A week had passed, and Roshaane’s visits to Zainab’s house had become a routine.
Aarib felt relieved that she at least had a friend in this unfamiliar country, but the distance between the two of them remained the same. They sat together for breakfast and dinner, exchanged a few words—mostly her speaking and him quietly listening.

It was one of those calm nights. Aarib returned home with bags of groceries in his hands. It was almost 10 p.m. Roshaane was watching TV in the small hall, a bowl of snacks in her lap.

He was home today. Early.
She smiled at that. He hadn’t sent dinner through one of his workers—he came himself.

“I’ll prepare the food,” he said, changing his shoes and walking straight toward the kitchen.

She smiled, popped a chip into her mouth, and followed him.

Wearing white pants and a white top with a loose, light-purple sweater slipping slightly off her shoulder, sleeves tugged up to her elbows, her gold pendant resting softly against her neck, and her hair falling loosely down her back—she stood beside him, watching.

“What are we going to have for dinner?” she asked, eyeing the ingredients.

“Biryani and chicken korma,” he replied.

Her face lit up instantly. He chopped, stirred, and cooked with quiet focus while she observed him with pure amusement—the way he held the knife, the way he moved around the kitchen, the way he made everything look easy.

After an hour, they finally sat at the dining table. Silence wrapped around them as they ate the delicious food together.

“I’ve started learning Turkish from Zainab,” she said, breaking the silence.

“Good for you,” he replied simply.

“I’ve learned a few words. Should I tell you?” she asked.

He nodded without looking up.

“Seni seviyorum.”

The bite he was swallowing choked mid-way. He grabbed the glass of water and looked up at her, stunned.

“What did you say?”

Again, innocently, with sparkling eyes, she repeated, “Seni seviyorum.”

He froze for a second—his gaze lingering on her face, on that smile, on the love shining openly in her eyes.

“You know its meaning?” he asked, lowering his eyes back to his plate.

“No. Can you tell me?” she asked, lips curving as she tried not to smile too widely.

“I… don’t know,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes.

“Liar,” she whispered under her breath—watching him with so much affection that she forgot her food.

He felt her gaze on him, heavy and steady.
He didn’t dare look up.

“It’s late. I have to go early in the morning with Hikmat,” he said, getting up and clearing his plate.

She followed him into the kitchen with the remaining dishes. She didn’t speak, but her eyes kept speaking for her, refusing to leave him even for a moment.

“You should go to the room. I’ll come,” he said, feeling her gaze on his back.

“Okay.”
She walked away smiling.

A few minutes later he stepped inside the room, his eyes briefly catching hers as she watched TV again.

He changed and came to bed. The moment he lay down, she turned the TV off and moved beside him—lying face-to-face.

Her eyes were on him again.
He closed his.

“Stop looking at me now,” he murmured with his eyes still shut.

“Can I hold your hand?” she asked softly.

His eyes opened instantly, meeting hers.

“I just want to see how it feels,” she whispered. “Remember… I’ll behave like your beloved wife.”

Before he could stop her, she gently took his hand in both of hers and placed it against her cheek. She closed her eyes, smiling softly, holding his hand like it was something precious.

He sighed quietly, watching her for a moment. Then, with his free hand, he pulled the duvet properly over her, covering her fully. He settled down again, eyes closing, feeling the warmth of her soft hold around his fingers.

For the first time, he didn’t pull away.

The room stayed quiet for a long moment.
Only their breaths… only the soft rustle of the duvet… only the uncertain rhythm of two hearts beating closer than they had ever allowed.

Aarib kept his eyes closed, trying to pretend her touch wasn’t affecting him —
but her small, warm hands around his felt… dangerous.
Dangerous because it felt right.

Roshaane shifted a little, her cheek brushing lightly against his knuckles.

“You’re not sleeping,” she whispered with a tiny smile, eyes still closed.

“How do you know?” he asked, voice low.

“I can feel it,” she murmured. “Your hand stiffened.”

He gently pulled his hand back an inch — not fully, just enough to breathe.

“You should sleep now,” he said quietly. “It’s late.”

Instead of letting him go, she held his hand tighter, her forehead touching the back of his fingers.

“Aarib,” she whispered, “I married you knowing you weren’t in love with me. But… I also know love happens slowly. I’m not rushing you. I just want you to… let me be close.”

Her thumb brushed his fingers gently.

“I’m trying,” he said, almost painfully honest.
“You don’t see it, but I’m trying.”

She smiled again — full of warmth, full of hope.

“I know,” she whispered. “That’s why I like holding your hand. So you can feel I’m trying too.”

Something inside him softened.

He didn’t pull his hand away this time.

She closed her eyes, her smile still there, peaceful and full of affection.

He watched her — for longer than he should.
Then, very quietly, he shifted closer and let their hands stay exactly as she placed them.

Warm.
Connected.
Silent.
-----
Itlay, Rome.

The week had been nothing short of terrifying for the Isham family.

After the threats, warnings, and shadowy messages that kept arriving day and night, both Haseeb and his father still refused to back down. Sana and Maliha lived with a constant knot in their chests, watching the two men fight a battle against people far more ruthless than anything they had ever seen.

The Ishams received so many threats that they finally hired extra guards and security patrols around the house—but quietly.
They couldn’t let the mafia think they were intimidated.

Despite everything, the father-son duo continued gathering evidence, preparing documents, cross-checking witnesses, and building a case strong enough to shake the underworld to its roots.

---

The mafia lord they were fighting—Riccardo Mancini, head of one of the most dangerous Italian syndicatesvwas charged with: Human trafficking, Money laundering, Illegal arms dealings, Murder of three political journalists, Running underground casinos, And bribing officials to keep his crimes hidden.

He’d been untouchable for years until one mistake exposed a trail of corruption.

And that trail led directly to Haseeb and Mr. Isham’s courtroom.

After a week of endless tension, the day finally arrived.

The courtroom was packed—journalists, police officers, mafia spies, lawyers.
A storm of whispers followed Riccardo as he entered, escorted by armed guards, his cold smile mocking everyone in the room.

But Haseeb and his father stood firm, dressed in their black suits, carrying piles of evidence they had risked their lives to gather.

The trial was intense—hours of testimonies, documents projected on screens, files read out loud, cross-questioning, arguments… and every moment, Riccardo’s eyes remained fixed on Haseeb like a silent warning.

Maliha sat behind them with Sana, her heart pounding.
Every word spoken in court felt like a blade hanging over her family.

Finally, after hours of battling in front of the judge, the decision came.

Riccardo Mancini was declared guilty.

The mafia members surrounding him erupted in shouts, but the police immediately pushed them back.

Haseeb felt his breath return to him. Mr. Isham exhaled for the first time in days.
They won.
They actually won.

He exchanged a relieved glance with his father, pride in both their eyes.

Then—

A deep voice, low and dangerous, echoed through the corridor behind them:

“You’ll regret this.”

Haseeb froze.

He turned sharply, but the crowd was thick—faces blurred, people pushing, guards moving.
He couldn’t see who said it.

His father stepped protectively closer.

“Haseeb…” Mr. Isham warned quietly.

But Haseeb’s eyes kept searching the shadows.

Someone was there.

Someone watching.

Someone waiting.
------

That evening, for the first time in days, the Isham mansion felt alive again.

Sana and Maliha had spent the entire afternoon in the kitchen, preparing a beautiful dinner—Balochi sajji, roast chicken, biryani, creamy pasta, fresh naan, kheer, and a small chocolate cake Haseeb loved since childhood.

By the time Haseeb and Mr. Isham returned home, the dining table was glowing with warm golden lights, the soft aroma of spices filling the entire house.

Sana rushed to hug her husband.

“You both came home safe… that’s enough celebration for me,” she whispered, eyes misty.

Maliha smiled,  her hands trembling with the plates she was setting down.

“You won,” she said, looking at Haseeb with pride. “I knew you would… you two always stand for the truth.”

Haseeb smiled—a soft, tired smile that finally reached his eyes after days of strain.

“Today was a big win,” Mr. Isham declared, patting his son’s shoulder proudly. “We did it together.”

“Let’s not talk about court anymore,” Sana insisted. “Tonight we celebrate!”

They all gathered around the chocolate cake.
Haseeb cut the first slice, feeding his father, who teasingly said:

“Make this one bigger—I fought harder than you.”

Everyone laughed.

Maliha watched them, happiness in her eyes but a small knot of fear still tugging at her heart.
These men were brave… but the enemy wasn’t ordinary.

After dinner, they relaxed in the living room, with Sana serving green tea. Haseeb stretched back on the sofa, feeling lighter than he had in weeks.

“You both were incredible today,” Maliha said softly, sitting beside him. “But… are you sure it’s safe now? These people don’t accept defeat.”

Haseeb reached for the teacup.
Before he could answer, Mr. Isham spoke gently:

“Maliha, don’t worry. We’ve done our job. The law is on our side now.”

Haseeb nodded, trying to ease her anxiety.

“We’re safe here. Security is tight. Nothing will happen.”

Maliha exhaled slowly, believing them for a moment.

A warm silence followed.

Then—

CRACK!

A sudden, sharp sound sliced through the room.

Before anyone could react—

TAT-TAT-TAT!

Gunfire erupted outside the mansion.

The windows rattled violently. A glass decoration shattered onto the floor.

Sana screamed.

Maliha froze, her teacup slipping from her hand and crashing to the floor.

Haseeb jumped to his feet instantly.

“Down! Everyone get down now!” he shouted, grabbing Maliha’s arm and pulling her to the floor behind the sofa.

Mr. Isham shielded Sana with his own body as more bullets tore through the outer walls.

The entire mansion shook with the echo of the attack.

The mafia hadn’t waited.

They had come for revenge.

The gunfire grew louder, sharper, closer.

Bullets slammed into the mansion’s outer walls like a violent storm. Dust shook from the ceilings. The lights flickered as the entire building shuddered.

Outside, the guards were already shouting.

“Positions! Positions!”
“Cover the main gate!”
“They’re here! They’re here!”

Haseeb crawled forward, peeking through the corner of the curtain.

Two black SUVs were parked across the street—engines still running—men in masks firing directly at their house.

His jaw tightened.

“They’re armed with AKs,” he whispered, heart pounding.

Mr. Isham pulled Sana down behind the sofa, holding her trembling shoulders.

“Haseeb, stay down!” he yelled, but his son didn’t listen.

“I need to see what’s happening!”

Another wave of bullets hit the main door.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The wooden frame cracked. Splinters flew.

Maliha covered her ears, shaking violently.

“Ya Allah…” she whispered, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Why are they doing this?”

Haseeb grabbed her hand.

“Stay with me. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

He turned to his father.

“Dad, we need to alert the police—now!”

“I already called them,” Mr. Isham said, breathless. “They’re five minutes away.”

But five minutes felt like a lifetime under fire.

Outside, their security guards were firing back.

“MOVE! COVER THE LEFT SIDE!”
“THEY’RE TRYING TO BREAK IN!”
“FALL BACK! FALL BACK!”

A grenade-like object suddenly rolled onto the front lawn.

Haseeb’s eyes widened.

“DOWN!” he shouted.

The object exploded—not fire, but thick black smoke—blinding everything.

Sana screamed again, clutching Mr. Isham’s arm.

The house filled with smoke from outside. The alarms rang.

Haseeb coughed, pulling Maliha into his chest to shield her from the dust.

“Where are they?!” Maliha panicked.

“They’re trying to break through the gate,” he said, listening to the pounding metal.

The guards fired again.

“THEY’RE RETREATING!”
“THEY’RE RUNNING BACK TO THE CARS!”

Tires screeched.

Engines roared.

The attackers sped away into the night, leaving behind smoke, silence, and chaos.

Haseeb got up slowly, chest heaving, still holding Maliha’s hand.

Mr. Isham exhaled shakily, helping Sana sit upright.

The living room was a mess—broken glass, shattered decorations, smoke in the air.

But they were alive.

And Haseeb knew exactly why.

“They were sending a message…” he muttered under his breath.

Maliha looked at him with terrified eyes.

“What message?”

Haseeb turned toward the bullet-marked door, his expression dark and cold.

“That this fight isn’t over.”

-------

Turkey,  Istanbul.

It was the next morning, and they were having breakfast in quiet sunlight filtering through the apartment window.
Aarib kept glancing at her from time to time—at the way she carefully tore a piece of paratha, dipped it in egg, and sipped her juice. The bread basket sat untouched beside her.

“You want me to cook?” she asked suddenly, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“Huh?” His cup paused halfway to his lips. “I never said that.”

“No, I meant in general.” She folded her hands, her tone thoughtful. “Most husbands like it when their wives cook their favorite food… but I don’t know how to cook. So I was wondering—how do you want your wife to be?”
Her gaze lifted to him, steady and sincere.

“It’s not necessary,” he replied, eyes on his tea.

“It is… to me.” Her voice softened. “I was really thinking about it. How do you want your wife to be?”

“You don’t need to change yourself for anyone.” He finally looked up at her—really looked. “Not even for me.”

For a long moment, their eyes held.
Hers warm, hopeful, filled with a quiet love she never voiced.
His calm, steady, carrying an understanding he could never put into words.

“I’m not changing myself,” she said with a small smile. “I just… want you to love me as I am. Still, I’d like to be seen the way you want. Another version of me.”

“Stay as you are, Roshi.”

The nickname slipped out so naturally that it stunned her. A tiny pause—then her smile softened, glowing with a shy happiness she couldn’t hide.

Aarib rose to his feet, adjusting his watch. “I’ll be back in the evening. If you want, you can call Zainab over.”

She barely heard the last sentence, still floating in the sweetness of him calling her Roshi.

He opened the door, glanced at her one last time, and left while she remained seated, heart quietly blooming in the golden morning light.

-----

The door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment Aarib just stood there in the hallway, hands in his pockets, breathing in the cool Istanbul morning.

Roshi.

He hadn’t meant to say it.
The nickname had slipped out like a memory—soft, familiar, dangerous.

He walked toward the side where his bike was park, his steps measured, his thoughts anything but.

She had looked at him with such trust… such hope.
As if every word he spoke mattered.

He shouldn’t let it matter.
He had come here to work, to rebuild pieces of his life that were shaking loose.
But the girl sitting across the breakfast table… she made everything feel less heavy.

Her question replayed in his mind:
“How you want me to be as your wife?”

Aarib frowned at himself.
Why did that question stay with him?

Maybe because she didn’t ask to please him—
she asked because she genuinely wanted to belong in his world.

He adjusted his coat and shook his head lightly.

Get a grip, Aarib.

Still… he couldn’t deny it.

A small part of him was actually looking forward to going back home in the evening.

To that quiet smile.

To Roshi.

--------

The doorbell rang just as Roshaane finished tidying the breakfast table.
She hurried to open it, already smiling.

“Merhaba!” Zainab stepped inside with her usual energy, removing her scarf and giving Roshi a tight hug. “You look… glowing. Something happened?”

Roshaane bit her lip, failing miserably to hide her smile.

“Oh-ho,” Zainab teased immediately, “this is the face of someone who has news.”

Roshaane dragged her to the sofa.
“Okay listen but don’t scream.”

“I promise nothing,” Zainab said, leaning forward like a detective.

Roshaane took a deep breath.
“Aarib… called me Roshi today. He caller mevwith m6 nickname again.”

Zainab froze.
Then she grabbed a cushion and screamed into it.

“Ya Allah, Roshi, that’s so cute!” she squealed, shaking her by the shoulders. “He called you with a nickname!”

Roshaane covered her burning cheeks.
“I wasn’t expecting it. He didn’t even realize it—he just said it. Since our marriage,  he had stopped calling me Roshi. But he called today.”

Zainab said smilingly.
“He’s trying to move on. To get back to you.”

“Okay, okay,” Zainab said, pulling out her phone. “You said you want to learn more Turkish? Useful ones. Romantic ones?”

Roshaane nodded happily.
“I want to… talk to him nicely. At least say some sweet things.”

Zainab grinned. “Perfect. Repeat after me.”

“Günaydın”
“Gu—” Roshaane’s tongue twisted. “Gunai—din?
“Close enough!” Zainab laughed. “It means Good morning.”

Next:

“Çok yakışıklısın.”

“Chok… ya…ki…”
She failed again, both burst into laughter.

“It means ‘You are very handsome,’” Zainab added with a wink.

Roshi’s cheeks turned pink.
“Oh my God, I can never say that.”

“You can! Try again. Imagine his face when you say it.”

They practiced until Roshaane could finally say:

“Teşekkür ederim.”
(Thank you)

“Harikasın.”
(You’re amazing)

“Now tell me why you texted me this morning asking for ‘emergency wife skills’?” Zainab teased, raising an eyebrow.

Roshaane groaned.
“He asked me not to change myself… but I still want to do something nice for him. So… I want to cook.”

Zainab gasped dramatically.
“You? Cooking? I need to record this historic moment!”

“Zainaaab!” Roshaane threw a pillow at her.

“No, seriously,” Zainab said, laughing. “What do you want to make?”

“Something simple. Something he’ll like. Maybe… Turkish style?”

Zainab put her finger on her chin.
“I can teach you menemen. It’s eggs with tomatoes and peppers. Easy, delicious, and perfect for impressing a Turkish husband who is secretly soft for you.”

“He’s not soft,” Roshi muttered automatically.

Zainab gave her a long look.
“He called you Roshi, don’t fool me.”

They giggled again.

“Okay,” Zainab said, rolling up her sleeves. “Let’s go to the kitchen. Today is Roshi Learns to Cook Day!”

And the apartment filled with laughter, mispronounced Turkish words, and the smell of tomatoes sizzling.

A/N:: Assalam-o-Alaikum lovely readers,

I hope you enjoyed this chapter and felt every emotion I tried to pour into it. 💭💖
Now I’m really curious to know your thoughts…

Did you like how this chapter unfolded? What do you think awaits our characters in the coming story?

Tell me—how do you want to see Roshaane moving forward?
Do you imagine him madly, deeply in love, lost in romance…
or still trapped between the past and his first love, unable to let go?

And what about Hasseb?
A brave lawyer who fought his battle with strength and dignity—do you think he will win Maliha’s heart?
Or will he finally gather the courage to confess his true feelings to her?

I’m waiting eagerly for your opinions, predictions, and theories. Your comments truly shape this journey.
Don’t forget to vote, comment, and share your thoughts.

With love,
Your Author 💫