5th June, 2025

Kinza stepped out of the car, sunglasses perched on her sleepy face, looking every bit like a zombie in denial. As she stretched her arms above her head and yawned unapologetically, the grand gates of Ahmed Mansion swung open with the elegance of a Bollywood bride walking down the aisle.

“Kinzuuuu!” came the enthusiastic shriek of her phuppo, arms wide open and dupatta trailing behind her like a superhero cape. Kinza barely had time to blink before she was pulled into a hug that nearly squeezed the flight-lagged soul out of her.

“Oh my baby girl! How grown up you look, and so weak too! Are you even eating?” Phuppo asked as she simultaneously hugged her and patted her cheeks like fresh dough.

Kinza, still half jet-lagged, managed a small grin. “Missed your food so much, phuppo.” Her lips were in a pout.

A suspicious silence settled around her. She blinked.

Something felt…off.

Too quiet.

Too peaceful.

Then—SPLAT! A water-filled balloon landed straight onto her hair.

“SHARMIN!!!” Kinza screamed, her voice echoing off the mansion walls as she spun around, hands flailing to wipe off the water dripping from her face.

Behind a pillar, Sharmin peeked out, laughing so hard she nearly fell over. “Welcome to London, my darling Kinza! That’s what I call a traditional welcome!”

“Oh you little gremlin! Come here and let me return the favour!” Kinza lunged, chasing Sharmin through the manicured lawns like a scene from Tom & Jerry: Wedding Edition.

Laughter echoed through the air, and just like that—Canada, Shahmeer, the mystery man, everything was pushed to the dusty corners of her mind. For now, it was all about celebrations, haldi preps, mehndi playlists, and wedding joras.

***

That night, Kinza lay curled up in a queen-sized bed layered with silky covers and fluffy pillows. The soft tick of an antique clock on the wall was the only sound in the darkness. Her room smelled faintly of jasmine and chocolate-scented lotion, but peace evaded her.

Her fingers reached up and instinctively touched the ring hanging from her neck.

Everything from the past week suddenly began to swirl back—Shahmeer’s rejection, the rushed taxi ride to the hospital, the blood-stained jacket, the mystery man clinging to life.

Her heart ached.

"Was I stupid to help him like that?" she whispered into the night. "What if I never find him again? What if he doesn't even know what I did?"

A soft sigh escaped her lips as she turned on her side. "Ugh, why did my life suddenly turn into a desi drama mixed with a crime thriller?"

She shook her head and let out a bitter-sweet laugh. “And I thought Canada was cold.”

The next morning was pure chaos. Dhol beats mixed with phuppo’s non-stop yelling, suitcases being dragged down stairs, and Sharmin dancing in front of the mirror wearing Kinza’s dupatta like a crown.

Kinza, towel on head, face half-moisturized, was dragged downstairs for breakfast.

After breakfast, Kinza along with her phuppo and Sharmin, headed to meet Amaira, the bride-to-be. They were going for the bridal attire selection.

They reached her place in about half an hour and were given a warm welcome by the bride-to-be' mother.

Amaira entered the living room dressed in a simple white kurta with pink floral embroidery and matching pink salwar. A similar hijab was wrapped around her head. Her elegance made Kinza pause.

“Kinza, meet Amaira,” phuppo introduced, practically glowing with joy.

“Finally! I’ve heard so much about you!” Kinza said with a warm smile.

Amaira smiled back, but just as her eyes dropped to the ring around Kinza’s neck, her expression froze for a fraction of a second.

Her smile faltered.

Only slightly.

But Kinza noticed it.

Still, Amaira quickly recovered and spoke in her usual soft tone. “That’s… a beautiful ring.”

Kinza instinctively touched the pendant. “Oh… yeah. It’s just… something I found. Long story.”

Amaira nodded, smile returning, though a shadow passed over her eyes for a moment.

Kinza brushed it off as exhaustion. Weddings did that to people.

They headed out for shopping. Sharmin sticked by Kinza's side and her phuppo insisted she'd ride with her soon to be daughter-in-law.

Amaira brought along her brother for his outfit fitting.

“Don’t mind my brother,” Amaira warned Kinza quietly. “He’s a bit... uh, blunt.”

Kinza smirked. “Good. I like blunt people. You always know where you stand.”

At the boutique, Kinza roamed around like a wide-eyed child in a candy store. She ran her hands over velvety lehengas, glittering stones, and feather-light dupattas. But as she turned the corner to check out a teal-blue sharara, her shoulder collided with someone.

Hard.

She stumbled back slightly, and looked up.

Towering over her was a man, probably around 6'1", with sharp cheekbones and a perfectly trimmed beard. His jet-black hair was swept neatly to the side, and he had the kind of deep-set, almond eyes that could make FBI agents sweat. He wore a crisp navy blue shirt tucked into tailored grey trousers, sleeves folded just enough to show off his wristwatch and toned forearms.

But his expression?

Stone cold.

Kinza blinked. “Oh—sorry! I didn’t see you there.”

The man was looking at his phone, clearly unimpressed. “Apparently, your eyesight doesn’t work in boutiques.”

Kinza raised an eyebrow. “Apparently, your manners don’t either.”

He looked amused for a split second. “Touché.”

"If that phone's got directions to basic human decency, please share the link", she added with a sweet, sharp smile.

That made him chuckle—just barely. He shook his head as if surprised by her audacity.

“Noted,” he said, stepping aside.

As Kinza walked past him, she muttered under her breath, “What a cold-blooded statue.”

But a flicker of a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he watched her walk away.

Was she annoying?

Yes.

Was she witty?

Absolutely.

And that combination… was trouble.

He wasn’t sure if he liked her.

Or hated her.

Probably both.

But either way, she had his attention.

And that… was dangerous.

Kinza walked back to where her phuppo was seated and took a seat beside her with a huff. She rolled her eyes so hard they nearly somersaulted out of her head. She'd barely recovered from the human-speed bump incident—otherwise known as colliding with Mr. Too-Busy-on-His-Phone—and now she was expected to behave like a well-bred adult while still nursing the insult he had just tossed her way.

Her phuppo noticed her expressions and asked, "Everything alright?"

She nodded. "Anything caught your eye?"

Kinza wanted to reply with 'Yeah a walking lamppost', but she decided otherwise and shook her head.

“Kinza, meet Amaira’s brother.” Her phuppo said. Kinza looked up to see the same man—the human lamppost who had bumped into her—standing next to Amaira and nodding at her with a barely-there smile.

Oh, great.

Amaira gestured between them, unaware of the sarcasm-charged energy in the air. “Zidan, this is Kinza. She’s Arham’s cousin. Kinza, my brother, Zidan.”

Zidan. Of course the name would be as sleek and polished as his unnecessarily well-defined jawline. Everything about him screamed control, silence, and the unspoken warning: Don’t waste my time.

Zidan gave her a once-over, not in a creepy way, but in a ‘you-better-not-be-annoying’ kind of way. “So we meet again,” he said smoothly.

“Oh joy,” Kinza replied with a fake smile, "Perfect, just what I needed—to be reintroduced to the guy who body-slammed me like it was the wrestling finals five minutes ago."

Zidan’s brow lifted slightly, intrigued. “You have a talent for exaggeration.”

“And you have a talent for walking like the floor owes you rent,” she shot back, arms folded.

Sharmin, who had overheard just enough to be entertained, snorted with laughter and tried to hide it behind a rack of lehengas.

Zidan let out a soft chuckle, clearly amused despite himself. “You don’t hold back, do you?”

Kinza shrugged. “I would, but I left my filter in Canada.”

Amaira blinked between them, confused and slightly nervous. “Umm... you two okay?”

Kinza smiled sweetly. “Oh yeah. Besties already.”

“Like warm tea and cold judgment,” Zidan added.

Amaira gave them both a look that could only be described as what in the sarcastic banter is going on here?

Zidan’s phone buzzed, and as he checked it, Kinza took the opportunity to turn her attention back to the bridal section. “Hope you find a GPS for your personality.”

Zidan smirked. “She’s a handful,” he muttered under his breath.

Sharmin clapped her hands. “Wow. That was... something.”

Phuppo chuckled. “They’re either going to kill each other or get married.”

Kinza whipped around, horrified. “Phuppo!”

“What? I’m just saying what we’re all thinking,” Phuppo said with a wink.

Zidan rolled his eyes and walked off with Amaira to the tailor’s corner, but not before glancing over his shoulder once. Kinza caught it—and immediately scolded herself for feeling that weird flutter in her stomach.

Nope. Not happening. She had enough drama for a lifetime. This man had sarcasm in his bloodstream and a resting smug face. Definitely not her type.

Definitely.

Kinza wandered deeper into the boutique, her eyes catching on the embroidered lehengas and sequin-heavy sarees glistening under soft golden lights. Sharmin was still somewhere arguing over dupatta shades, and Phuppo had gone off on a mission to hunt down a tailor who wouldn’t faint at last-minute alterations.

Kinza was admiring a lavender net gown with delicate mirror work when she felt the unmistakable snag of fabric catching behind her.

“Oh no, no, no, no—” she spun around, but it was too late. The hem of her kameez had hooked onto a dangerously elaborate rack of bridal veils. In her attempt to free herself, she tugged a little too hard.

The rack swayed like it had just survived an earthquake. And then, in the most dramatic, slow-motion fashion possible, it toppled over—an avalanche of veils crashing down with a sound that could only be described as bridal thunder.

Kinza stood in the middle of it all, veils tangled in her hair, one wrapped around her neck like a feather boa, and another perfectly perched on her head like a crown.

Dead. She was officially dead.

From across the boutique, Zidan looked up from his phone, blinked once, and—of course—headed over.

“You planning to start a new bridal trend?” he asked, arms crossed, looking entirely too amused. “The ‘trapped-in-tulle’ look?”

Kinza groaned, swatting a lacey veil out of her face. “No, I was just trying to start a small, tasteful boutique apocalypse. Clearly, it’s going well.”

“You succeeded. There’s net everywhere. You’re basically a walking mosquito trap.”

She glared at him, one eyebrow raised. “Do you stand in front of mirrors and rehearse these one-liners or does it come naturally with the smug gene?”

Zidan smirked and crouched down, helping her untangle a strand of gota from her sleeve. “I’m gifted. What can I say?”

She batted his hand away. “Well, keep your gift six feet away from me.”

As she tried to get up, her foot caught on a trailing dupatta and she stumbled—again. Zidan’s reflexes kicked in and he caught her by the arm, steadying her with infuriating ease.

“You’ve got the balance of a newborn giraffe,” he said under his breath, holding her just a second longer than necessary.

Kinza straightened, tugging her arm free. “And you’ve got the charm of a traffic warden on a hot day.”

“Touché.”

Amaira and Sharmin arrived just in time to witness the scene. Amaira’s eyes went wide. “Oh my God, Kinza! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just singlehandedly destroying small businesses one rack at a time,” Kinza muttered, adjusting her dupatta like a war survivor.

Sharmin tried—really tried—not to laugh. “This is why we don’t take her shopping.”

The shop assistant, thankfully kind and far too used to bridal chaos, reassured everyone that no permanent damage had been done. Still red-faced, Kinza allowed herself to be pulled toward another section by Amaira and Sharmin, hoping to hide behind some voluminous gowns.

But from the corner of her eye, she spotted Zidan still watching her, that maddening little smile on his face.

She didn’t know what annoyed her more—his smirk… or the fact that she kind of liked it.

She rolled her eyes and turned back to the mirror, adjusting the dupatta draped over her shoulder with unnecessary force, pretending he didn’t exist.

But her fingers fumbled slightly. Great. Now he’d think he got to her.

She didn’t dare glance back again.

Yet, just as she reached for the next outfit, his voice floated casually behind her—low, smooth, and far too entertained for her liking.

“Careful with that dupatta. Would be a shame if your next outfit ended up in the emergency room.”

Kinza froze, slowly turned, and met his eyes head-on, a mocking brow raised.

“And it would be a bigger shame if your ego didn’t survive the trip back to reality.”

He chuckled. Low. Lazy. Like he had all day.

And annoyingly enough, it was kind of... charming.

She turned back around with a little flip of her hijab, telling herself that the heat in her cheeks was from the boutique lights. Definitely not from him.

But one thought stuck with her as she walked away—

Who was this Zidan Ali... and why did it feel like their battle had just begun?

Assalamualaikum!

Feels like forever since I've written and given an update.

How is the chapter and how is the story going so far?? Liked Zidan? Is he the main lead?

Let me know your thoughts please.

Until next time....Hasta La Vista!