Chapter 14.

An ominous sign would perhaps have been his car colliding the curb before their home, or the strings of his piano breaking. He would have found some truth even in the destruction of his favorite glass vase or his beloved Lightning falling ill. Aliyaar was prepared for a n number of reasons to portray the negative and the err in his life. Though, when it hit him — he wretched, wheezing as he took control of his senses. No. It was a startling realization and discovery that something so effortlessly simple and joyous could have signified direful circumstances. Because it was a funny occasion, bittersweet it's flavor.

For he could have never imagined that his wife preparing dinner was the sign for an ill about to fall on to him.

It started as the evening hues of orange mixed with the night's blacks. It bleakly bled into lines, shaded with the belief of the innocent. Dark took over with the power it seldom used and in the blink of an eye the skies were covered whole. Rusts blemished in spots that were in perfect circles, stars loomed and skimmed the grazing edges of the veil the world wore on herself. She was in mourning — a funeral the living and the dead were forced to attend. Perpendicular to the dark skies, with listless emptiness, was the land. Lights tweaked the environment and the yellows were pale in contrast against the charcoal. Reds — reeking of purity and sultriness danced on top of the buildings, a tango, intimate. As it forced the eyes of all to watch, as it slowly made love to the shadows.

Soft rain had followed the winds that moved through the Siberian mountain peaks into the Karakoram. Eventually they landed here, in the heart of Lahore, they chilled the exteriors and warmed the interiors. Trees struck against the fiberglass windows of the estate, thin leaves plastered themselves against the sloppy outsides and in between the distances were silhouettes. Flashes of light morphed the features of air into thickets of ghosts and tales that would eventually die on the dried lips. Cars splashed the puddles of water before they reigned into the parking, heavy doors crushed against the grips and damp figures entered into the foyer.

Aliyaar's bony fingers had lapped over the crisp shuttle of his cuffs, patting the creases out, he felt the starch bite at the pads of his thumbs before softening. It took getting used to, the collar rubbed against his throat, the ebony left behind streaks on his skin — pure dyes like blood left their marks everywhere. Parcelling his work he placed the files and the worn out leather work bag ; a reminder of his great grandfather, on top of the circular desk. Flowers erupted from the magnificent vase and reached out to touch the sky. There was might and there was passion in the roses, the sweet scent wafter into his nostrils and Aliyaar relished in their feel.

Marching across the endless hallways lined with gold and shades of wood he traced the trims on the mid length. The mirror placed above the coveted sculptures reflected him. Worn out, his eyes lost power and the blurry mess of his jaw seemed more distorted than ever. Curling over his forehead the gelled hair had lost it's touch, the top of his shoulders meshed with the shirts stitching. He slammed his hands over the arms, reassuring that he was still in shape. That skipping the gym for days had yet to have an absurd reaction on him.

Gossamer's had been removed and replacing them were gold ones. The thin meshes covered the doors and crept around the door's hinges as he stepped into the dinning room. It smelt of too much at the same time. He smelt the spices and a steady flow of cardamom and bay leaf fled into the warm air. Even in the early days of October the built in fire places burned, the woods crackled and matched up to par with the soft conversation that rose from the dining table. His parents and his wife — a sight. The top half of his torso reflected into the whining glass and the candelabra's casted a light shaving of shade on to his high set forehead.

Aliyaar flexed his wide wrists and read the strikings of the watch. Seventeen minutes past nine. They must have waited for you — like always a disappointment, he sighed. The notes of his groans were a bit deeper than usual, his vocal chords strained as he remembered all the shouting he had done in the morning. He coughed lowly, his eyes struck against hers. The shades of their different browns collided and mixed for a moment before he diverted his attention to his parents. Kissing his mother's forehead and his father's hand, Aliyaar slid in beside Barekhna, passing her the most genial smile he could muster.

Bonding over food was a trait original to his family, Aliyaar calculated as he scooped for himself the thick gravy — stewed with mutton. It looked divine and the layer of oil that swam over the top was just one of the many reasons that testified against it. Heavy under the weight, the deep metal spoon kissed the rims of the shallow porcelain plate, a piece of buttered naan presented to him wordlessly. Halved already and free of sesame seeds. He grinned sheepishly at his mother who shrugged in return, serving herself a bit more of the delectable nihari. Pouring himself water he rounded his palms against the thick crystal base of the glass, sighing in relief.

"How is it?"

His mother enquired and the woman to his left — his wife, perked up. Aliyaar stared at the two with his eyes hooded, light pushed into them and his pupils widened, a headache dwelled just beneath the cusp of his jaw as he felt the lack of his glasses. The morsel in his hands leaked, the bread absorbed most of the broth though, bits of it covering his slender fingers as he took the bite. Aliyaar chewed slowly, the bitterness was cut through by citrus.

Unique.

"It's good!" He smiled, still wondering what was it in his mother's eyes that matched Barekhna's.

"Really?" Lyana pushed.

"Ye-yes!"

"Good! Because aaj nihari Barekhna nai banai hai!" His mother beamed.
[Today Barekhna prepared the nihari.]

The syllables of each of the tenaciously uttered words fell on to the ridges of his ears, and shattered with a blind speed the spell of indifference. Aliyaar coughed up his emotions, licking his fingers with a gentle speed. His tongue lapped at the spices, coated in an array of flavors that did not belong in his favorite dish, he imagined the startling look on his face. The gaze full of a hazy passion, staring at the expensively clothed woman beside him, he passed a small smile. It was misplaced — on the face that held short frown lines, a clench in his jaw — the smile of relief held no place. Perceval would be put to shame at the inclinations of his affections. At what he felt.

"Go on say something!" Lyana murmured.

"Uh-of course. Barekhna this tastes amazing!" He spoke, wording himself to not sound overly excited.

"Thank you Aliyaar," she replied, thrusting another piece of naan into his hands.

"For dessert we have kheer."

Burping he looked up from his plate into the hope laced eyes of his mother. He shook his head, another bite and Aliyaar felt he would explode into millions of pieces of bone and flesh. His hand raised and the pale pink palms denied any sort of desire. His fingers gripped the linen napkins, as he dabbed away at the corners of his lips the embroidered leaves rubbed against the soft skin. Pushing himself away he swayed on his feet — a man was set to loose their consciousness when his wife prepared a meal that delectable.

Buffering over his words he excused himself, the facts of the day that had passed by caught up with him, and Aliyaar suddenly felt lost of all energies. Undermining his efforts he switched the lights on in the parlor, dim shadows splattered over the crème walls, thin pale blues lined the edges of the newly installed curtains. Tempted to play — forced by fate ; Aliyaar pulled his hand back after forcing a key to strike against the base. The sound was lonesome and he pondered over the what.
What was it that forced him all of a sudden into a tiny box, to fight for claims and to save what he had never even intended to own.

In the middle of the lonely room with nothing but tall windows and rain dripping down the sides of them, Aliyaar softly undid the buttons of his dress shirt. His steps were heavy and suddenly he no longer liked the way his shoes kept his toes in place. Groaning, the sound like the gentles of coffee grounds crushed together at once, he pushed his shoes off of his feet. The shower head sprayed his back with cold water, burning his skin with smoke as he ran a hand through his locks. Aliyaar heard the soft sounds once more, as he had walked into the grounds and had seen her for the first time. All of a sudden — without any prior warning he fell into the trap of his own heart.

What kind of justice was this?
This jurisprudence — he had never heard of.

"Aliyaar?"

Barekhna entered their bedroom, looking like the image out of his mind. He stared at her with a myriad of emotions, motioning for her to sit beside him. The sheets rustled as he moved over, sliding the laptop against the satin material of the duvet. Inside the room there was her essence, everywhere. The heels strewn across the small seating space and the signature black coat wrapped the arms of the armchairs. Perforations in his demeanor let slip the heartbreak he felt at her silence. They knew it, he understood — but perhaps they had devised a plan ; each on their own to let it last forever. A deep grape shade, the tea cups lined with hinges of gold and vines, was pushed into his hands, the liquid overflowing into the saucer at her force.

"Aliyaar can we talk?"

Barekhna spoke with her tone reserved. Without a hint of attachment she held his hand and stared at him with hope. Clasping his hands in her, she squeezed them, resting her head on top of his biceps as he took a sip of the tea she had brewed. Today was a rarity.

Aliyaar clenched his jaw, perhaps her cooking should have been a sign. It was a fact known well enough by him, Barekhna Saleem or Aliyaar, did not share a fondness for cooking.

"We're talking." He shrugged, his attempt at neutralizing the heartache he felt building.

"No Aliyaar," she responded, tucking her legs between her ass, she placed her hands neatly into her lap, "it's about what happened at my parent's home."

"Barekhna you don't have to tell me anything." He shook his head.

"I've had enough of secrets between us, the least I can offer a man as good as you is the truth. My truth."

"Okay."

Patchouli and wood undertones of her perfume tickled from behind the sweet spot of her ears, dousing his skin in it. Perpendicular to that, were their cups, his tea and her coffee, his with barely any sugar, hers with all the cream she could get on her hands at that moment. Aliyaar swept his thumbs across the side of her mouth, wiping the whisker left behind by her beverage. They were shivering, the both of them as they awaited replies. Barekhna passed a long glance on to his face and then decided it was now or never. To relive the horrors was something she was not ready for, but Barekhna would.

"I was nine," her teeth sunk into the lower lip, piercing through the skin, her hands shook as she wondered if she should go on or not.

"I was nine Aliyaar," her eyes stared into his, "my ninth birthday had just been celebrated and I went to bed. Satiated, the party had been a success and mummy allowed me to stay a few hours past my bed time."

Barekhna's eyes stared out of the bedroom windows into the intense pitch black. Her hands wiped the soft fullness of her cheeks, patting at the sweat. Goosebumps flushed her skin and traced down to the edge of her fingernails. There was a sharp jagged piece in her heart, it twisted every moment deeper until it bled after years of having been forced to close on it's own. She felt his fingers brush her hair aside, the perpetual warmth of it wiped out affects of the adrenaline. Her brows bunched over, even his reassurances could not ease out her worries.

"I was the happiest girl on the planet. I slept, dreaming of horses and swords. Rainbows, glitters the whole thing you know Aliyaar," she turned to him, her hands squeezing his in pain, Barekhna was mourning the loss of that girl.

"Bare—"

"No Aliyaar. I need to speak this out today!" Her voice cracked.

"Okay."

"I felt a heat on my throat and a sudden coldness. I had been dreaming of something out of this world until I felt a liquid crawl down my throat. I — I," Barekhna welched, "it was my own fucking grandfather. His hands were in my shirt, a knife pressed to my abdomen."

Hot tears streams down her cheeks and the saltiness poured on to the cracked skin of her lips. They burned as she hid her face into his chest, his hands shielded the back of her skull and massaged the base of her neck as she relived a moment. Barekhna's hands crept up her stomach, her fingers interlaced with his. Gently she rested them on her lower belly, a small bump there — the living reminder of the scars left behind. Her skin trembled as she felt the breath of his creep up her neck, his voice had uttered faulty truths, and Barekhna wanted to let it out.

"He told me that the sound of my laughter burned holes through him. To realize his son had fathered a firangi's child. He punished me for no crime and slid the knife lower. Aliyaar—" she hiccuped, "he would have killed me had abu not walked in to place my gifts on their place."

"I'm so sorry Barekhna. I'm so sorry, you deserved none of that." He kissed her forehead repeatedly, stroking her back in soft circles.

"For years I forced myself to not laugh. I hated the sounds. I loathed myself Aliyaar. In return I built walls and forced everyone away." She sniffed.

Barekhna's eyes were red. Bloodshot with her mascara melted across her cheeks. Aliyaar felt his heart break at the gentle way she pushed herself into his arms. He hid her, he would always hide her and keep her safe. The brunt of his forces burned holes into the walls and mirror before them, what an image they were. Simply holding her for the day was enough, all his reassurances would fail as she relived the most painful event. A nine year old knows nothing of hate, to be subjected for the blood in your veins was heinous. Aliyaar suppressed his blood lust under the bubbles of his fluids he wanted to keep her safe foremost.

A kind man maybe, but only to his wife was he a kinder man.

"You know Barekhna," he smiled wistfully.

"What?"

"I was trapped the moment I heard those giggles."

"Seriously? Fi-five years ago you were attracted to my laughter?"

"Yes," he replied, "and now, nothing seduces me more than your laughter."

"Glad to know."

"Glad to be of service," Aliyaar replied, "you don't have to hide your insecurities from me ever hayati."

"You remind me of Raphe sometimes."

Gasping he held his sighs back as the mystery was about to unfold before his eyes. His arms slid down her beige top, and he felt the tips of his fingers drag around the scar once more before he retreated. The illuminated dark outside did little to damage the light that pondered within their hearts, leading it up to the gates of heavens where all was gold. Bright white spilled out into the bedroom from the glass chandelier above them, the digital fireplace with it's carmine hue spread on to the creme carpets with maroon streaks, carved in black. The joints of his fingers cracked across her narrow back, and he felt her palm creep under his crewneck. An intimate mixture of their skins heat spaced out in even paces and undid some of the damage. Two decades old.

"Raphe, uncle Raphe or well Raphael is our parents best friend. My parents feared for my safety and sent me to stay with him. He was — is like my second father. Aliyaar," she beamed, "he treated me like a flower and wielded me into the woman I am."

"Do you by any chance mean Raphael Williams?" He spoke with a start.

"Precisely."

"His case—"

"That's the very reason I became a lawyer. One day I will prove my Raphe's innocence."

Only a sigh escaped his lips and his head pivoted to one side, the jealousy that gripped his heart — even at the purest of intentions was shameful. Noting her eyes fall into place over the cursor of his laptop, on display an international designer's website, he caught the change within her orbs. Spooning her hands, he kissed them with great fragility, stuttering as he offered her words of his assurance.

"You have my entire support."

That solidified the honor of his stupidity and he could care less.

"I'm glad I do saint because I'd have done without it too." The edge on her tone pinched his heart.

"I trust you would."

"So Carolina Herrera, huh?"

➖➖➖➖➖

Opposite the tall law firm that was in it's own right a budding empire, stood a century old building. It stood out with the antiqueness ; the rest of the street lined with modern structures instead. The victorian styled windows that held marble trims and limestone stairs that were washed into a smooth exterior over time, it was perhaps once the pinnacle of luxury — though now it's weight amounted to the location and not for the way it was crafted. Curious creatures, stray pets shifted into the open burrows before the building, the ridges on it's top floors almost collapsing on to the ground from years of misuse.

Through the sunlight it's tall shadows intersected with the building in front of the law firm. It, was run by the owners of the dilapidated library in front of it. Montgomery & Co, a company run by solicitors from the ages of British India, ran their latest investment with a tight grip whilst watching their former glory, sit and collect dust in front of their eyes. The inheritors—now a long line of mixed blood, resembled not an ounce of the rosy cheeked British men who had laid the foundation. Instead their incompetence had lead to the auctioning off of each business as time went by. It was no hidden news that their latest partners father and an unknown investor had kept the law firm afloat.

Incidentally the open floor plan on the third floor, sandwiched between the leisure floors, gave the perfect views for the crusty library that was once every students dream. The words had since drawled off, some falling over time and left behind their imprints. Though, time was cruel, and they too would cease to be soon enough. Light the shade of daffodils splattered in through the adjacent windows, consequently they covered the floors of her office as the door remained opened. Bamboo palm trees in their terracotta pots clustered around the door's thick frame, smacking almost all visitors that dared to cross the threshold.

Trapped one over the other, her toned calves rose from underneath the Kate Botta's, what little of her legs remained uncovered from their front seamed leather was covered in thick leggings. Thin heels elongated from the ends of the boots, digging into the soft material of the desks's legs. Her fingers maneuvered over the keyboards, charcoal keys pressed with the sounds of loud clicks as she typed out the formal pedigree. Barekhna's hair annoyed her with the constant pushing over of it on to her jaw. Snagging her ceramic mug in hand, a middle finger carved on to the cup in gold — it was an image for sure, and a gift from her brother. Trusting her gut she stirred the thick coffee with the tiny gold spoon, steam in an instant melted over the screen of her desktop.

Chaperoned by her own intent to succeed at the art of manipulating and then winning the game of hearts and minds, her lips made contact with the rough top of the cup. Now lukewarm the drink tousled her throat in it's place, mocking the back of her mouth where the heavy cream smeared her muscles. Coughing with a added huskiness, Barekhna pushed her gold pen against her lips and chewed over the ends of it. The pin — a sign of the lady justice patted her teeth, pure ink smeared the pages and then the skin beneath her nails a bit more. Unsigned the letter had been returned from the gates of the court, though Barekhna was glad for a few of her habits that had not died over time.

An aficionado for sweetened coffee ; and for sending people to jail, Barekhna was seldom called in for consultancy. It was not startling at all hence when the CEO met his employees but left her to her own devices. There were two reasons behind his hesitance and he knew it too, along with the rest of their workers : one, he could not piss her off because that meant the largest shareholder would withdraw funds and let his firm collapse and two, they simply could not afford to pay Barekhna overtime. She knew her worth, and the paycheck signed to her name at the end of each month — excluding the fees from her clients, was an evidence of that.

Licking her dried lips she tasted the tones of mulberry and chemicals from the deep claret red lipstick, her tongue painted in the intensity of it's shade. With an arm wrapped around the circumference of her cup, her front pushed against the ends of the desk, Barekhna skimmed over the files once more. The sounds of her ink jet printer whizzed under her ears, conversations and plenty of gossip found it's way into the open space of her office as a result of the silence. Her claws mixed the candies in the crystal bowl, pinching out a dark chocolate that her husband had made his duty of refilling.

He was spoiling her.
She was relishing in it.
The kindness who knew would last how long.

Ticking on her left, the small alarm clock buzzed as the time to her next appointment began. Barekhna cleared her throat, stretching her soft hands until she could see the vague outlines of her bones, she sat a bit straighter. The maroon, almost black blazer covered her shoulders and the claret turtleneck underneath outlined the smallest of details of her figure. Barekhna fiddled with the edges of her skirt and picked out the balls of lint that remained on them. Her breath cooled as her hands ran over the top of her desk and cleared it — for space. Tipping her head against the chair for a moment she closed her eyes and allowed for the ever seeing orbs to relax. Facing the putrid face of her grandfather was an unusual way of spending her Friday afternoons, but she wanted to get done.

It was starless still ; the skies were yet to succeed in imploring the raging beings for sparkling. Their appearance correlated to her strength ; Raphe had taught her that so long as the constellations covered the skies he would stand by her. There is night in the states, her mind made hope light up in her chest. Pressed — with no options of relief on either side Barekhna drummed her fingers on her forehead and slipped the wedding band around.

For herself — a cause above all else.
She did it for herself. She was ready, Barekhna reminded herself. It was time to let his empire turn to dust. For him to watch all his worth turn to rust.

"Ma'am Mr.Obaid is here."

The raps on the opened door, the face of her young assistant pushed from behind it, broke her train of thoughts. She hummed in reply, unwinding her legs Barekhna pinched her lips, smacking them together as she awaited the entrance. His shadows joined them first in the magnificent office, the bulky frame with meshed penchants softened his hideous image in her eyes. Nodding her head in a half hearted attempt, her eyes lost the demure allure, the dark light inside of them fled out and left behind a haggard facial structure. Tricking her mind into believing he was not strong enough she motioned for him to have a seat.

"Thank you Malkah," she smiled on edge, the taste of her words sour even to her own ears, "close the door on your way out."

"Of course ma'am. Would you like some coffee or something?" Malkah inquired.

"Nothing thank you. Mr.Obaid won't be staying long anyways."

Barekhna simmered in her place, pushing her ass around until it found a comfortable spot, her back softly manifested into a curve as his hands grazed her table. Wincing, her teeth clenched together with a sharp pain shooting through her tongue. Puffy lights from the covers shadowed over her, the temper on her face was unacceptable and the wayward lines on her forehead pushed over the edge. Tampering with her cup herself, Barekhna pinched her nose, smirking with a confident grin as Khawar Obaid finally found his voice.

"How could you send that order to our home? Have you lost it?" He spat.

She hummed under her breath, the edge of her neatly threaded brow rose a few inches above the normal level, her lips twisted into a snarl. Forcing her hands on top of the crisp white paper, she pushed it over to his side. Her throat bubbled with the laughter he had at a point used against her, the secular way he taunted her with — was unacceptable of course. Her lips turned into a thin line as she did a one over, sipping her coffee, she challenged him with a smirk alone.

"It is my legal right as a citizen of the country," her rich voice taunted.

"What about my right as your grandfather?"

Barekhna chuckled, her voice tore through storms with the intensity of each of them. The soprano tone deepened, her fingers clenched over her heart. Fire raced into her eyes, festering into the wounds of the past, she bitterly coursed over the words. The long dictionary; hefty words and an inanimate list of descriptions, she wondered what would be the most apt way to tell him. To remind him of his illusions. A joke — her eyes fluttered over the bald spot on his head and the slouched fit of his kameez. The pitiful act he pulled ; she bought not.

"What grandfather? I have none." She shrugged.

"How can you denounce blood so easily?"

"The same way you shoved a dagger against my stomach," she spoke, her tone dropping a few decibels, "but I guess your culture says 'elders can do whatever' isn't it?"

"Barekhna!" His tone rose, and the thin figure seemed mismatched.

"Don't sir. There is no relationship between us save for the fact that you fathered my father."

"That is above and beyond any relationship!"

"You didn't respect it so why should I?"

"What do you want from me?" He spoke all of a sudden.

The air twitched and the electricity had turned under the guise of need. It warmed over, the electric heater rounded and heated her legs over as she slung her leg out of the table. The skirt rose a few inches and her wrists dropped over her lap in a dizzy haze, the thin bracelet of pink diamonds wrapped around it and her full lips pouted in their fullness. Placing her chin over her left hand she counted down from ten under her breath, the clouds gathered over her thick hair. Peeling away her gaze from the setting sun, she pushed a list of her requirements. What she wanted meant he would be robbed of seventy percent of his wealth — and the snide man would never agree.

Almost three decades with him had taught her better.

"Dimagh kharab ho gaya hai tumhara? There is no fairness in this!" He spat.
[Have you lost your mind?]

She flinched, wiping her face with the back of her pink palms. The thick napkin came next and she tutted at his reactions. She had only began to pull their legs and he was already losing. What a fool — Barekhna wondered.

"I've never run a fun bargain."

"You won't get a penny from me! I will see you at court and drag you through hell!" Khawar shouted.

"Leave then."

"I'm going, and I'll watch you as they send you off to jail."

"If you see satan tell him I need a few favors." Barekhna waved at his figure.

Behemoth. The man was a behemoth fool.