Third Person’s POV.

Days in Turkey slipped into weeks. It had been nearly twenty days since Aarib and Roshaane had stepped into this new life together, yet the silence between them still weighed heavier than words.

Aarib’s world revolved around his restaurants. Each evening he disappeared into the glowing streets of Istanbul, and each dawn, near four or five in the morning, he returned home with tired eyes and a heavy heart. By then, Roshaane would still be awake, waiting quietly. A nod, a faint smile, sometimes a soft “you should rest” was all that passed between them before he disappeared into his room.

Roshaane, left alone in the vast house, learned to fill her days in her own way. She wandered through the nearby shops, losing herself among colors, scents, and the chatter of strangers. Sometimes she strolled down narrow street just behind the house, the small shops and sometimes meets the neighbours, admiring the old Turkish stone houses and flower-laden balconies. The city distracted her, but never fully. Each night, when silence wrapped around her again, loneliness pressed harder on her chest.

Aarib noticed. He observed her little movements—the way she returned with small bags in hand, the quietness in her footsteps, the faint spark of curiosity in her eyes when she spoke about the shops,  and people she met. Her complaining of not knowning the language. He said nothing, but he saw everything.

And though his heart still carried a wound, he did not leave her uncared for. Every morning before leaving, Aarib prepared her breakfast with his own hands. He cooked enough for lunch as well, neatly packed for her to find. By night, he made sure one of his men delivered dinner from the restaurant. He remembered her weakness in the kitchen, and he never once let her go hungry as he knew she was the little princess of Jahan Mansion.

Roshaane understood what it meant—it wasn’t love, but it was responsibility, maybe even kindness. And somehow, it was enough to keep her steady in a house that echoed with silence.
-------
It had been many days now since Maliha had locked herself inside her room. Curtains drawn, food left untouched, her voice only heard in muffled sobs that sometimes shook the walls. Even after asking Aarib for a promise, she couldn’t pull herself out of the darkness. It was as if her heart had died within her.

On the other side of the house, Haseeb was restless. Every time he passed by her closed door, his chest tightened. His parents noticed, too.

“Like this… she will wither away,” he said one morning, his voice low but pained.

Sana, his mother, sighed. “I tried, Haseeb. Many times. She won’t come out. Sometimes she just cries and says nothing at all.”

That was the final straw for him. Without waiting another moment, he rose from the breakfast chair determination flashing in his eyes, and strode toward her room. His parents exchanged worried glances but didn’t stop him.

He didn’t bother to knock. The room was dipped in shadows, only a weak lamp glowing in the corner. He switched on the lights one by one until the brightness filled the space.

“Turn them off, please,” Maliha’s voice came from under the blanket, tired and weak.

“Get up,” Haseeb ordered, striding across the room. He pulled the curtains wide open, letting the sharp September sunlight flood in.

“Close them!” she protested, hiding deeper.

He marched to her bed, tugged the blanket off her, and met her red, swollen eyes. “Get up—or I’ll carry you out myself.”

She narrowed her gaze, her voice sharp though frail. “Haseeb, leave me alone.”

He didn’t. Instead, he dragged a chair and sat down in front of her, studying her face. She was still in her loose nightshirt and trousers, her hair messy, cheeks pale, eyes hollow. His chest ached.

“Freshen up,” he said firmly.

When she didn’t move, he leaned forward, scooped her up in his arms despite her weak protests and little fists against his shoulder, and carried her straight to the washroom.

“Fifteen minutes. Out here, dressed,” he commanded, setting her down near the door and closing it behind her before she could argue.

Outside, he sighed heavily and called out, “Mom.”

Sana appeared almost immediately.

“Take out something nice for her. We’re not letting her stay like this anymore,” he said.

Fifteen minutes later, Maliha walked out. She wore black jeans with a fitted top and a coat thrown casually over her shoulders. Her hair fell loose on her back, though her expression screamed annoyance.

“Breakfast,” Haseeb said simply, pulling out a chair for her.

“I’m not hungry,” she muttered, arms folded across her chest.

He hid a smile, biting into an apple. “Oh, I see. You’re surviving on air now? Or maybe… on a diet?”

Her eyes widened. “Diet? And me? Impossible!”

“Exactly,” he smirked. He gestured, and the cook placed a plate of crispy parathas on the table.

“Of course, you’re not going to eat these, right?” he teased, lifting the plate away.

“Who said?” she snapped, snatching it back.

His parents chuckled softly. It was the first spark of her old self. Food—her one true weakness. Since childhood, nothing could break her sulking faster than her favorite parathas. And it was because of her foodie habit, Aarib had thought to open up the restaurants.

But as she began to eat, the smile faded from his lips. She was chewing less, stuffing more, her eyes brimming as she stared at her plate. Tears slipped down quietly.

“Stop.” His hand gently caught hers, steadying her. She looked up at him, startled, before glancing at Sana for support.

“Drink this,” Haseeb said, sliding a glass of water toward her.

Sana rubbed her back while she took deep, shaky breaths, trying to hold in her sobs. Isham stood at a distance, eyes heavy with concern, while Haseeb leaned closer.

“Are you really going to do this?” His voice cracked but held firm. “Are you really going to end yourself for a love you let go of with your own hands?”

Her eyes snapped to him, angry tears spilling. “You don’t understand! You’ve never been in love—you don’t know what it feels like!”

Something in Haseeb’s chest broke at her words. He whispered under his breath, almost too low to hear, “I know exactly how it feels.”

Only Isham caught the whisper. The father’s hand pressed his son’s shoulder quietly, in recognition, before he walked away.

“Why won’t you just leave me alone?” Maliha cried again.

“Because I won’t let you destroy yourself,” Haseeb replied, his voice rising in passion. “You’re here, Maliha. In Italy. Away from him. Away from everything that broke you. You’re the one who let his hand go—then why cry like this? Why punish yourself?”

Her tears fell harder.

“You deserve happiness too,” he pressed on, lowering his tone, looking her straight in the eye. “Come out of this darkness. Come out of this pain. You’re free now. Free to live again.”

“How?” she whispered, her sobs breaking her words.

“With me,” he said simply. His hand slid her a tissue, his other hand wiping away the tears that clung stubbornly to her cheeks. “Step outside. Breathe. Let me show you what life still holds.”

She blinked, taken aback, caught between anger and something softer. She snatched the tissue, wiped her nose, and muttered, “Allah, Allah… behave with me properly. I’m six years older than you.”

Her Turkish habit of saying Allah Allah made him laugh quietly despite the heaviness in the air.

“Six years, huh?” he mocked gently as he rose from the chair. “You don’t look it.”

He turned to walk out, leaving her speechless, while she turned to Sana, half complaining, half embarrassed.

“Your son is so rude,” she grumbled, sipping her juice as if nothing happened.

Sana just hugged her, hiding the smile that tugged at her lips.
-------

Haseeb was already leaning against his car when she came out, her face still swollen from crying, lips pressed together in annoyance. Her steps were heavy, her coat swaying with her movements as if announcing her displeasure.

“Finally,” he muttered under his breath but loud enough for her to hear. “I thought I’d have to grow a beard waiting for you.”

Her glare shot straight at him. “Then maybe you should’ve stayed inside instead of standing here like a guard.”

“Guard?” he grinned, straightening up. “Correction—your guard. Don’t forget that.”

Rolling her eyes, she walked past him, but he opened the car door with a dramatic bow. “Madam Tereso, Rome is waiting. Please grace the city with your royal sulking.”

She huffed, but against her will, the corner of her lips twitched. She quickly hid it and sat inside.

The ride was quiet at first. Haseeb let her take in the world outside—the cobblestone streets, ancient stone walls, and bustling corners where tourists blended with locals. When they reached a quieter street lined with old Roman structures, he pulled the car over.

“Why are we stopping?” she asked sharply.

“Because,” he said, already stepping out, “Rome isn’t meant to be seen from a car window. It’s meant to be walked. Breathed. Felt.” He opened her door, offering his hand like a gentleman. “Now, let’s see if history can cure your stubbornness.”

She stared at his hand but ignored it, stepping out herself. “You’re so dramatic.”

“And you’re so boring,” he shot back, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he started walking ahead.

Her jaw dropped. “Excuse me?!”

“Yes, boring,” he said over his shoulder. “Who comes to Rome and decides to stay in bed for days? Even the statues here have more energy than you.”

That did it. She rushed behind him, her hand raised for a slap on his shoulder. He laughed and dodged, running a few steps ahead.

“Haseeb!” she yelled, half-angry, half-holding back her laughter.

He pointed toward a broken Roman column. “Look at that—been standing for centuries, still stronger than your patience level.”

She picked up speed, trying to catch him, but he twirled out of reach again, his grin wide. “Careful, Tereso. People will think you’re chasing me for love.”

Her face flushed, and she gasped. “Shut up!” She lunged forward again, finally landing a soft punch on his arm.

“Ow! Violent woman alert!” he teased, rubbing his arm dramatically. “Imagine, Rome’s history witnesses Maliha Rashid committing first-degree assault on poor Haseeb.”

Despite herself, a giggle escaped her lips, followed by another. The sound was soft, hesitant, but it was the first real laugh in days.

Haseeb slowed down, watching her secretly as she tried to hide her laughter. His chest warmed at the sight. There you are, he thought silently. The real you, peeking through.

Aloud, he said, “Good. Rome works faster than doctors.”

She rolled her eyes, but her lips betrayed her, curving in a small smile.

------

It was just another day — like always. Boring.
She picked up her phone, scrolling through her contacts, tempted to call someone — her parents, maybe her brother. But her thumb hesitated over the screen. She stopped herself. Perhaps they still needed more time to forgive her.

With a quiet sigh, she set the phone aside and glanced toward the kitchen. She thought about cooking something but her hands fell still; she didn’t even know how. A sting rose behind her eyes, tears threatening to spill.

But she caught herself, holding back the ache. Turning to the TV, she sank into the couch, watching whatever came on, letting the sound fill the silence. She spent almost the entire day like that — skipping lunch, lost between waiting and wandering thoughts.

Later on, she had been pacing around her empty house aimlessly, the silence pressing harder on her chest with every tick of the clock. Not a single soul to talk to, no one to laugh with, not even a voice to call her name. She stood before the mirror for a long moment, then, almost in rebellion, slipped into a beautiful skirt, reached just above her ankle, and her hair falling loosely on her shoulders. A small jacket, a bag across her shoulders and she was ready.

It was almost 5 of the evening when she stepped out if the house.The air outside greeted her with a cool brush, alive with the chatter of people and the hum of city life. She wandered through narrow streets, her heels clicking softly against the stone pavements. With no clear destination, she kept walking, turning corners, letting the crowd pull her forward.

A sudden cheer of laughter made her pause. A bright red tram rattled along the street, its bell ringing as children clung to its sides. Without thinking twice, she stepped onto it, the breeze catching strands of her hair. The tram carried her through wide avenues lined with shops, bakeries, and glowing cafés, the city unveiling itself like a painting.

Somewhere between distraction and discovery, she found herself swept into the tide of tourists. Their excited chatter led her towards a towering figure piercing the skyline—Galata Tower. Its ancient stones glowed golden in the evening light, and the sight made her heart swell strangely, as though she had crossed into another world.

She followed them in, climbing up with curious eyes. From the top, Istanbul stretched beneath her like a dream—the domes, the Bosphorus, and even the distant Blue Mosque, majestic in its twilight glow. For a while, she let herself forget. She ate from a street vendor, smiled faintly at the musicians filling the streets with their songs, even allowed herself to breathe freely for once.

But the joy did not last. As night grew heavier, the crowd began to thin, and reality struck her. She turned into a street, then another, and another—but none of them looked familiar. The tram lines stretched in opposite directions, and the glowing tower that had guided her was now hidden behind walls of stone.

Her steps faltered. The laughter faded. Panic curled in her chest.
She had forgotten the way home.
She didn’t even know the address. Not Arib’s number. Not his restaurant’s name.
Nothing.

And in that foreign night, with people brushing past her as if she were invisible, Roshane finally realized she was completely lost.

-------

At the heart of Istanbul’s bustling evening, A&A Restaurant glowed warmly under its golden lights. Inside, the hum of conversations mixed with the clatter of cutlery and the aroma of grilled meats, spices, and freshly baked bread.

Aarib stood near the reception counter, tall and composed, his sharp eyes catching every detail. With the staff gathered around him, he spoke in fluent Turkish, his words crisp and confident. Years in this city had polished his tongue until the language felt like his own. Turkish rolled off his lips as naturally as his mother tongue, and the staff admired how effortlessly he mingled with the locals.

“Table seven needs fresh bread, hızlı, hızlı,” he said with an easy authority, his voice low yet commanding. A young waiter hurried off, while Aarib turned to greet a couple leaving, exchanging polite words with a smile.

He moved through the restaurant like he belonged to it—pausing to check the set of a table, the presentation of a dish, or to offer a courteous nod to a group of tourists. Some of the guests even greeted him personally, recognizing the owner who had made the place a well-known name in the city.

For Aarib, Turkey was no longer just a foreign land. The streets, the language, the rhythm of its people—it had seeped into his blood. He could sit with businessmen and negotiate, or joke with an old shopkeeper in the same tone. Istanbul had become his city, and Turkish his narrative voice.

But beneath that calm exterior, there was always a faint restlessness. He hadn’t checked on Roshaane since morning, assuming she would be at home as usual, quietly passing her time. It never crossed his mind that while he was blending so easily with the people of Turkey, his wife was out there—alone, lost, and struggling to even find her way back to him.
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The evening at A&A Restaurant was still alive with warmth when Aarib called one of his men. He packed a small dinner parcel—fresh bread, grilled kebabs, and a touch of dessert.

“Take this to Madam,” Aarib said shortly, already turning back to the kitchen. “She hasn’t eaten.”

The man nodded and left.
-----

At Aarib’s home.

Outside, at the quiet door, he knocked firmly.
“Hanımefendi? Yemek getirdim!” (Madam? I brought food!)

Silence.

He knocked again, harder this time, his voice echoing down the still street.
“Hanımefendi? Açın kapıyı, lütfen!” (Madam? Please open the door!)

Still no answer. The lights inside were dark. The man frowned, waited a moment, then glanced around uneasily. At last, he shook his head and turned back.

---

When he returned to the restaurant, Aarib was at the bar counter, reviewing orders. The man approached quickly, lowering his voice.

“Efendim… kimse yoktu. Kapıyı çaldım, seslendim, ama Hanımefendi açmadı. Ev boştu.”
(Sir… there was no one. I knocked, I called, but Madam did not open. The house was empty.)

Aarib’s head snapped up, his calm slipping into sharp alarm. “Ne dedin?” (What did you say?)

The man repeated, “Evde kimse yoktu, Efendim.” (There was no one at home, Sir.)

The words struck like cold iron. Aarib didn’t wait. Without another thought, he dropped the towel in his hand and strode out of the restaurant, his face set and tense.

Within minutes, he was at the his home, keys in his hand, unlocking the door with a hard twist. He stepped into the silent rooms, calling her name softly at first, then louder—“Roshaane?”

But there was only the hollow echo of his own voice.

She was gone.

Author's note.

Assalam-u-Alaikum dear readers,

How are you all? 🌸
Another update so soon—I’m sure that makes you happy!

Honestly, I just couldn’t stop myself from writing this chapter earlier than planned. I hope you enjoyed it, especially since I ended it on a little cliffhanger. 😏 That’s just to keep you all excited for what’s coming next!

I’ve also gone through the messages and the discussion on the message board. After reading your thoughts, I’ve decided to continue the story as it flows naturally with the plot—focusing on Roshaane and Aarib’s journey. My aim is to do justice to each character and give them the depth they deserve. 💕

Your constant support means the world to me. Don’t forget to follow and vote, dear readers—it really motivates me to keep writing for you.

Till the next update, Allah Hafiz.
Much love,
Your Author