Chapter 25.

There was a beauty in the nature of defiance. It was almost sultry — the essential realizations of learning to retreat on your stances. To stand your ground, but forfeit when your heart needed it most. Even with the backdrop of a terrible heartache that could match the blood of the self proclaimed martyrs, whose tongues were in a battle to taint. One had to survive. In all their glory and perfection, designer shades and heels, stopping was not important. Being linear in mindset was unacceptable. In a world of ruthless tempers and the very need to destroy, self destruction was an ancient art. Abandoned for good reason.

Monday — a day before the perhaps most publicized court hearing, came with a buzz. It tinted the rosy grounds of the estate a champagne. The deafening pain of the frosty morning in Lahore, stifling sight and keeping at an arm's distance from growth, it was horrendous. A squeamish wetness placed itself in the centre of the town, spreading through the cemented roads in all their dreary glory. Horns sprung every now and then from corners unknown.
The city was alive.
The city was livid.
The city was aching.
Through its beating veins and the large spread of it's streets, a van turned into the luxurious doors. Enveloped into the trees shadows as it rolled in.

Picking up pieces of her life as if they were fragments of a looking glass, shattered into pieces from reckless authority. Tracing the edges that slipped past her hands, over and over again. Until the tips of her hands and memorised the crooks. Dipped in a silver, they left behind marks on to her palms. Glistening in the lights of the dimmed sun, a curtain of white placed between her and it, there was a shift in authority. Where she took it by the throat, and split it into two halves of a quartered whole. Desires that had for an eternity at most, driven her passions were suddenly denied entrance into her brain. The need to not loose a winning streak — failed to match the want of saving an innocent man. It was time. For the deliriousness of her shattered illusions to paint a whole truth.

Effortless and sultry the usual ringlets that her hair sat in had been ditched for the day. They provided comfort under his starved gaze but no longer was there feelings lingering under the gelled mass. Instead, soft waves replaced them and pressed against her bony shoulders in a way life's waves had rattled against them for a long time. A bit more still to come. Clipped the nude nails, a shade too off from a tea pink, and a bit too dark for plain beige. Sweaty the palms filled those of her brother's and the claret lost to them held a change. As the season's moved on, so did their choices. Underneath the translucent glass their hands held each other, squeezing hers in assurance.

Twirling her free wrist into the matchless tempers of the lounge, she wrapped a piece of hair behind her ears. Scratching the bottom of her lobe, twirling the thin diamonds that hung from them. Gnawing on to her bottom lip, the toes of her lengthy heels fighting the urge to kick the camera's tripod. Dressed in a subtle ivory — one that matched the innocence of the murderer, the harshness had been ditched. A far-cry from the woman that sat before them with burning mocha eyes and a devout tongue. A first ; a siren shifting to a saint to save one. Not the last to do so. When a love so great was at stake. Webbing together the organza veil that was discarded over her shoulder, it's red embroidery matching the threads of her shirt.

Good and evil.
Angels and devils.
Saints and sirens.
Whites and reds.
They were not without the other. It had hit her chest like a fast out of control truck. The gravity of her feelings for him. Underneath the stuffy duvet, her hands touched the cold spot left behind by his absence. Her fingers strayed — tears of anguish had found a home as they pooled down her cheeks. It was lonesome, harsher than the pain of anything that had ever occurred to her. Last night as the sky turned starry and she talked to the dipper, murmuring words of broken heartedness to the white moon basking in an after glow, Barekhna had realised.
Too much too late.
Breathless, wheezing over the frozen balcony, feeling the cold form bumps over her skin, Barekhna had found out. Answers to questions.

Morning had sweltered into a foggy absconding. It rushed past with it's slivers of oranges and greys. The cars had moved in far too soon for her to piece together a cracking heart and a wounded fire. Shaky, Barekhna had put herself together. Painting her face — a stroke at a time, sipping on her first of many mugs of coffee. They tasted too bitter, no amount of creamer or sugar could remove it's watery aftertaste. Instead it tasted too much of bleach. It was perhaps still resting over the ledge in their bedroom, the half emptied coffee cup. A replenished one sat before her. Steaming, swirling.

"We start any moment you're ready Mrs.Aliyaar." The interviewer cleared her throat, straightening the pinned suit she wore.

Gazing for a moment at her brother — who like a breeze of air had arrived moments ago to support her, all the way from London, she nodded. Barekhna's eyes, of deep soil shades met the sky blue of her brother's. They were their mother's world — a joke that lingered for the shades of their eyes. One was her sky that she sought and the other her soil that kept her grounded. Watching like hawk, she licked her lips, tapping her fingers over the herringbone chair, murmuring a few words to Malika. Who shuffled out of the lounge, the door closing with a thud.

"Do you want a moment?" The woman questioned, gazing from behind the make up artist that dabbed a brush over her sweaty brow.

It was not everyday that Barekhna Saleem-Aliyaar invited you over for a interview.

"I'm as ready as I can be miss Fakhar."

"Sana is fine." She spoke.

"To you perhaps," Barekhna tutted with a senile understanding, "but I'd rather not mix business and personal life." She added, her eyes lingering over her rather uncomfortable brother.

"Of course. I will no signal my staff to roll the cameras."

Sana's thin arms waved through the stifled air, acting unbothered about the harsh words that had been dealt to her. At the expense of her twin sister. Taking a gulp from her long forgotten tea — the aroma soothing her bulging nerves, she ticked her square jaw. With her back straight and pressed against the latticed chair, her hands dropping to the centre of her crossed lap. Confidence ebbed away at the exterior of their harsh smiles. Putting hers up for debate.

"Mrs.Aliyaar why turn to the media of all things right now?" She stared with a pointed stare, her brows sharp — risen to a harsh arch.

"It's all timing you know, if you're constantly crying about a lion, no one will believe you when there is an actual one." Barekhna shrugged.

"You usually ignore the media but now—" she trailed off, waving her pen around.

"I find no shame in admitting to you and to everyone that watches this," she sighed, gripping back the temper that had almost slid from her fingers, "that I hate the media. Your blogs, news channels, news papers the whole lot — you're good for selling an image and making a mockery out of an honest person. Which is not my cup of tea."

Murmuring a few profanities under her breath, Barekhna rolled her eyes. Licking her lips, bunching the fabric of her veil in between her fingers discreetly, she stared back at Sana with detachment. They were empty—the wells of her eyes like a carnage almost. A deafening silence tumbled across and she noticed the woman in front of her, younger and still with spirit, clench her hands.
Go easy — the words of her conscience made no sense. Easy and forgiveness had long since been made impossible to her. It was never going to be that, not even with her entire future at stake.
For Aliyaar — she reminded herself. To not loose sight of the end goal. Which was now and forever about saving him. Bringing him home.

"Why not then type up a letter yourself and post it to your social media?"

"The people I want to get my message to do not have the time to scroll through any social media." Barekhna replied.

"Who are these people?" Sana leaned in, smirking for the trap that had been laid.

"Judges that are in charge of this case."

"That's a threat that might potentially cost you a lot."

"Listen miss Fakhar, I don't care about the repercussions because if tomorrow the court passes a inherently biased judgment, they're going to be the ones suffering."

"Between you and his political background I'm sure the judges will suffer." Sana giggled.

"Maybe but for my innocent husband's sake, I'll let God deal with this one."

Jamming her foot between the intersected boards of the rectangular coffee table, she struck her brows with the back of her fingers. The length of them, bare save for the wedding and engagement rings that lingered. Their weight was a delirious realisation. She inhaled sharply, the curves of her bosom twitched against the snug fit of her dress. Taking a child like sip of her coffee, tasting the flavour against her tongue, the urge to stab left her. It tasted still of the waters ; the cream a waste. Aliyaar had a talent in making the perfect cup. He made her one that was not overpowered with the scent of vanilla, nor did it crush her tongue with it's plainness.

"How is your preparation for the hearing tomorrow?" Sana tilted her head, challenging her calm.

"We're going good." Barekhna spoke, keeping her reply curt.

"An interesting time for you," she nodded, "husband under arrest for murder and brother whose possibly going to loose his licence for being a sexual offender."

Crushing her fingers against the thick hilt of her mug, Barekhna brushed past the urge to throw it at the woman before her.
Destroy her — it called to her with a voice and sight so seductive that she bit into her tongue. Keeping the words, jaded words between her soft mouth. Loose lipped, the skin above her nose fondled into wrinkles of displeasure, she lapped at the drink in hand. The metallic taste of her blood from the tender flesh of her tongue filled the cavity of her mouth. A sharp inhale was all it took for her attention to deter. Blood thirsty — the thoughts rumbled like a grey cloud lingering over the stars and the sun.

Aman's blue eyes were laced with a sheen of tears only few other could notice. His sharp jaw and slacked and the lips that were in an effortless grin to offer his sister support, left. Buried deep underneath the skin of his disappointment. Barekhna squeezed his hands, hoping to offer what he had given her. She stroked the veins on the back of his scarred hand, the bandage pressed against her skin, creating a river of sweat.

"Cut the cameras." She murmured.

"Scared that the world will know that it's more than murky origins they should be worried about?" Sana smirked.

"Cut the fucking cameras and get out of my sight — alive miss Fakhar." She hissed.

"You silenced my twin sister," she stood her ground, "your brother using love to touch her without consent. However, you will never shut me up. Not you, nor the bubbling pot of your wealth."

"I like your spirit Sana, unfortunately it's placed at the wrong person."

Sana scoffed at that, switching her native tongue as she threw her pen and sheets of paper across the table. In seething rage.

"Eik ap kay shohar aur eik ap kay bhai, bas yahi tou masoom hain us duniya mein."
[One your husband and the other your brother, it's only these two that are innocent in this world.]

"Take this," Barekhna spoke, throwing the USB Malika had entered with, "apnay bhai ki masoomiyat ka sabot de diya hai aur kal apnay shohar kay masoom honay ka bhi de dun gi!"
[I have given the proof of my brother's innocence and tomorrow I will give proof of my husband's innocence too!]

➖➖➖➖➖

"This place is—"

"An ersatz compared to the warehouse my father owns, I know." Barekhna nodded at her shaky assistant.

Shaking her head, the wind toying with the strands of silken hair. Soft, the gentle rings brushed against her porcelain skin. Like the determined bark of a tree to grow in the dead of winter. A thick fog nestled against their frames as they walked through the half opened doors, the back of her coat scratching away at the hazel splinters. Her eyes took in the dilapidated state of the place. The barn was falling apart from more than one places, it matched the shades of her eyes and the streaks of onyx in her resembled the late night sky.
Starless.
Starving.

Knee high her obsidian boots crushed the loose rock and soil, the thick heel breaking the weakest of them into pieces. Wrapped between a faux fur coat, a thick crème turtleneck, ribbed and fitted to her frame, towered. It kept her warm, and the figure hugging pants were comfortable. Seeping beneath still the thunderous winds broke her bones, rattling them like tiny keys. Barekhna breathed into the marked air. It's grey matched the smoke of her cigar. Condensation wrapped itself around her head, shielding her from the thoughts of the unknown.

"Are you sure this was the address?"

Malika's hesitant voice broke her reverie of thoughts. Pivoting, her front turning to meet that of her shaky assistant's, Barekhna nodded her head. Motioning with the tip of her head to follow her behind the thick pillars that stood erect behind a pile of boxes.

A carcass.
A carnage at most — the warehouse carried marks of several break ins. Shattered windows with veined cracks that ran the length of them. Vandalism — with spray painted marks and faces over the pale wood. Water damaged had broken the roof from several places and from a patch left unfilled the sight of sharp thunders met them. It lit up the dark and wet space. The neon glow of gold and white — moving the air for miles around with it's electric power. Lighting up the largely abandoned place. Boxes lingered around the space, it's layout haphazard with a hundred of turns and twists to keep away from the thick barn doors at the supposed end of the place.

Barekhna's fingers rested over the dusty hinges as she pulled them open. She winced at the rough sounds of the rusted nails creaking. Pressing her entire weight against the doors, she sighed in fatigue. It took everything in her to not run as the smell of mould filled her nostrils. There was dust that visibly lingered between her and the shadowy chair she could spot in the centre. A thin string hung the lamp in place, it's dim white light unsatisfactory against the thick wrap of the wintery frost. She licked her lips in deluded anticipation, sinking in deeper, the flash of her phone keeping them from stepping into any muddy holes and traps set for uninvited intruders.

A silence with depths that could rival the Mariana surrounded them as Malika closed the doors softly. It was them and their breaths. That too, in the stilled time seemed hasty. Rising and sinking their chests and hands waved through the air, moving it's stationary actions. A deep incoherent hum grazed the hairs on the back of their necks as they stepped closer to the chair. It's back to them. A soft bleak cry — tunes of helplessness swam in the background as the man whistled the tunes of a day and age long forgotten. Barekhna bit her tongue, wrapping her hand around the edge of the chair, she moved to face the henchman.

He was not by any means handsome. Barekhna realised, staring at his fleshy face. The sharp cuts above his brow was not at all done for the purposes of fashion, she knew. His lips were misplaced — too full for the boniness of his tanned face. Marks littered his neck and in the centre of his brown eyes were red lines. Tears, covered his cheeks. The man's lips blubbered around in a mess, his tongue, slit through the centre was still swollen and the scab still fresh. Struggling he moved his wrists, the tied tweed rope digging into his flesh the more he twisted.

Grinning, she kneeled before him, placing her finger against his sweaty lips. She shushed him, shaking her head in a soft no. Malika stood a few steps away, with her hands around a thick briefcase. Barekhna made short eye contact with her, nodding in reassurance before turning back to the mess of a man before her.

"I will let you go," she spoke, drawling out each word, "if you help me, okay?"

"O-okay!" The man replied with a high pitched voice.

"Tell me who paid you to kill Sukhera?" Barekhna inquired with a sharp tone.

"I-I don't kn-ow."

"One chance. So let's try this again," she whispered into his face, blowing cold air on to his open wounds, grinning as he let out a hiss.

"I do-nt know."

"Spill your words or I spill your brains."

Hanging above their heads the light flickered, the strength from her voice reverberated against the boarded walls. Sliding from underneath her trousers, she pressed the shiny gun against the centre of his forehead. The man's frog like eyes dashed between her unfeeling gaze and the cold metal that pressed against his humid skin. Inhaling a weak breath, he shivered with the cold and from the throbbing pain in his lower calves.

"I-I do not know the name. On-only the face." He relented.

"Will you testify in court?"

"My-my son is be-ing hel-d," he spoke out of breath.

"We will protect him," she nodded, "take him to the hospital Malika."

On the horizon outside the skies were painted a deep breathless shade of deep blue. They were velvety to the eye, the soft swirls of grey clouds turning over their heads and sparking every now and then shaking the ground with a harshness. It vibrated through her legs to the centre of her chest, with the intensity of it's unmatched capacity. There were deep blues that her eyes were frozen too, on the outskirts of the city, away from the lights in the centre, the clouds were blooming and the sky was free to put up a show of it's own. Twinkling at distances over the width, a single star followed out with another. Shaping the deep unmatched peacock into a sooty colour.

The constellations had never been the same to the naked eye as they were on that particular evening. After days of abstaining from appearing in their full bravado they had at last shown the confidence to do so. Changing the course in a moment. In a simple touch, they turned over the patterns of a disposable past and a crushing present. Inviting to a future that seemed to be full of more than just a simple stare. Into something far more felicitated. An oblivion meshed together with the twinkling like diamonds. Randomly they began to appear, through the foggy skies — thick and indispensable, they managed to shine still.

Grazing over the clipped together patterns that she had memorised by heart, the sinks and the rises — all of it, Barekhna felt overwhelmed. Trysting as if, the dangling big dipper reached out to match the eclectic shine of the little one. The north star just about hung over a papaya tree that had taken root underneath the soft soil. Souls meshed amongst the wounds of the broken lights and glances, managed to creep up her skin. Turning her pale skin blue. The ire in her eyes softened as she stepped into her car. Placing the gun into it's holder, Barekhna looked at the stars once more. Taking from them their devoted appearance.

"I knew the gun licence would help." She grinned at her father, resting in his arms.

"When did my child grow from the princess of my empire to being a queen full of ire?" Raphael chuckled.

"A queen's gotta save her king." Barekhan shrugged in response.

"You always were a fan of chess weren't you." He nodded, patting the back of her hand gently.

"Enough about me and work, what have you been up to?"

"Other than being pinched with needles, I've been watching movies."

"Sounds like the life," she sighed, running her fingers across his free arm.

"Not as fun as threatening to shoot up people."

"That's a one time thing," she tutted, "all thanks to major Raheel."

Biting into another one of the wrapped dark chocolates, she chewed with her jaw slightly loose. It's flavour full of bitterness bubbled into her veins and burned the back of her throat. A shiver of pleasure ran down her back, her fingers tightened around the plastic edges of the hospital bed. Her shoes lay discarded on the corner of the room, a movie playing in the background—the hands of her father stroked through her thick hair as she cuddled into his frame, the monitor beside them beat gently.

Barekhna could seldom keep her eyes off of her phone. The pings from her assistant and team kept her from relaxing. An ache spread in her forehead, her skin bunched up and the brows shrouded her forehead in their sharp enraptures. Rubbing her fingers over her tired eyes, inhaling the musk of the man beside her she tried to stop herself from thinking. To rejoice in the moment she had. Placing her leg underneath the thin duvet, she felt over her father's scabby skin. The hair had begun to fall out and it scratched at her chest.

"When will you take over RJA? It's something I want to see in my life." Raphael wheezed.

"You'll make through, and as soon as I wind up Aliyaar's case I'm going to start moving your office and staff to Lahore." She explained.

Time stilled after that and surrounded them in waves of softness. They crash landed against their heated skins as they attempted to sleep, even in a crooked nook with her head resting at an angle that pinched the nerves of her neck. Even as their legs intertwined, his head rested above hers. Soft whistle like snores escaped his parted lips as the fatigue at last caught up. His back drenched in pain sunk deeper into the mattress, the hold around her waist grew tighter by the moment as she nuzzled her face deeper into his neck. Blowing breath on to his jugular. It was an endearing sight — their meshed bodies covered by the silver lining of the moon's clouded light. A star twinkled in the distance all by itself and teased them for all their worth. Shooting through the skies as they slept.

Time ticked and it's sounds were silent. Like a senile murder that had happened in a cold blooded attempt — it was a cycle beginning again. The alarms were ringing, blaring in their white silence and kept the light out of their eyes. Mourning crept the sides of the mountains in a slow pep, dreaming of a conjugated presence, of a success tomorrow morning — would come true.
Or not?
The questions were striking the doors of the present minded and the proceedings of the day to come were building up with power.

A low buzzing sound to the left of her seemed to be a distant imagination. It's ringing drawled onwards, like an annoying presence. Bleary eyed she stared at the starkly dim room, the single night light had burned out at a time unknown. Taking a turn she plucked her phone off of the table, hissing at the bright screen.

"What!" Barekhna screamed through a hushed whisper.

"Fuck! I'm coming Malika, you call Major Raheel and inspector Zain."

The witness was dead.
Cause of death — inhaling too much cyanide. Barekhna slipped over the floor, watching at the burning skies as her husband's only chance at being proven innocent slipped out of her fingers.

"What will you do now?" The question came from three pairs of inquisitive eyes.

Raheel, Zayed and Malika stared at her with pain. They could sense her hurt — the shallow hunch of her shoulders and the paleness of her cheeks despite the blush that remained from the day. Aman's arms around her shoulders were an added blanket of comfort as she shivered in the cold.

"Be a no show. Force them to extend the court hearing."

One of many firsts.

I AM SO EXCITED
The next chapter is perhaps my first — perhaps nahi for sure my favourite chapter! Bring your tissues next Thursday.
I've got a paper due tomorrow and I have my final presentation for it, so send your hearty dua's for my group members and I!