6 months Ago

Third person's pov.

The airport buzzed with restless movement — voices calling out, luggage wheels dragging, children laughing, announcements echoing overhead. But amidst the rush of departures and arrivals, Aarib walked with a silence that weighed heavier than the suitcase in his hand.

Roshaane walked beside him, her dupatta slipping again and again from her shoulder as she tried to match his long strides. She cast a quick glance at him, her husband now — though the word felt foreign in her mind, trembling against the beat of her heart. Aarib’s face was unreadable, carved in seriousness, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed straight ahead.

He did not look at her. He had not, not since the nikkah. And yet she held onto the thin thread of hope that once the noise settled, once they were away from the watchful eyes of family, she might find a way into his heart.

Her fingers gripped her boarding pass tightly. I will make him see me… I will make him love me.

On the plane, the world quieted. As the seatbelt sign blinked and the engines roared, Aarib leaned his head back and closed his eyes. To Roshaane, it might have seemed as though he was resting. But within him, a storm had already begun.

Flashes of memories came unbidden, sharp and cruel.

Maliha’s laughter on the terrace the evening of their engagement — her hands trembling as she slipped the ring onto his finger, her eyes shining with a joy so pure it had made his chest ache.
“We’ll grow old together, Aarib,” she had whispered, her head lowered, shy.
And he had smiled, his heart swelling, making promises he had thought unbreakable. “Forever, Maliha. No one will come between us.”

But promises had cracked like fragile glass.

Another memory surged — the hospital corridor, cold and suffocating. His Zeeya Maa stood outside the room, her hands covering her mouth as silent sobs shook her shoulders. He remembered the sting in his own chest when he heard the words, “Roshaane tried to end her life…”

He had walked in, seen her pale on the hospital bed, wrist bandaged, eyes swollen from tears. And that day, his heart had split into pieces — torn between the girl who had loved him all her life and the girl he had promised his future to.

The weight of both memories pressed against him now, heavier than the plane’s ascent.

He kept his eyes closed, his hands folded, his breath shallow. A silent tear escaped from his eye only to observe in his hair. For Roshaane sitting quietly beside him, it was just the beginning of a marriage she hoped to fill with warmth. For Aarib, it was the beginning of a sacrifice — of burying his own heart in silence.

----------
The steady hum of the aircraft filled the silence. Above the clouds, the world was calm, but inside the cabin, hearts carried storms.

Maliha sat by the window, her scarf drawn neatly around her shoulders, her eyes staring into the endless white beyond the glass. To anyone looking, she seemed composed, but within her, a thousand pieces ached.

Across the aisle, Mrand Mrs Isham  sat with quiet exhaustion, speaking little. Mr Isham adjusted his seatbelt, occasionally leaning to whisper something to his wife. Haseeb, seated a row behind, were flipping through the in-flight magazine, pretending to be occupied. None of them disturbed her. They knew silence was the only company she wanted now.

Maliha’s fingers tightened over the armrest. The hum of the engines lulled her into memories she wished she could erase.

Her mind drifted back — the day of her engagement. The house had been glowing with light, women singing in the courtyard, the air fragrant with roses and henna. Aarib had stood beside her, his hand trembling when she slid the ring onto his finger.

“Forever, Maliha. No one will come between us,” he had whispered under the laughter of family, his eyes soft, filled with a promise she had believed with all her heart. She remembered the warmth that had bloomed inside her chest that night — the certainty that love was hers to keep.

A tear slipped down her cheek. She blinked it away quickly, but memory was merciless.

Suddenly, she was standing again in the cold, sterile corridor of the hospital. She could still hear the muffled sobs of Zeeya Maa , — her hands covering her faceas words sank in: “Roshaane tried to take her own life.”

Maliha had seen Aarib’s face that night — pale, broken, helpless. She had seen him walk into the room where Roshaane lay, wrists bandaged, eyes swollen from tears.

And she had known.

She had known that if she held onto Aarib, Roshaane’s young, fragile life would crumble completely. She was only nineteen. A girl desperate enough to destroy herself for love.

So Maliha had done the only thing she could. She let go.

Her hand, which had once clutched Aarib’s tightly with certainty, slipped away in silence. Not because she did not love him — but because her love demanded sacrifice.

The flight attendant’s voice jolted her back. “Ma’am, tea or coffee?”

She shook her head lightly, forcing herself to return to the present. Her lips curved into a faint, practiced smile as she whispered, “No, thank you.”

But as the attendant moved away, her gaze drifted once more to the endless sky beyond the window. In its vast emptiness, she saw her own reflection — a woman who had loved deeply, only to surrender it quietly for the sake of another.

And so she sat, between clouds and memories, torn between past and present — her heart still beating for the man who was no longer hers.

-------
The taxi pulled away, leaving Aarib and Roshaane standing in front of a modest yet elegant house. Nestled in one of Istanbul’s refined neighborhoods, the home reflected quiet dignity — not extravagant, not ostentatious, but built with care. The façade bore warm cream walls with wooden accents, flower pots along the windowsills, and a small lantern glowing by the door.

Roshaane’s eyes swept over the home with curiosity. This was where he lived — where she would now live. The thought sent a nervous thrill through her chest. Adjusting the dupatta of her deep maroon shalwar kameez, she glanced at Aarib, but his face remained unreadable, focused only on unlocking the door.

Inside, the house was a blend of Turkish charm and Aarib’s personal touch. The living room opened into a wide space with soft cream sofas, a wooden coffee table, and framed photographs of Istanbul’s skyline. The faint scent of Turkish coffee and fresh roses lingered in the air. Everything was neat, minimal, practical — like him.

Roshaane’s gaze softened. This wasn’t just a house. It was Aarib’s world, built with his own hands, with the success of A&A Restaurants flowing into each carefully chosen detail. Three branches across Istanbul — his pride, his effort, his life’s work.

And now… she had stepped into it.

She turned to him, wanting to say something — anything. But before words could leave her lips, Aarib finally spoke, his voice steady, almost detached.

“This is our room now,” he said, pointing toward the door on the right. His tone carried no softness, only blunt honesty. “I don’t think we should play the drama of separate rooms after getting married. This is the reality… whether I accept it today or tomorrow.”

They stepped inside together. The room was simple — a wide bed with a carved wooden frame, cream curtains flowing gently from the open balcony, a wardrobe neatly tucked in the corner. It carried the same air of order as the rest of the house, but tonight, the silence between them made it feel heavy.

Aarib turned toward her at last, his hands slipping into his pockets. His eyes lingered on her for a moment — her nervous stance, the way she held onto her dupatta as if it were her shield.

“I need time,” he admitted, his voice low. “Time to understand this… relation.”

Her lips parted, but no words came.

“You adjust yourself here,” he continued, stepping back. “I’ll be back in a while.”

And with that, he turned and walked out, closing the door softly behind him. Each step he took away from her was filled with the weight of the words he hadn’t spoken — the truths buried deep inside his heart.

Left alone, Roshaane lowered herself onto the edge of the bed. Her fingers tangled nervously with each other, her chest rising with uneven breaths. Her eyes glistened, betraying the tears she tried to hold back.

“I’ve dragged myself into his life forcefully,” she whispered to the empty room. “I should have thought… I should have stopped.”

The silence swallowed her words. With a heavy sigh, she lowered her head, the shadows of her choice pressing down on her fragile heart.
-------

The streets of Istanbul were alive with their usual hum — shopkeepers closing shutters, the smell of roasted chestnuts lingering in the cool night air, laughter spilling faintly from a café nearby. But none of it reached Aarib’s heart.

He walked briskly down the familiar lane, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his chest tight. The golden sign of A&A Restaurant glowed softly under the lamplight, a symbol of his years of effort. Tonight, though, it felt less like a pride and more like a refuge.

The familiar golden sign of A&A Restaurant shone proudly on the street corner, its glass doors alive with movement inside. Even while Aarib had been in Pakistan, his trusted manager had kept the place running, making sure the name never lost its glow.

As he pushed the door open, the warmth of the restaurant greeted him — the clinking of cutlery, the soft murmur of diners, waiters moving briskly with trays in hand. The aroma of freshly baked bread and sizzling spices hung in the air.

“Aarib Bey!” The staff noticed him at once. Smiles spread across their faces, relief and respect mingling in their greetings. The manager hurried forward, clasping his hands.
“Welcome back, sir. We’ve missed you.”

He forced a nod, a small smile, as if their words reached him only faintly. He exchanged a few quick pleasantries, reassuring them with a glance that all was well, though inside nothing was.

But the noise, the cheer, the brightness — it all weighed on his chest. He couldn’t stand under their gazes for long. His heart was too heavy, his soul too raw.

Without another word, he slipped past them and made his way toward the far end of the restaurant, where a door led into a private chamber — a place he had built years ago for meetings, or when he needed silence amidst the chaos of business. Tonight, it became his refuge.

He closed the door behind him, shutting out the clamor of the world.

The room was dim, simple — a polished wooden table, a leather chair, a bookshelf stacked with files and recipes. Yet in that solitude, the storm inside him erupted.

He sank into the chair, pressing his palms over his face. His chest heaved.

He wanted to shout. He wanted to scream at fate, at life, at Roshaane for barging into his world and snatching away the one dream he had lived for. He wanted to scold her, to throw his anguish at someone.

But he couldn’t.

He had chosen this himself. For Zeeya Maa. For her happiness. How could he ever hurt her daughter? He could never raise his voice at Roshaane — no matter how deeply she had wounded him simply by existing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

His hand raked through his hair as the weight pressed down harder.

“What have I done?” he whispered hoarsely, eyes burning.

The dream of a life with Maliha — his Maliha — crumbled before him again, as it had countless times since the decision. A home filled with her laughter, her hand in his, their children calling out to him , gone, vanished into nothing but smoke and ashes.

“Oh, Maliha…” His voice broke, raw. A tear slipped down, uninvited. He let it fall this time. “You shouldn’t have asked me to do this.”

And in the solitude of that chamber, hidden from the cheer of his thriving restaurant, Aarib wept silently — a man crushed beneath the weight of love sacrificed, bound forever to a choice that broke him every second it lived within him.

----------

The cool September breeze of Rome brushed against Maliha’s face as she stepped out of the airport. The sky was soft gray, clouds scattered above the old city that carried centuries of stories in its streets. She wore a long beige coat over a crisp shirt and jeans, her formal dressing reflecting both elegance and restraint. A small handbag rested on her shoulder, but her tired eyes carried the real weight — the heaviness of a broken heart.

At the arrivals area, Sana and her husband Isham Hassan were warmly to welcome her. They embraced her with affection, their smiles soft yet laced with unspoken understanding. Haseeb stood silently behind them, tall and composed, his gaze fixed only on her.

As Sana and Isham led the way toward the car, Maliha lingered for a moment, her feet reluctant, her mind far away.

“Tesoro(treasure)…” Haseeb’s voice was low, careful, almost fragile.

She turned her head, startled. His eyes softened, carrying a tenderness she wasn’t ready to acknowledge. He smiled faintly and gestured toward the waiting car.

Her lips parted, but no words came. She only nodded and walked toward the car, taking her place inside.

As the engine started, her eyes wandered to the city outside, but her heart betrayed her, dragging her backward into the past — to Istanbul, to a memory that burned bright and painful.

---

Flashback

The fragrant aroma of spices and grilled bread filled the air. Inside A&A Restaurant, she sat at the counter, her chin resting on her palm, eyes sparkling as she watched Aarib cooking behind the glass partition.

“What does the chef have to serve today?” she teased, her voice playful.

Aarib looked up, a smirk tugging his lips. “What does the pretty lady want to eat?”

She leaned closer, her smile widening. “Your heart.”

His hands stilled for a moment. Their eyes met, and in that silence, the world seemed to fall away.

“How will I live then?” he whispered, leaning slightly closer.

“You’ll live with me,” she said softly, her words trembling with truth. “We’ll grow old together.”

Aarib had reached beneath the counter, pulling out a single red rose, placing it gently into her hand. “Forever,” he had promised.

---

A sharp horn jolted her back to the present. The crowded Roman streets blurred before her tear-filled eyes.

“You okay?” Haseeb’s voice broke through, soft but concerned. He had turned in his seat, looking at her carefully.

“I’m… I’m fine,” she whispered, but her voice betrayed her.

He reached over, passing her a bottle of water. “Drink this, Tesoro.”

Her fingers brushed his briefly as she took it, and though she didn’t speak, he already knew — her silence screamed of the storm inside her.

---

When they reached Sana and Isham’s home, its elegance welcomed her — an Italian villa with warm stone walls, arched windows, and an olive garden spreading to the side. Inside, the halls glowed with soft golden lights, tasteful furniture, and the faint smell of baked bread and fresh lilies. Servants moved quietly, carrying luggage upstairs.

Sana held Maliha’s hand tightly, leading her to the sofa in the warm living room.

“Sit,” she whispered gently, almost like a mother soothing a child.

Maliha sat down, stiff at first, her eyes fixed on the floor. Sana cupped her cheek, her voice breaking as she spoke, “You can cry, Maliha. No one here will judge you. I know it hurts. I know your heart is in pain.”

The words broke through Maliha’s defenses. Her chest heaved, and finally, the dam burst. She clutched her khala tightly, sobbing into her embrace, crying until her throat hurt, until her tears soaked Sana’s shoulder.

Upstairs, Haseeb’s steps faltered as he heard her cries. His own eyes blurred, but he said nothing. Quietly, he retreated to his room, his fists clenched, carrying his secret ache alone.

Isham exhaled a long sigh, sadness deep in his eyes, before he too left the room, leaving the two women alone — one to cry out her brokenness, the other to hold her together.

Author Note.

Assalam-u-Alikum dear readers,

How are you all? 🌸

The first chapter of Fated Road is finally here! I truly hope you enjoyed reading it. Writing this story wasn’t easy, especially trying to connect it with Arrange Marriage. It has been almost 8 to 10 years since that journey, and honestly, I no longer have the stamina to reread the entire story. So, if you notice any little differences, I hope you’ll let them go with love and understanding. 💕

Your comments mean the world to me—I wait eagerly to know your thoughts and feelings about each chapter. So please don’t forget to leave your feedback, vote, and share the story with others.

Until the next update, Allah Hafiz.
Much love,
Your author ✨