It was around eight in the evening when the doorbell rang.

Roshaane looked up from her phone and smiled. Finally. She hurried to the door and opened it.

A delivery boy from Aarib’s restaurant stood there, holding a food bag.

She took it with a polite smile. “Thank you.”

“Wait,” she said softly.

She placed the food in the refreshment, quickly grabbed her coat and muffler, then stepped outside. Locking the door behind her, she turned to the boy and looked at her phone screen. Reading carefully, she spoke in Turkish —
“Beni restoranına götür,” she said, meaning “Take me to your restaurant.”

The boy looked confused for a moment.

She repeated, this time showing Aarib’s name on her phone.
“Aarib Bey.”

Recognition flashed across his face. “Aarib Bey?” he repeated, and when she nodded, he smiled and gestured toward the car.

She followed him, clutching her mobile tightly, her heart beating faster than she wanted to admit.

The car moved through the glowing streets of Istanbul. The golden lights reflected on the windows as she gazed out — trying to remember every road, every corner of this vast city that had begun to feel both foreign and familiar.

After a while, the car slowed to a stop. She looked up — and her eyes widened.

There it was.
A&A Restaurant.

The bright signboard glowed against the night sky. Her lips curved into a soft smile.

“A&A… Aarib Ahmad Restaurants,” she whispered under her breath, her heart tightening with quiet pride.

Stepping out, she walked inside the restaurant. The place was full — laughter, clinking glasses, and the aroma of fresh food filled the air.

Her eyes moved restlessly, scanning every face, every corner — searching for him.

Then she saw him.
Behind the counter. Focused, calm, handing a drink to a customer with the same seriousness he always carried.

The waiter came to her table with a polite smile. “Order, ma’am?”

She looked at Aarib — and then at the waiter — before smiling faintly.
“I want your Aarib Bey,” she said softly.

The waiter blinked, not understanding much except the name. “Aarib Bey?”

She nodded.

The waiter walked to the counter and whispered something to Aarib. Aarib’s eyes lifted toward her and froze.

For a moment, he couldn’t believe it. There she was, sitting in his restaurant, smiling at him.

He walked toward her, still stunned, wiping his hands on the napkin.
“What are you doing here?” he asked , not angry, not cold,  just surprised. His voice was softer than he expected.

Her eyes sparkled. “What if you had forgotten the way again?”

Aarib’s lips parted, but no words came out. His gaze softened, worried, confused, guilty all at once.

“You were worried for me,” she teased gently, watching his silence.

He looked away for a second. “You shouldn’t have come alone,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“I came to see you,” she replied simply, “Now come, sit.”

Aarib took a seat in front of her at the table.
For a few seconds, silence settled between them again — the kind that said everything words could not.

He ordered dinner, and they both ate quietly, their first dinner together in his restaurant, though neither had planned it.

When they finished, Roshaane stood up, and so did he. His hands slipped into his jeans pockets.

“Can you come home now?” she asked softly, her eyes fixed anywhere but his face.

“Why?” he asked, glancing around as well.

“Just come,” she replied simply.

He nodded after a moment, and they both walked toward the counter. Aarib turned to his manager, giving a few quiet instructions. But before he could finish, Roshaane stepped closer.

“Tell him you’re on two days’ leave,” she said.

Aarib turned to her, shocked. “What? Why?”

“Because you’re not coming here for the next two days,” she said firmly then held his arm and pulled him toward the door before he could protest further.

“What are you doing? Where are you taking me?” he asked, trying to free himself from her grip.

“Don’t worry,” she said with a small smile, brushing her hair back over her shoulder. “I’m not hungry enough to eat you raw.”

He sighed. “Why should I go home all of a sudden?”

She turned to face him, her voice softer but trembling slightly. “Can’t you spend one night with me? It’s not like I’m an ugly, ill-mannered girl. Let me at least see my husband at home like normal people do.”

Aarib stared at her, speechless, then shook his head in disbelief and started his bike. She quietly sat behind him. The cold air filled the silence between them as they rode home through the dimly lit streets of Istanbul.

Once they reached, both took off their coats and shoes before stepping inside.

“Where are you going?” she asked as he turned toward the kitchen.

“Tea?” he said though it sounded more like a question than an offer.

“No need,” she replied, catching his hand. “You need sleep.”

Before he could respond, she gently pulled him toward the bedroom.

“But… I—” he began, but she didn’t let go.

She made him sit on the edge of the bed, then knelt in front of him.

“What are you doing? Don’t—don’t touch my feet,” he said, pulling back, but she caught his ankle again and quietly took off his shoes and socks.

He looked down at her, stunned — not understanding what she was doing or why.

“Stop tiring yourself, Aarib,” she said softly, lifting her gaze to him. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

“Stop tiring yourself with my hate. Scold me, shout at me, hate me if you must — but don’t destroy yourself like this.”

Her voice broke as her fingers brushed against his hair, smoothing it gently from his forehead.

For a moment, the world seemed to stop. Their eyes locked — hers full of pain, his of confusion and exhaustion.

Then, breaking the spell, she rose to her feet. He quietly pulled his legs up and lay back, covering himself with the blanket.

“I’ve learned a bit of Turkish these days,” she said softly as she walked to the switchboard.

Turning off the light, she whispered into the dimness,
“Seni seviyorum… I love you.”

The words froze him in place — simple, quiet, and devastatingly real.

She walked to her side of the bed and lay down beside him. For a moment, their eyes met in the faint light — then both turned away, their backs facing each other.

And yet, their hearts beat in the same rhythm — aching, hurting, longing.

A single tear slipped from both their eyes before sleep finally embraced them.

-------
As Aarib left the restaurant with Roshaane, Rehmat Bey the manager, stood near the counter, watching them go. His brows furrowed slightly, then his eyes lit up with a trace of curiosity perhaps even concern.

He waited a few moments before stepping out to the street, looking in the direction they had gone until their figures disappeared into the distance.

“Allah Allah…” he murmured under his breath, shaking his head. “Something isn’t right.”

He turned back inside, gave a few instructions to the waiters about duties, and then quietly slipped to a lonely corner behind the counter. The clatter of dishes and faint music of the restaurant faded behind him as he took out his phone.

After a few rings, a deep voice answered.
“Alo?”

“Hikmat Bey,” Rehmat said quickly, lowering his tone. “Allah Allah, I’ve just seen a girl with Aarib Bey.”

There was a pause on the other end. “A girl? Who?”

Rehmat shook his head, pressing the phone closer. “No, no… it wasn’t Maliha Hanım. It was someone else. A young girl — looks like she’s living with him. You need to come, Hikmat Bey.”

He glanced around to make sure no one was listening.

“Aarib Bey has been different since he came back. Tired, restless… his eyes look empty. And now this—this girl.” He sighed. “Something is not good.”

“Alright,” the voice on the other side replied after a pause. “I’ll come tomorrow.”

Rehmat nodded, even though no one could see him. “Yes, come early. Maybe you’ll understand what’s happening better than me.”

He ended the call, slipped the phone back into his pocket, and looked around the restaurant once more — the faint smile gone from his face.

“Allah protect him,” he whispered, shaking his head. “This silence around him… it’s not normal.”

And with that, he went to manage the the restaurant.
---------

Rome, Italy — Late Night

The clock had just crossed midnight in the quiet villa. The faint golden light from the bedside lamp fell softly on the room’s ivory walls. Outside, the streets of Rome were calm — a faraway hum of the city fading under the weight of night.

Mr. and Mrs. Isham sat across from each other in their room, a wedding invitation open between them on the bed. Sana’s fingers traced the elegant golden border of the card as she spoke quietly.

“Nayaab Apa wants us to be there two days before the wedding,” she said, glancing toward Isham.

He nodded slowly, the faint sound of the ceiling fan filling the silence. “Alright, we’ll go. Take Maliha along too,” he added after a moment.

Sana’s expression shifted instantly — her shoulders stiffened, and her brows knit together. “Isham… Halay will be offended.”

He looked up at her, calm but firm. “It’s time, Sana. They can’t keep avoiding each other forever. All three of them — Haseeb, Maliha, and Halay, must face this.”

Sana sighed deeply, leaning back against the headboard. “Maliha doesn’t know anything yet,” she said softly. “She’s been through enough already.”

“And Halay does,” Isham replied, his voice steady. “Let’s see how Haseeb handles all of it.”

Silence lingered in the room for a while — thick, thoughtful, almost uneasy. Then Isham stood, picking up the invitation.

“Do the packing,” he said. “We’ll leave tomorrow. Inform Maliha and Haseeb.”

Sana gave a slow nod, her heart uneasy but her face calm. “May Allah make it easy.”

The lamp flickered as he turned off the main lights. The quiet between them was filled only with the gentle sound of the Roman wind brushing the balcony curtains.

---

Across the villa…

In her dimly lit room, Maliha stood near the window, arms folded, the moonlight casting a soft silver glow across her face. The city of Rome slept beneath her — distant lights blinking like stars fallen to earth.

She stared at the moon, lost in thoughts that wandered far beyond the city — thoughts that belonged to another life, another place, another heart.
It had been two months since she left those streets, the ones that still carried the echo of her laughter… and her pain.

The vibration of her phone broke the silence. She turned, picked it up from the bedside table, and saw the name on the screen —
“Ammi — Saba Rashid.”

Her breath hitched slightly. She pressed the phone to her ear.

“Assalamualaikum, Ammi,” she said softly.

“Walaikum Assalam, beta…” came her mother’s voice, trembling slightly. “Are you okay? You sound tired again. When are you coming back to Turkey? I miss you so much, Maliha. You’ve been quiet for days.”

Maliha closed her eyes for a moment, forcing calm into her tone. “I’m fine, Ammi. Don’t worry. Rome is beautiful, and I’m helping Aunt Sana with some things here. I’ll come soon, insha’Allah.”

“You promise?” her mother asked gently.

“I promise,” Maliha whispered, smiling faintly despite the ache in her chest.

There was silence for a few seconds — the kind filled with unspoken concern and love that stretched across countries.

"You think you can forget him?" Her mother asked.

"I never want to forget him." Her reply made her mother's heart heavy.

"I want you be happy Maliha." A silent tear slipped from her eye on her mother's words.

"Happiness doesn't belong to me anymore." Her reply made her mother cry silently.

“Alright, beta. Rest well, and don’t keep things in your heart. Allah is watching, always.”

“I know, Ammi. I love you.”

“I love you too, meri jaan. Allah Hafiz.”

The call ended, leaving the soft hum of night behind.

Maliha stood there for a long time, phone still in her hand, eyes fixed on the moon. Her reflection in the window looked distant — like someone who had lived too many lives in too little time.

She whispered under her breath, almost to herself,
" Maybe in next life.”
--------

Morning Light, Istanbul

The morning crept slowly through the half-drawn curtains, scattering pale gold across the room. It was already ten when both of them stirred, lying side by side, their eyes fixed on the ceiling, silent, caught between dreams and reality.

Roshaane turned first, her voice low and lazy.
“How do you say good morning in Turkish?”

Aarib’s voice came after a pause, hoarse with sleep.
“Günaydın.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Günaydın, then. You too.”
With that, she sat up, running her fingers through her tangled hair before tying it into a messy bun.

Aarib turned his head slightly to look at her — the quiet way she moved, the small sigh she gave as she stood up. She went to the wardrobe, pulled out a soft cotton frock, and disappeared into the washroom.

He remained there for a while, staring blankly at the ceiling again. His mind was a still pond — no thoughts, no noise, just a strange, heavy emptiness.

When she came out, the scent of her shampoo lingered in the air. The frock , a light Pakistani one, long and graceful, brushing her ankles, made her look simple yet radiant. She was drying her hair when Aarib finally got up, took his folded clothes, and headed toward the washroom without a word.

Roshaane watched him go, her heart giving a small, involuntary ache. Then she shook her head, smiling faintly at herself, and went to the kitchen.

She had been observing him make tea every morning for the past two months. So today, she decided to try it herself. Carefully, she poured water into the small Turkish kettle, added tea leaves, and waited as the aroma filled the air.

Just then, Aarib entered the kitchen — black shirt tucked neatly into his pants, cuffs rolled up on his forearms, stubble trimmed, and his hair combed back.

She turned with a smile she quickly tried to hide.
“Aarib, see… I made tea today!”

He glanced at the cups, nodded once. “Good.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, slightly disappointed.

“You want bread or paratha?” he asked while checking the refrigerator.

Her heart whispered something reckless — “You.”
But she looked away and said, “Bread would be fine today.”

He nodded again and began preparing breakfast. The quiet between them wasn’t awkward anymore — it was familiar, something they had learned to live inside.

Just as they started eating, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll check,” Aarib said, standing up.

Roshaane continued sipping her tea but leaned slightly to hear. His voice came from the doorway — lighter, almost surprised.

“How are you? When did you come back?” Aarib said, and the sound of a hug followed.

Her curiosity won. She wiped her hands on a napkin and stepped toward the hall.

“Are you okay? What happened to you? Who was the girl with you last night?” the other man’s voice came, full of concern.

Aarib chuckled, shaking his head. “Relax, Hikmat. What are you talking about?”

“Is everything okay?” Roshaane asked, appearing near the door.

Both men turned toward her. Hikmat’s eyes widened slightly, caught between surprise and confusion. Aarib looked from one to the other, unsure what to say.

“You must be the girl from last night,” Hikmat said before Aarib could speak.

“Yes, I’m Roshaane,” she said calmly, her gaze steady. “And you are…?”

“Hikmat Bey,” Aarib said quickly, “my friend… and one of the restaurant partners.”

“Ah,” she nodded, a polite smile playing on her lips. “Nice to meet you. Would you like some tea? I just made it.”

Aarib looked at her in disbelief, calm, collected, even welcoming  while Hikmat blinked, still trying to process what he was seeing.

He finally smiled faintly. “Thank you, that would be nice.”

Roshaane turned toward the kitchen, leaving both men staring at each other, one confused, the other quietly speechless.

The clinking of teacups and the faint hum of the city filled the quiet apartment.
Roshaane’s voice floated softly from the kitchen, she was humming a tune under her breath as she arranged the tray.

Hikmat watched her from the couch, his brows slightly furrowed. Aarib, sitting opposite him, leaned back in his chair, arms folded, silent, tense.

“You look… different, Aarib,” Hikmat finally said, breaking the silence. “Tired. Not like yourself.”

Aarib gave a short laugh without humour. “Business keeps growing. So does the mess that comes with it.”

Hikmat nodded but didn’t buy the excuse. “And last night — I heard from Rehmat Bey. He said there was a woman with you. I thought maybe you had finally…”

Before he could finish, Roshaane entered, holding the tray carefully.
“Here you go. Turkish tea — but don’t blame me if it’s too sweet,” she said with a polite smile.

She poured tea into the small tulip-shaped glasses and placed one in front of each man.
Hikmat thanked her softly but kept studying her, her calm grace, her accent, her choice of clothes that didn’t quite match the Istanbul crowd.

“So,” Hikmat began after a moment, his tone light but probing, “how long have you been in Istanbul, Miss… Roshaane?”

She smiled faintly. “Two months. And it’s Mrs. Roshaane.”

The correction hit the air like a soft hammer. Hikmat froze, his cup halfway to his lips. He turned to Aarib, who avoided his gaze completely, staring instead at the steam rising from his tea.

“Mrs.?” Hikmat repeated carefully. “As in…?”

“As in my wife,” Aarib said flatly, his voice low but firm.

The silence that followed stretched for seconds — long, heavy, wordless.

Hikmat blinked, finally letting out a slow exhale. “Well… that explains Rehmat’s confusion.”

Roshaane lowered her eyes, hiding the small tremor in her lips. Aarib didn’t notice or maybe he did, but couldn’t look at her yet.

“So you married in Pakistan?” Hikmat asked, recovering his composure.

“Yes,” Aarib said, his tone controlled. “It was… unexpected. And fast.”

Hikmat nodded thoughtfully, though his eyes flickered with curiosity. “I wish you had told me earlier, brother. You’ve been disappearing into work as if you were alone in the world.”

“Because I still feel like I am,” Aarib said before he could stop himself. His words came out sharp, raw.

Roshaane froze for a moment, her eyes darting to him. Hikmat looked between them, uncomfortable now.

“Excuse me,” she said softly, standing up. “I’ll bring something to eat.”
She disappeared into the kitchen, her throat burning with unshed words.

Hikmat leaned closer to Aarib. “What’s going on between you two?”

As soon as Roshaane disappeared into the kitchen, Hikmat turned toward Aarib, his brows furrowed, curiosity and disbelief mixing in his voice.

“You married? To her?” he asked, leaning forward slightly. “Then what about Maliha?”

Aarib’s jaw tightened. He kept his eyes fixed on the table, his fingers interlocked. “It… just happened,” he said quietly.

“Just happened?” Hikmat repeated, his tone sharp with impatience. “Are you serious, Aarib? You didn’t even tell me.”

“I didn’t get a chance to,” Aarib murmured, still avoiding his friend’s eyes.

Hikmat scoffed softly. “You always have time for the things that matter. Don’t tell me this was something you couldn’t explain.”

“It wasn’t something I could explain,” Aarib said finally, his voice low, carrying a weight that silenced the room for a moment.

Hikmat frowned, studying his friend’s tired face. “Was this marriage forced? Something your elders arranged?”

Aarib shook his head slowly. “No.”

“Then what happened?” Hikmat pressed gently.

Aarib exhaled, rubbing his temples before speaking, his tone heavier now. “She, Roshaane—she cut her wrist. On the night of my engagement with Maliha.”

The words froze the air. Hikmat’s eyes widened, his voice catching. “You mean she—?”

He couldn’t even finish. Shock, confusion, and pity collided in his expression.

Before Aarib could reply, footsteps echoed back from the kitchen. Roshaane appeared with a small tray, her eyes lowered, pretending not to notice the tension that clouded the room. She placed the tray on the table — neatly arranged biscuits, cream rolls, and fresh tea.

“Here,” she said softly, offering a polite smile.

“Thank you,” Hikmat replied, trying to mask his unsettled thoughts. He glanced briefly at Aarib, then at her — she seemed unaware, or perhaps unwilling to face what they had been discussing.

She took her seat beside the table, pouring tea carefully. “Sugar?” she asked politely, and Hikmat nodded, watching how her hands trembled ever so slightly.

“So, you’re from Pakistan?” Hikmat asked, trying to ease the air, though his voice was still thoughtful.

“Yes,” she said. “Karachi.”

“Must be hard, adjusting here,” Hikmat replied kindly.

She smiled faintly. “It was. But now… it’s home.”

Aarib’s gaze lifted to her for the first time. Their eyes met for a brief second — quiet, unreadable — before he looked away again.

Hikmat noticed that too. The silence between them spoke louder than any answer Aarib could give.

After a few more minutes of light talk, Hikmat stood up. “I should go,” he said, his tone gentle but distant now. “It was good seeing you both.”

“Stay for lunch,” Roshaane offered, but he shook his head.

“Next time,” he said with a small smile, and turned toward Aarib. “Take care of yourself, my friend.”

“I will,” Aarib replied simply.

But as Hikmat stepped out into the crisp Istanbul air, he couldn’t shake off the image he’d just seen — the sadness in Aarib’s eyes, the forced calm in Roshaane’s voice, and the invisible wall standing between them.

It wasn’t love that connected them. It was a scar — one that neither of them seemed ready to face.

Author’s Note

Assalam-u-Alaikum dear readers, 🌸

How are you all doing?
Here’s another update of Fated Roads! 💫 I’m so excited to share this chapter with you — it’s one I really enjoyed writing.

Tell me how you liked it! Did you enjoy the twists? And what do you think about the new character joining the story? What kind of change do you think they’ll bring to the lives of our main leads? 👀

Your guesses, thoughts, and comments always motivate me to write more, so don’t forget to share them below! ❤️

Thank you for all the love and support you’ve given Fated Roads so far — it truly means a lot.
Stay tuned for the next chapter; things are about to get even more interesting! 😉

With love,
Your Author 💕