeves. Shumail sat right beside her, unmoving—watching.

She'd just come out of it. The panic attack had hit like a crashing tide—violent and paralyzing. For minutes, she'd gasped like someone drowning in air.

Now, her voice was a fragile whisper.

“I need to tell you something.”

Shumail tilted his head, saying nothing. His expression unreadable.

“I—” her throat closed again. She forced the words out. “I was hired. Someone approached me before I met you. They… they wanted me to trick you. To earn your trust and eventually get your signature on some property papers. I didn’t know it was her at first. I swear, Shumail. I didn’t—”

“I know,” he said.

She froze.

Her lips parted, confusion flaring in her eyes. “You... know?”

“I’ve known for weeks,” he said, walking to the table. Calm. Controlled. Always a step ahead. He picked up a thick envelope and turned back toward her.

“I was waiting for you to tell me.”

She looked at the envelope in his hand with suspicion. “What is that?”

“Your final assignment,” he said, extending it toward her.

She didn’t take it.

“That’s the property deed,” he added. “Signed.”

Eram stood up slowly, her chest rising with disbelief. “What are you saying? You want me to—? Shumail, this is suicide. Once she has that, she’ll take everything. The house, the company—”

“Do it,” he said, with quiet finality. “Take it to her. Let her think she’s won.”

She shook her head. “No. No, I can’t. I won’t hand you over to her like that.”

His eyes softened, and he stepped closer.

“It’s part of the plan,” he said, gently placing the envelope in her hands. “She’s not getting a victory—she’s walking into her own noose. I’ve made sure that the papers are traceable. The signature, the delivery, the transaction—every step is being monitored. All legally aligned to catch her red-handed.”

Eram stared at the envelope, stunned. “You… you’ve turned this into a trap.”

“She wanted a war,” he said simply. “I just gave her the battleground.”

***

Two days later, in a pristine government office in downtown Toronto, Mrs. Safia Ansar strolled in with the arrogance of someone who thought she’d finally won. Dressed in her finest shawl and designer heels, she carried the property deed Eram had delivered—signed, sealed, and ready for registration.

Her lawyer accompanied her, smug as ever.

Shumail and Eram stood just outside the registry room, hidden behind one-way glass provided by law enforcement. Eram’s fingers clutched the edge of her blazer, her heart hammering.

Shumail, as always, was calm.

“She won’t even see it coming,” he murmured.

Inside, Safia handed the papers to the clerk with a triumphant smile.

Then—within moments—the mood shifted.

The clerk paused, frowning. Typed something. Then picked up a phone.

Two uniformed officers entered quietly.

“Mrs. Safia Ansar?” one said. “You’re under arrest for attempted property fraud, forgery of legal documents, and coercion of a government official.”

“What?” she hissed. “What nonsense is this?!”

More officers moved in.

Safia whipped her head around, panic setting in. “You can’t do this! These papers are real! They’re—he signed them!”

“They were bait,” one officer said coldly. “We’ve traced every step. Including your previous threats and the dummy bank accounts. You’ve been under surveillance for weeks.”

As they pulled her hands behind her back, Safia spotted them—Shumail and Eram, walking into the room.

Her face twisted.

“You think this ends with me?!” she shrieked. “You ungrateful filth! You’ll lose everything! Everything! You think this girl will save you?! She’s nothing!”

Shumail didn’t flinch.

He stepped forward, eyes locked with hers.

“Enjoy your stay, Phuppo,” he said smoothly. “Try not to redecorate the cell.”

Safia snarled, lunging toward them, but the cuffs and officers held her back.

Her son—silent and stunned—was being led out as well, his phone bagged in evidence.

As the chaos unfolded, Eram glanced sideways at Shumail.

He just exhaled, slowly.

Finally, the board was cleared.

The queen was down.

Back in Istanbul, a breeze brought him back to the present.

"Sir?" Rose's voice repeated.

He blinked, clearing the fog in his mind.

"No. No need to do that,” he said firmly. "Alright, I’ll get going now."
He ended the call just as he reached the store.

The familiar ding of the doorbell greeted him.

"Fincan erişte tekrar?" the cashier sighed, seeing him. "Tekrar kahvaltıyı atladığını sanırım?"
(Cup noodles again? Skipped breakfast again, I suppose?)

"Umarım her gün hazır noodle tüketmenin sağlıklı olmadığını biliyorsundur." The cashier said, putting the noodles and the juice in a carry bag. (I hope you're aware that eating cup noodles every day isn't healthy.)

"Biliyorum," Shumail muttered, paying for his juice and noodles.
(I know.)

"O zaman neden hep onları yersin?"
(Then why always eat them?)

"Yaşamak için."
(Just to survive.)

Back at his apartment, he prepared the noodles absentmindedly. The warmth of the steam felt hollow against the chill inside him.

Taking his half-eaten cup to the kitchen table, he grabbed his iPad from the couch and FaceTimed the only three people who still made sense in his upside-down world.

The call connected.

Three faces. One collective gasp.

"WHAT happened to your face?!" Zaid exploded. "Are you trying to cosplay as a haunted scarecrow?!"

"You look like a Netflix docu-series waiting to happen," Shahmeer added, half-angry, half-horrified.

"You left without a word," Aahil snapped. "Did you want us to think you were dead?"

Shumail held up a hand with his fork still in it. "Peace, gentlemen. I’m very much alive. See? Eating junk. Crying internally. Thriving."

"Don't joke!" Shahmeer snapped. "You look like you wrestled a storm cloud and lost!"

"I needed to disappear. I wanted space," Shumail said quietly.

"You changed your number, ignored emails, vanished like a teenage poet," Zaid said, voice cracking. "We were scared, you jerk."

"I know."
A pause. Then softly, "I’m coming back."

All three voices at once:
"Are you serious?"
"When?"
"Thank God!"

"Tomorrow. Landing at 8 PM."

Zaid wiped away tears. “You better. Or I swear I’ll fly to Istanbul and drag your bony butt back.”

"And you call me a drama queen," Shumail teased.

"I'm missing my drama queen badly," Zaid replied.

"Wait till tomorrow," Shumail said, ending the call with a soft smile.

He leaned back in his chair, finishing the last bite of his noodles.

The clock on the wall ticked faintly.

The memories hadn’t left.

But he was done running.

He was going home.

Even if it meant finally facing everything he left behind.

Assalamualaikum!

Back with an update :D

How was the chap? Aah what do you think will happen next?

Let me know your thoughts ;)

Until next time...kia koa!