Third person's POV.

It was early morning when Aarib came home, exhausted from another long night at the restaurant. As he entered the living hall, he stopped midway — surprised.

Roshaane was still seated on the sofa — in the exact place where he had left her last night.

Her eyes were open, but her face looked lifeless, pale under the dim morning light.

“Are you okay? Why aren’t you in the room?” Aarib asked, stepping closer.

She didn’t answer. Her silence felt heavier than words. Slowly, she stood up, picked up the shawl lying beside her, and wrapped it around her shoulders. Without looking at him, she turned and walked away.

Aarib frowned, confused, watching her disappear into the room. He followed quietly.

She moved around the room without a word — taking a fresh dress, walking into the changing room. Usually, the moment he returned, her voice filled the house — endless questions, silly talks, laughter. But today, there was nothing. Only silence.

Aarib sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for her to say something.

When she came out, she was dressed in a loose trouser and shirt, her hair falling over her shoulders. She looked tired — not physically, but emotionally.

“Can you make me tea? I’m hungry.”
That was all she said.

He simply nodded, surprised by her coldness.

A few minutes later, she left the room. Aarib sighed and went to change before joining her in the kitchen.

She was sitting on a chair, legs crossed, staring blankly at nothing. Her face was hard, distant.

Without saying anything, he went to prepare Turkish tea, an omelette, and a frozen paratha. When breakfast was ready, he placed the plates in front of her and sat down across from her with his own cup.

Roshaane began eating silently. Aarib kept watching her, every movement filled with something unspoken.

“Are you upset?” he finally asked.

“I don’t think I have any right to be,” she replied quickly, still not looking at him.

He took a slow breath. “Why were you sitting all night in the living room instead of sleeping?”

Her eyes lifted for a second — sharp, hurt.
“When my husband doesn’t care for me, then why should I care for myself?”

Her words stung him into silence.

She finished her breakfast, placed her spoon down, and finally looked at him.
“I don’t like tangled things, Aarib. I don’t like hidden emotions or unspoken truths,” she said firmly.

“Let me talk straight — let’s not hide it anymore.”

Her hands rested on the table, trembling slightly.

“I know you love Maliha aapi. I always knew.”

Aarib froze. Her name hit him like a wound being reopened. He looked down, his eyes glistening.

“But it wasn’t my fault either, to fall for you,” Roshaane continued, her voice breaking. “Everyone wants their love, Aarib. I wanted mine too. But in trying to have you, I tried to ignore your love. I thought… maybe I could win your heart someday.”

Her lips trembled, tears spilling over.

“It’s your fault, Aarib… for making me fall for you. Your kindness, your respect, your gentle way of talking, your care for everyone… how could my heart not fall for you?”

She wiped her tears quickly but more kept coming.
“I thought if I could ever have a place in your heart, my life would be complete. But the day I heard about your engagement… everything shattered.”

Her voice cracked, and she pressed her palms to the table to steady herself.

“And now, instead of being happy as your wife, I just feel like a fool. I rushed into your life where I was never wanted. I’ve become someone you can’t even stand to look at — not even enough to be angry with.”

She raised her voice now, raw pain spilling out.
“Am I not even worth your anger, Aarib? Don’t you feel anything for me? If you do, then why don’t you show it?”

Her tears fell freely.
“I know I can never have your love — but can’t I have anything? Even your hatred?”

She turned away before he could say a word and walked toward the room, slamming the door behind her.

Aarib sat still, staring at the table where her tears had fallen. He rubbed his forehead, feeling the ache in his heart deepen.

He didn’t know what to do — what to say.
All he knew was that he had no control on his heart. Maybe he needed time to come out of Maliha’s love. Maybe he needed time to accept her as his wife.

-------

The soft morning light streamed through the tall glass windows of Isham Villa, touching the marble floor with a golden warmth. The air carried the faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee and buttered croissants — a quiet, comforting routine in the grand Italian home.

At the breakfast table, Mr. Isham sat reading the newspaper while Haseeb scrolled through some files on his tablet. Sana, graceful as ever, smiled warmly when Maliha entered the room.

She looked elegant yet effortlessly simple — dressed in fitted black pants, a black shirt, and a long coat of the same shade. A soft grey muffler was loosely wrapped around her neck, her dark hair falling freely down her back.

“You’re early today,” Sana said with a hint of surprise as Maliha took her seat beside her.

Maliha smiled faintly. “I’m joining you too today.”

Haseeb looked up, puzzled. “Where?”

“Your office,” she replied, glancing at Mr. Isham with a thankful smile. “Uncle offered me.”

Haseeb blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. “Our office? What will you even do there? We’re lawyers, remember? We deal with criminals, not coffee breaks.”

Sana chuckled softly while Mr. Isham lowered his newspaper, amusement twinkling in his eyes.

“She’ll observe, that’s what she’ll do,” Mr. Isham said with a grin. “Maybe she’ll learn something from our little world of justice and arguments.”

“I’ll just watch you both,” Maliha said lightly, her smile calm yet confident. “See how you deal with your cases, how you fight for your clients. It might be interesting.”

Mr. Isham laughed heartily. “Now that’s the spirit! At least someone here finds my work interesting.”

Haseeb shook his head, unable to argue further, though a faint smile tugged at his lips.
“Fine,” he said finally, setting his tablet aside. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Our office isn’t exactly as charming as Rome’s streets.”

“We’ll see,” Maliha replied, sipping her tea, her eyes glinting with quiet determination — a rare spark that made both men at the table share a knowing look.

--------

The car pulled up in front of a tall, elegant building with a brass nameplate shining in the morning sun:
“Isham & Co. Legal Associates.”

Maliha stepped out beside Haseeb, her eyes wandering over the structure — modern glass blended with old Italian stonework, much like the balance between discipline and warmth she often saw in Mr. Isham’s family.

Inside, the lobby buzzed with quiet professionalism — phones ringing softly, assistants walking briskly with files in hand. The air smelled faintly of paper, ink, and fresh espresso.

The receptionist immediately stood up as soon as she saw Mr. Isham entering.
“Buongiorno, Signore Isham.”

He smiled politely, nodding, and motioned toward Maliha.
“She’ll be spending the day with us. Make sure she feels at home.”

“Yes, sir.”

Maliha smiled and followed them toward the main corridor. Her heels clicked lightly on the polished floor as her eyes caught the plaques on the wall — awards, newspaper clippings, even an old photograph of a much younger Mr. Isham standing with a famous Italian judge.

Haseeb glanced sideways at her, hands in his pockets.
“You don’t have to look so impressed,” he murmured with a teasing smirk. “It’s just law — not art.”

Maliha looked at him and smiled faintly. “Law is an art — of words, timing, and truth. You just don’t realize it because you live in it.”

Her reply made Haseeb fall silent for a second. He wasn’t expecting that.

Mr. Isham laughed softly from ahead. “I told you, Haseeb, she’s sharper than she looks.”

They entered his private chamber — a wide office with walls lined with law books and one large window overlooking Rome’s old streets. The morning light poured in, making the golden frames on the walls gleam.

Maliha quietly took a seat on the visitor’s couch, looking around with interest.
“This place feels… powerful,” she said softly.

“It’s built on truth,” Mr. Isham replied, settling behind his desk. “And truth always has its own strength.”

Just then, one of the junior lawyers entered with files.
“Sir, the 10 a.m. case files are ready.”

“Thank you,” Haseeb said, taking them and walking toward his desk. But as he flipped through the papers, his eyes drifted again — just slightly — toward where Maliha sat, brushing a strand of hair from her face, her gaze fixed curiously on the team of lawyers discussing something near the door.

There was something peaceful about her presence — silent yet steady — as if the room, usually filled with words and noise, had suddenly found its calm.

“Want to see how a case is built?” Haseeb finally asked, looking up.

She smiled. “I thought you’d never offer.”

“Then come on,” he said, holding the door open. “Let’s show you how we win battles without swords.”

Maliha stood, following him — the faintest hint of a smile tugging her lips as she stepped into a new chapter of her own rebuilding.
---------

The sun dipped low, painting the sky in shades of amber and lilac. The golden light spilled over the marble steps of Isham & Co., where people were starting to leave for the day. The last file was closed, lights dimmed, and the quiet hum of the office faded behind them.

Maliha walked beside Haseeb, her hair fluttering in the soft Roman breeze, her lips curved in an easy smile. It was the first time in days he had seen her like that — relaxed, lighthearted, almost glowing.

“Seems like someone enjoyed her first day at the firm,” Haseeb teased, holding the door for her.

“I did,” she said, adjusting her muffler, the faint blush on her cheeks catching the evening light. “Watching you all work was… inspiring. You really have a way with words.”

Haseeb chuckled, pretending to brush it off. “That’s called years of practice — and sleepless nights.”

Just then, Mr. Isham stepped out behind them, coat in hand, a knowing smile on his face.
“So, my two young assistants — what are your plans for the evening?”

Maliha looked at him, “Nothing yet, Uncle. Maybe just heading back home.”

“Nonsense,” he waved his hand. “You’re in Rome! Go out. Walk. Eat something beautiful. I’m too tired to join you — and your khala will scold me if I’m late again.”

He gave Haseeb a playful tap on the shoulder. “Take her somewhere nice, hmm? Somewhere she won’t forget.”

Haseeb smiled faintly, nodding. “Alright, Baba. I’ll make sure she doesn’t get bored.”

With that, Mr. Isham climbed into his car and left, leaving the two of them standing under the soft glow of the street lamps.

For a moment, neither spoke. The streets were alive with life — people laughing, the sound of violins in the distance, the faint aroma of baked bread from nearby cafés.

“Come on,” Haseeb said at last, glancing at her. “Let’s roam the city a bit. Maybe find a good place for dinner before it gets too late.”

Maliha’s lips curved in a small, surprised smile. “Roam around Rome, huh? You really like wordplays.”

He shrugged lightly, his eyes softening as they met hers. “Only when they make you smile like that.”

And just like that — her laughter filled the air.
Side by side, they began walking down the cobbled Roman streets — under the golden lights, past the old fountains and flower-lined cafés — two souls who had both lost something in life, slowly finding comfort in each other’s quiet company.

------
Aarham Jahan Malik sat in his room, tired but tense. The silence of the mansion pressed heavily around him. He had missed a few calls from Roshaane, but his mind was too clouded to think clearly.

Too much had happened. Too much to bear.

First, the sudden marriage of Roshaane and Aarib — something he still couldn’t process. Then the guilt — of asking Maliha to sacrifice her own love for his sister’s sake. The thought burned in him like a slow fire.

And as if that wasn’t enough, the scene he had just witnessed at Shahmir’s home haunted him — Aabia lying on the bed, her face covered in bandages, small cuts running across her cheeks, her jaw, her neck. Even her wrists were wrapped in white gauze. His eyes had filled with tears; he didn’t know how to hold everything together anymore.

His mother’s health was worsening under the weight of her daughters’ pain. Sameer had left for abroad, and the once warm mansion now felt like a house full of silence, tears, and guilt.

Mehak sat quietly beside him, her eyes soft as they watched her husband drowning in his own thoughts. She reached out and gently took his hand. Aarham looked up at her, his eyes red-rimmed.

“I’m so worried,” he said, voice breaking. “How will I fix all this? Everything’s falling apart.”

Mehak smiled faintly, brushing his shoulder with her fingers, her touch light and reassuring. Then she leaned her head on his shoulder, holding his hand firmly.

“Allah is with us,” she whispered. “We’ll overcome all this together. Just don’t lose hope.”

Aarham’s throat tightened. “I feel guilty, Mehak. Maybe I’m selfish. I thought only about my sisters’ happiness, but I ruined so many lives in the process.”

His voice cracked as tears fell. “I got Shams and Zarnish married even though I knew he loved Aabia. And now... look at her. I saw her face today — cut marks, lifeless eyes. It broke me inside.”

He paused, breathing shakily. “And then Roshi... my princess. She’s trapped in a marriage she didn’t want. I forced Maliha Aapi into something she didn’t deserve. How can I face her now?”

Mehak’s grip on his hand tightened, her voice calm but firm. “Aarham, it wasn’t your fault. It was her decision. I was there too. Maliha was the first to say yes — she wanted Roshaane and Aarib’s marriage for the family’s peace. You didn’t force her. Don’t burden yourself with everything.”

Aarham closed his eyes, letting her words sink in, though his heart still trembled under the weight of everything lost.

--------

Istanbul — 25 Days Later

Since the night Roshaane had burst out her anger before Aarib, silence had settled between them again — thick, cold, and unbreakable.
They had become strangers once more.

It had been twenty-five days since that evening, but the frost between them refused to melt.

They shared the same room, the same bed… even the same breakfast table every morning — yet not a single word passed beyond basic politeness.
After breakfast, she would step out for a walk around the neighborhood, sometimes chatting with the few friends she had made. But even laughter couldn’t fill the distance between her and Aarib.

Aarib, on the other hand, was buried deep in work. His restaurant business was growing — three branches now across Istanbul. But amid that success, he was slowly breaking from within.
He felt hollow — as if his soul had gone numb.

He hadn’t shaved in days; his stubble had turned into an unkempt beard. The dark circles under his eyes deepened from sleepless nights. His hair stayed ruffled, his expressions tired.
He looked like a man who had forgotten how to live, how to smile, how to feel.

That evening, as he sat on the sofa making tea and staring absently at the TV, Roshaane found herself quietly watching him. Her eyes traced his face — the sharp lines dulled by exhaustion — then fell to his hands, steady yet lifeless as he stirred the cup.

When he placed his jacket near the sofa, she glanced toward it. Something in her stirred — curiosity, maybe concern. She tiptoed to the jacket, her fingers slipping into the pocket.
Nothing.

She sighed softly and turned back — unaware that behind her, Aarib’s lips had curved faintly. A ghost of a smile. Watching her quiet little act, he shook his head slightly and looked away, suppressing the warmth that flickered in his chest.

Moments later, he grabbed the jacket, wore it, and without a word, picked up his bike keys and walked out of the house.

Roshaane followed him to the door, her eyes watching as his figure disappeared into the golden Istanbul evening. A long sigh escaped her lips before she turned back inside.

She cleaned the kitchen slowly, her thoughts restless. Then, suddenly, an idea crossed her mind.
Maybe today she wouldn’t just wait.

She went to her room, changed into jeans and a soft grey top, pulling a warm brown coat over it. Wrapping a muffler around her neck, she slung her crossbody bag over her shoulder. Her hair fell loose, brushing her collar.

Taking one last look in the mirror, she smiled faintly.
It was time to step out — for herself.

She walked downstairs, took a seat near the front window, and began scrolling through her phone. The Turkish words on the screen caught her attention — she repeated them softly under her breath.
Her eyes, however, kept glancing toward the clock… and the door.

She was waiting — though she didn’t know for what, or whom. Maybe for him. Maybe for herself.

Assalam-u-Alaikum dear readers,

The new chapter is finally here! How was it? Did you enjoy reading it? 💫

As promised, I’ve already completed the next chapter too—only the editing is left. Once I’m done with it, I’ll share that update as well, Insha’Allah.

Let’s see how far this story can keep your interest. I truly hope it turns out to be something unique and different from others. 💖

Waiting eagerly for your comments!
Stay tuned for the next chapter. 🌸

Your Author.