Friendly reminder :
If you haven't read that bonus about Aliyaar & Barekhna's eloped wedding.....go read it right now!

Chapter 15.

"He's going to kill you!"

Zayed stared at his best friend with an alienated grin on his mouth. The man was in dire need of a reality check, to be gripped from his throat and then reminded kindly, of he was — beyond being a lover. He smirked at the man who looked to be the furthest thing from a thirty-one year old business man, instead he resembled a two year old who did not know any better. Pushing his hair aside, he stared at the man seated before his piano, the scene a bit too familiar from what he remembered.

"I've got it under control."

Aliyaar replied instead, with his voice full of confidence. The length of his bony fingers drug over the white keys, soft sounds like the gentlest of woos of the winds filled through the empty parlor. His best friend looked comical, the red t shirt and the crème sofas were a strong alternate, the contrast wildly different. Sprawling the width of his palms over the thin paper, he traced the symbols of the musical notes. Something was off about the notes they dwelled into his being a bit too easily. Sparking curiosity he searched for the tempo.

"Aliyaar act your age. Your father will kill you if the stocks fall any lower."

"Does it matter?"

He groaned, his squared jaw fell on to the deep cherry wood with contempt, Aliyaar's voice lost the edge of power as he pondered over the decisions he had been asked to take.

"Yes it does. You can't selfishly decide for the entire company," Zayed pinched his nose, "there's more than a hundred employees that depend on you."

"Tou phir mein kia karun? Meri samajh tou yahi ata hai, it's about time we held that re-vote." He spoke frustrated.
[What should I do then? This is the only way I can understand.]

"Are you out of your mind? Sukhera wants you to take the bait Aliyaar! Even my father won't be able to help you." Zayed shook his head in return.

"He's threatening me with a lawsuit, I really can't take any chances. Sukhera thinks his son has a chance — fine, we'll show him how wrong he truly is."

"Aliyaar what lawsuit? You're the most law abiding person I know!"

"He's using the social reforms card and for us not offering our workers enough benefits," Aliyaar spoke, the undertones inside his voice razor sharp as the court proceedings from his brother's case lived on in his head vividly.

"Kuch nahi kar sakta Sukhera. Koi ghalat kaam mat kar dena jald baazi mein."
[Sukhera can not do anything. Just don't take a rash decision in your hurry.]

Aliyaar tutted, his head shook an inch from the sturdy position. His leg tucked under him, the other straightened out, he placed a piece of boxed patty into his plate. The eggshell white of his porcelain plate painted with flowers and vines — silver and black dotted the tucked in edges and the small gold fork cut through the centre of it. Humming to himself in the innocent delight he munched on it, the flaky crust spilled on to the crisp material of his dress shirt, the white stained with streaks of oil. Chewing, the spices exploded through the fillings and black pepper dusted itself into the corner of his mouth. Every inch of the man's actions were lined with charisma and shaded with the muted lights of the parlor he looked like an enigma.

The soft brown of his eyes melted into a puddle of sparkles, like muddy water at the end of the street. A tiny scar above his right eye brow, a reminder of the bad fall he had been gifted with as a child, straightened out over the edge of it. His lips clasped together in a soft hold and his back angled towards Zayed. The stretch of his back — to the door, the muscles of his shoulder blades rippled. Aliyaar took a small sip, the bitter flavor of his plain tea swept against the bottom of his throat — his nerves relaxed instantly.

Twisting the edges of his sleeves, he unbuttoned the odd shaped buttons, the name of a designer carved into the sides in cursive. A yawn escaped his lips, the neatly clipped nails pushed the fabric around and manipulated it into a soft round. The weight of his body settled comfortably on the crème sofa, his fingers in careless enjoyment toyed with the pastel blue cushions. At an incredible pace his thoughts occupied him beyond sensible limits, stifling the confidence he had procured only recently. The throbs under his ribs costed him his patience, with a dangling hook they snapped into place, the bottoms of his generous eyes lined with a streak of bold red instantaneously.

"So what now?"

"For now I'm going to leave for England in a few days, hopefully the matter resolves in my absence otherwise it's going to get ugly."

"Consult bhabi." Zayed spoke.

"That I probably will, just waiting for the right time."

Besotted, the word had preened itself into his mind over and over again. Aliyaar begrudgingly bid his sole advisor his bye's, making way to the large bedroom on heavy feet. His shoes struck the corner of the bedroom door, and he clenched his teeth pain as it shot like a spasm up his leg. Singing the tunes of a song bird he untucked his dress shirt from the holds of the formal trousers. Shaping his hair with the rivets of his fingers, Aliyaar stared at his reflection. The pale skin from underneath the shirt peaked, like a pallor on a winter's evening that threatens to take over. Peach undertones crept up the side of his neck, testing the hold of the buttons he unsnapped them, loose threads like ties of his past came undone in one motion.

Resting his palm above his soft beating heart, he stared at the vicious scar above his lower abdomen. It was jagged — a gift in return for his selflessness. The stitches had come undone a year ago but the pain lived in his memory with intensity. He traced the scar, hissing under his breath he felt the tiny tremors and jolts of electricity as he thought of what had occurred. The night of pain. Blood, rain and lights — the mixture in it's entirety had left him scarred for anything. He was powerless. Perhaps that was the grueling thought behind their room being covered in sheer darkness every time he was naked. Softly outlined his abs narrowed down and the rest of his chest remained bare.

It was for her lips to taint. Now and forever.

Spunky women were for spunky men. He chuckled at the odd thought and the choice of words, it was in particular not him. Shaking his head, he shivered as the cold air struck against his hot skin. Taping his hands over his waist he undid the button, dragging the zip along with barely any force. Defeated his shoulders hunched under the spray of water, and his hands massaged the bottom of his neck to relieve it from some of the stress he carried.  The intense cold water turned his lightly coiled hair into a deep raven shade, until the difference between them and the night sky outside was null. His hands — gentle, rubbed over his face, Aliyaar's lips stemmed into a grin as the stubby beard pierced into his hands.

There was a presence behind him. The hair on his leg stood in alertness, adrenaline flooded through his veins as he massaged the shampoo in between his roots. It dribbled down his wide shoulders and the body heat from a figure behind him lingered a moment longer. Blindly, his glasses left outside the shower cubicle, Aliyaar pushed his hands against the fibre glass and heaved in anxiousness. Fisting his hands he rubbed his eyes with force, a blurry figure behind him. Gasping he pushed his arm around, flailing it like an ailing man searching for it's last source, he felt the soft skin. Alabaster on the shower's walls pierced his skin through it's vivid sharpness, a drop of pure red blood spilled on to her palms.

Scrunching his brows together he squinted at the form, an ache drummed into his mouth the longer he focused. Wayward the lines on his forehead aligned and his chest sunk in desperation as he took small steps towards the figure that had yet to make a move. It struck him then, and his heart calmed almost instantly. Relief flooded his being, his eyes closed shut in delight as the familiar scent took him to places unknown.

"Barekhna?" He whispered, his husky voice drowned out by the water.

"Took you long enough saint." She replied.

"Sorry ugh—" he shifted on his feet, her figure pushing his behind, "sorry I don't have my glasses on me."

"Stop apologizing for everything. It was cute — you looked like an old man does when I tell him a life changing fact." Barekhna teased.

Aliyaar shot her a bright smile. His skin lightened up and the tips of his ears turned an involuntary shade of deep red as he remembered the position he was in. The water casted an illusion and ran over his open eyes, burning his sclera as she neared him, her body pressed against his, her arms wrapped around his neck. There were limitless goosebumps over his skin as her warm skin moulded against his, the blood in his veins froze over from the shock. He leaned forward as her lips murmured a soft line under her breath, his hands wrapped around her lithe frame and the insides of his mouth dried beyond contempt.

Topping her feet above his Barekhna took a deep breath, the water ran over her skin and froze it — turning it a slight blue as she stared at him from the blurred lines. There was a roguish handsomeness about him, the air of a royal, the clasp of his arms around her figure was a feeling indescribable. His jaw was taut, and the lips that seemed perfect from afar were slightly crooked in their placement, though she found it endearing as they twitched anytime he spoke with power. The length of his throat and the build of his cheekbones that were a bit too high but sat perfectly according to his facial structure, Aliyaar was perfect and that was it.

Tucking her hair behind her ear, using the entirety of her force to push the heavy mass out of her face Barekhna pressed her lips into his wet skin. The droplets meshed into a unanimous puddle and the temperature of his skin diluted down by the minute, her long nails sheltered the scarred skin of his shoulder blades. Acne — he had told her once, in the middle of the night when she woke up shivering, he had held her and whispered the words into her ears. The acne left behind it's marks — though she explained he should wear them with pride. Aliyaar had grinned and told her he would the day she was proud of her own scars, leaving her speechless as always.

Twisting his fingers over her elbows he traced the skin until it met the soft shell of her ears. The skin tickled and he felt her shiver with the sensation. He pushed behind a short piece of hair, his nails dug into the soft skin above her side burns. Placing his lips on the side of her head he pulled her in close, the temperature around them rose as his hands ran the length of her back, stilling only as they touched the skin of her derrière. Aliyaar pulled his hand back in shock, as if it were on fire. Inside her eyes he saw a sudden ire, the smirk groomed on to her lips as she pressed her hands over his face, Barekhna placed her lips on top of his.

Moulding their lips into a forceful preposition, her lips tugged at his and the length of her fingers wrapped around her hair. She tugged at his scalp, the grip of his arms pushed her into his skin. Aliyaar's heart beat sharply and the blood inside his veins sparked with a vicious force. The tug of her teeth pulled at the bottom of his lips, her tongue pushed into his mouth, the explosion of mint and warmth warmed against their skin. A million lights clouded their visions and what was meant to be a bathroom lined with a soft shade of white, suddenly turned red. Colors beyond comprehension burst in front of their eyes like a dust, her lips sucked on to his harsher. Water ran down their faces, and their breaths moulded into a jargon of mess. It seemed as if steam rose around at an unkempt pace.

"Hey saint," Barekhna panted against his swollen lips.

"What?"

"You're a good kisser."

➖➖➖➖➖

Swiping the coral shade of blush across her pale cheeks with a dense brush, the synthetic hairs on it dyed a deep black, left behind tiny imprints. Her fingers smoothed it out, the rough edges that once stroked the top of her bronzer blended in, all the while the sound of her assistant poured in from the wireless earphone. Her eyes, sultry and lined with the sharpest of liners stared back at the tired reflection of her face. Almost doe like, their puffiness wandered around and her fingers pressed the shade of coral on top of the lids, hoping to tone down some of the mass there. Despondent, Barekhna tied her hair into a bun that fell around like a wild horses tail — unruly and tempered with.

Change of cities, not a large change for her at least, the buzz outside the airport and the familiar calls with posh British accents reminded her of every tiny details about her life ten years ago. The second time she had returned to the country — only it was the first time she was not alone. Her lips pursed into a thoughtful grin and twisting her fingers around the hem of her nylon tank she tucked it into the high waisted trousers. Bobbling her head, the movement of her jaw ceased for a moment, it's peppermint flavor already coursing down her veins like adrenaline. Alerted her fingers drummed the gold hoops into place and tied the knot around the thick onyx trench coat.

She sauntered out of the large bathroom at the Heathrow airport, dragging along with her the dusky luggage, it's wheels crumbling over the marble floorings. The bright lights shunned her sensitive orbs, the tall arches and pavilions reminded her of a very much naive part of her youth. Twenty years ago when she had first landed into the English country, it had all seemed so magnanimous. Barekhna still remembered the looks of awe she had passed to the blonde, fair skinned couples that had led her to the arms of her uncle ; it was as if not a day had passed. It was all different now though, she knew as her steps gained heaviness the moment she turned around the corner.

All else was the same. The curving arches of marble and white, industrial and heavy duty — reliable in every way. Her hands tightened around the thick passport, the words on it embossed in gold melted in her palms. Nothing had changed but almost everyone had. The palpitations of her heart were undefinable, the bitterness that blanched her throat matched the sweat that filled her palms even in the winters of England. London was her home — but without him she would still feel homeless.

It was the beginning of November and the land was already grey and mournful. The skies were weighed down to touch the roof of the international airport as clouds sunk lower and closer. It had rained a few moments ago — the walkway was wet and drops of rain intersected on the cemented paths. Hiding in plain sight the sun stared from behind a smaller cloud, though in a sickly state it did little to warm the hearts or the streets. Cars rushed and the cabs whizzed by, loud proper accents followed by loud laughter vibrated the air with a fond energy, something unlike any other. The city was alive even as it dwelled nearer to seven in the evening. Muted blacks appeared, followed shortly by the trains that were beyond subpar.

Barekhna's eyes trained over the span and took in the tiny details. It was still there, the tree she had spotted, though now it was almost twice in size. The litter box had survived the grains of times too, though the advertisements playing had all changed. She and Raphe — her best friend, self proclaimed, on her arrival had counted them down with her in his fancy accent, hoping that it would calm her tears. It had done so, and since then he had been her everything — to say in simpler words.

She spotted Aliyaar in the spot where her uncle had once stood, and her fingers pushed on the decline button, Malkah's voice cut off and she took a deep breath. Barekhna buzzed with electricity as she felt the cold rush up her warm skin. The tip of her nose was perhaps turning red already, and her fingers pinched the centre of her nose to dim the slight ache. Walking towards him softly, Barekhna stared at him with sheer awe. His back to her, she could make out the toned back even underneath the coat he wore and the charcoal scarf that wrapped around his throat.
'I can withstand anything but cold.' He had told her when they got on to their flight, and it was true. The moment they landed in the UK, Aliyaar had sneezed. His brows pushed together and the lips pinched — he looked cute.

"Aliyaar let's go!" Barekhna patted his back.

She bit her tongue instantly as she saw it was not her husband but a man entirely different. How had she not noticed? The build and attires were spot on, Barekhna defended herself, how was she to know?
Aliyaar would have figured it out — her conscious mocked.
True, Barekhna sighed, that man knew her better than herself.

"Im sorry I thought you were someone else!" She apologized, taking a step back.

"No harm done at all," the man winked, "though I should think this 'Aliyaar' is a lucky man. No?"

Barekhna frowned at his tone, the caramel hair seemed to have been misplaced against his tanned skin and the deep black beard. Middle Easter or South Asian? She felt her senses fail as the man passed her a blinding grin, fixing his scarf, hiding the lips with a tiny scar at the corner of them.

"Barekhna there you are!" A third voice countered and she turned to face Aliyaar.

Yeah, she hummed under her breath, her husband was handsome-er.

"I'm sorry I lost track of time." She apologized.

"Hi mate! The name's Ali."

"Aliyaar." He replied stoically, shaking Ali's hand.

"Anyways if you could excuse us Ali, our driver is here." Barekhna butted in, getting jittery the longer she stood in the man's presence.

Involuntarily her hands found his, taking them into a tight hold as they walked out of the place. There across the tarmac stood the familiar ivory Mercedes, her uncle's pride and joy. The color sparkled still, the vintage model seemed to hold most of it's life intact even now. Round headlights teased the land before it with warm lights, the boot opened by the driver. His deep maroon suit with a silver brooch was the signature attire for most if not all those employed under the eccentric billionaire cum philanthropist, Raphael Williams. The man with his salt and pepper hair, a short goatee accessorized his lips, and the gloved hands passed the both of them a hefty hand shake.

Wrapping her fingers with purpose around the handle, she plopped into the car seat, straightening her legs as Aliyaar helped the driver place the luggage into the boot. Soft air blew from the vents and she thrust her icicle like hands in front of it, life teemed in an instant under her palms and she felt blood prick her finger tips. A copious strand of her recently chopped hair escaped the grip of her bun, stretched over her nose bridge. There was a box of unopened calzones and a note tucked neatly into the crease of it, Raphael's seal on top of the envelope. He may have disowned his status as a Viscount, but the mannerisms had lived on.

A dreary chill ran into the car and diluted the warmth of the insides as the two men got seated. Winter's early spell melted the bits of warmth that absorbed into her skin, her fingers reaching out to hold the box on her lap as Aliyaar joined her. The driver waited and upon a nod from her he drove. Wide on it's side from edge to edge the car spun around the city, the wheels sleighing through the wide roads. Everything was a blur— a grey from what their could gauge. It was a whizz, of the double decker busses to the large billboards and glossy fashion houses along the edge of the streets.

London amongst everything strived.

The streets teeming with life dimmed by the minute as they continued to drive away from the heart of London city, towards it's outskirts where architecture— in it's historic glory stood tall still and was protected, restored too. Roads lined with local vegetation sprouted and cars stood on either side of the carpeted roads. The iron wrought gates were a testament of the once glorious land of the rich, the Georgian traditions lived on and it was as if a piece from a historical article had been ripped out and turned life size. Kennington Park Road lived up to it's name — grandeur and flair richly concocted into a thick potion that overwhelmed and swept the nerves out. Something of the cobblestone pathways and upraised homes with several floors was gut wrenching.

The car came to a halt in front of a tree lined avenue, the iron wrought gates had been thrown open in the anticipation of it's future owners arrival. The paneled doors painted an Oxford blue with gold knobs were still fresh, cemented the porch led to it with a few stairs. Their feet smacked against the floorings and hands pushed open the door, the fresh scent of roses and rain melted on their nostrils. It smelt of mud and soil ; it's unity despite the addition of a third party was honorable and the hums of satisfaction that it let out, as water struck it, were audible and adored. Opened once with force the glazed fanlight held the entrance in a deep grey, murky from the lack of sunlight.

A sigh of awe escaped her lips as she looked at the cabinets fitted to the wall, in them still were some of the fine china pieces he had inherited—which were promised to her. Workers rushed in and out and there was some life teeming at least, though prior to her arrival she had been worried that the place would be haunted. Wiping away the chocolate smear from the corner of her lips, she lead the way into the attached parlor. Original to the house, the wooden floorboards creaked, each step bringing her closer to the latticed fire place. Inside of it, a fire breathed harsh and fast. Kneeling with her eyes full of tears that would burn Barekhna warmed her hands over it, the redness of her nimble digits lightened as the seconds ticked by — unaccounted.

It was an abomination — the way she felt inside the house. The walls were still a shade of mute green and alabaster, back in the day of it's construction there was not much option and Raphe, he preferred it to be simple as is. Nostalgia crept up her cheeks and tensed over her brows as she looked out of the eight paned window, rising slowly. It had grown. There were no two ways about it. The tuft of grass she had helped her uncle plant had now turned into a lavish richness. It still smelt of dandelions and lycra. Her hands tightened over the ledge and a tear rolled down her made up face, the pain was as intense as it had been on that night.

Shaky on her feet, Barekhna exited the room, no longer ensuring that Aliyaar kept up. Her shoes smacked the staircase and her hands ran up the railing in an attempt to soothe — but what? It was a blotchy question mark. As unknown to her as her identity once had been. Sobs clenched at the top of her lungs, her palms smoothing out the burning sensation to appease to it. The landing welcomed her with a bouquet of fresh roses next to it. It was separated into two large oval rooms — the first floor had been hers then and it was hers now. Nothing was out of place save for her presence. On the walls, the bronze frames with their portraits hung, how carefree had they been then. Smacking her lips she bit on to her tongue, undoing the locks of her bedroom door, Barekhna held herself tight.

Oblique lights washed in from behind her and Barekhna felt transformed for a moment. The ten years had not gone and instead, it had frozen itself inside her room. Her bedsheets were still a shade of red, satin with gold hems. The onyx horse stuffed toy she had left in haste sat in the centre of her bed, the china vase with a water painted dandelion was full of them — fresh. It smelt like love and laughter, of riches and kindness, all passions she had lost over time to the cruelty of her fate. Her fingers dropped on to the study desk next to the entrance, the placards, flash notes — the whole lot had survived time and it's tests.

Trapped somewhere between life and the hate she held for it, Barekhna took small steps. Her hands trembled and the beat of her heart was uncomfortable. Coughing, the ends of her fingers held the frame on her side table. It was her favorite picture. Raphael stood by her, his arms around her shoulders and her mummy to their side. The day was etched into her memory with stone. Her middle school graduation, Aman was sick so her father had to sit it out, Raphael had shown up dressed in his most expensive evening suit.

'No event can be as important as this one, my little dipper.' He had whispered into her ears when she snickered at the choice of his attire.
'But they're laughing uncle Raphe.' She had protested. How dare they make fun of her hero? Her lips pouting and the tiny hat crushed between her small fists.
'They're stupid that's why my little dipper.'
'Stupid?'
'Yeah little dipper, these people have no taste.'
Raphael was right of course, a small smile built up on her lips. Star gazing was their hobby, he'd sit and count the stars, many a times he painted it for her too. Around her he was a humble man, not an inch of eccentricity lived on. Barekhna still remember vividly the day he had taken her too see the morning auroras, after everyone else had refused. Raphael Williams had missed an important deal and lost millions, but that moment to them was far more than money and they knew it.

"Ms.Barekhna shall we serve dinner?" The butler, Bernard Whittle stepped into her room, disrupting her thoughts.

Barekhna took a deep breath, her fingers dabbed away the tears as she turned to meet the eyes of her husband and the expectant man. It had been long since she had seen the friendly face. Her hands pinched the front pieces of hair, dragging them behind her ear with softness. Dropping her ass on to the mattress, she let out a relaxed sigh. The muscles of her stomach clenched and a low rumble took the centre stage.

"Yes please, have it brought into our bedroom please."

"Of course. Anything else?" He grinned.

"No."

"You alright Barekhna?"

Aliyaar enquired after a few moments of silence had transpired. Taking seat beside her he defied his brain, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. The mixed scent of her cologne and flowers toyed with his brain— the intensity overbearing as he felt a head ache throb the mass of his lower jaw.

"It feels weird Aliyaar," Barekhna whispered, a moment of vulnerability peaking through as she rested her head on to his shoulder.

"I would think so."

"It is so weird Aliyaar, to be inside this house but without his presence. Uncle Raphael is one of three men I would die for."

Aliyaar's thin fingers stilled on her words, shortly resuming the careful strokes down the length of her arm. His lips pressed on to the top of her head, focused on the words that escaped her mouth. Her accent was like sharp almonds and crunched around him, betraying his hurt, his heart sped as he heard her talk. The mix of her soprano voice and the gurgle of her fine accent — posh and limitless. Dropping his eyes over her face, he made out the short lines that calloused over her forehead, the wells of her eyes had never seemed to be so full of life. Pressing his palm into her back, he felt the heat and he could sense her anxiousness.

"Aliyaar there is something I want you to know before the wedding tomorrow." She spoke all of a sudden.

"You don't have to tell me anything Barekhna." He spoke, pressing his hands against her face, his thumb massing the skin below her eyes.

"I need to get it off of my chest, because," she sighed, as if debating within her head the do's and the don'ts, "because I don't it to be held against me."

"You shouldn't be afraid. I trust you profusely."

"If Lahore's elites are vicious, London's blue bloods are ten times worse."

"You fear they'd hold something over your head?" Aliyaar smiled warmly, "the Barekhna I know isn't scared. Especially not of menial threats."

"I'm not scared, but you deserve the truth."

"About what?"

"That you aren't the first man in my life."