Chapter 17.

Spite could fund hate crimes beyond perception.

Fact number one — taught and ingrained into the curves of her brain at the hands of her family, and then some more. Indoctrinated almost, she was when it came to trusting, no one was worthy, unless you shared some part of your genetics with them — directly. Even then, some pulled a stick our shorter than hers and were placed against two faced relatives ; friends and much more. There were blessing beyond her perception handed over to her and she knew it was unfortunate that she was not thankful enough. All's well that ends well — it had not ended just yet, not when the smirk on the whore's face was full of pride.

Barekhna loathed this feeling. The guilt and the over bearing pressure of being simply under her kindness — it was poison. The little pocketfuls of justice denied that were served to her on the tray of rock hard ice — shallow in their indisputable weight, it was impossible to even realize that at one point she had shared her bed with the same woman. Whose accusations had trashed her life. Whose simple, morbid jokes — the ones she failed to even laugh at, had ruptured the spleen of her ever growing confidence. Trapped — in a thick overgrown ivy of memories, she was tricked into stepping foot in the place where it had all begun, a hell away from hell, the demons had not satiated even now. Still forcing their ways to wreak destruction, though not as anonymous as they once had been.

Barekhna was prepared albeit, time away had taught her that pleasantries exchanged on the cusp of their lips would be worn as medallions against one another in battle. Her back was straight— like an iron rod had been pushed through it, the swells of her eyes drowned in the carcass of her youthful dreams, in the graveyard of her childish joys. Ripped untimely ; Barekhna was more than a mould of clay. The scars on her mind, the shatters of the untainted memories still lived on and there was only one way to win. So she had learnt — and she was mighty proud of herself. Situations had forced her into the arms of the devil.

Now she was well versed with satan's language. A maestro of the jargon. The pagans of his filthy faith could no longer harm her. 

"This life and every else I'm going to haunt you."

Spacing out her words evenly in the dense banter of the bride and groom who looked pleased at the actions — which would lead to their own doom, Barekhna stubbed her nails into the bride's arms, leaving a lasting impression.

"Is that a threat?" Erina chuckled, all the airs of a proper heir wrapped in thick folds around her head.

"It's a vow," she added leaning in, "and you know I never break those."

"You and your high morals — all for them to lead you into the arms of the highest bidder," Erina tutted, her eyes raking over Aliyaar's shoulders, "pity."

"That's an appropriate word," Aliyaar smiled, "it's indeed pitiful that your love's price was slandering an innocent man."

An icicle landed itself between their feet, a barrier formed in a second and deprived both parties of air. There it was — a sharp retort, but more than that, it was the way the words caressed the jugular and stripped it of any right to provide with oxygen. A man with his arm around his fragile looking wife — whose eyes were rimmed red, wronged on her big day, she painted the image of a demure dove, begging for mercy. Versus, a man with his arms tucked into his pockets, a fierce woman to his side with her arms around his waist — a total opposite and despite the lack of love, they seemed more fluid. Spun in a web of the bride's own bitter fantasies, the three were forced to live out a version of the history only scribes paid by her had written.

Though times had changed, the woman against the trust fund bride was far more powerful — potent as she stood with her back pressed to her husband's chest. In the stone cut warm chocolate orbs that should have been a homage to the roots of her biracial family, was a powerful allure, a hate funded crime, a bit more perhaps if she felt generous. Twenty was a lifetime enough, added to it nine whole ones, cajoled in the arms of a thick toxin that would put silver-shade to shame, Barekhna was her strongest enemy — and her only ally.

"Enjoy the rest of this sham," she sighed, "if you need a divorce lawyer R.J.A would be delighted to help."

The seed had been planted — calculated with zero room for error, her husband following suit with the gait of an injured king. A morbid sense of injury claimed them as they stepped out into the starry skies — the rain had cleared, to welcome the one man who adored stars and everything about them beyond human understanding. Inky black met the pale orange of the sun that had yet to extinguish itself fully — it held on with a stubborn hold, to catch glimpse of it's brethren and mistress whom he had lost to the sense of duties that forbade him from breathing freely. The setting sun, Aliyaar concluded once as a teenager, was just like him.
Stuck.
Stumped.
Stupefied.

Piling behind her into the backseat of the Mercedes, he fluidly held her hand in his. The stars followed them — a trail of mystified dreams that would remain in a realm of their own, away from the tainting hands of man. Streaks of blue and orange massaged haphazardly and turned into a shade of it's own. Trees with their sharp barks and willowy leaves that had dwindled on to the foggy grounds of London's outskirts were their companions along the journey. Soft music played through and their chauffeur peeped behind every now and then. The pale face and eyes that had lost their steeliness were alarming to the staff that had been part of their household for decades.

Unusual times.
Unusual actions.
Unusual reactions.

Ambrosia lanterns lit up the terracotta pots around the white picket fence houses, families behind the gayly lit windows stared out on the deep evening that held to itself a sense of duty — a bit more than the life had brought them in years of waiting and starving. Despite the stories and tales of the ghosts that lingered in the shadows, children of all ages played in the yards and swung the peachy chairs, arms flailing and mouths shrieking. Not a single care for the horrors of the world or trauma, their parents stared on and a handful of grandparents loitered around. It was a picture perfect sight and to near perfection with the way their dresses were stained with mud — and mud alone.

Barekhna's mouth found itself back in it's home — a place it had stayed in for centuries and moments — a disjointed grin. The lines formed straight lines that would tear the flesh apart of any and everyone that tried her patience, on the corners of the meticulously drawn up edges were worn out frown lines — signs of battle that she had fought on her own as a child. Sliding her hands into an armistice, the coffin shaped nails sought refuge from their own terror, the buzz inside her mind would not dim — not now, not for atleast a handful of moments more.

Beg — beggar — begging, she felt all of those words crush her chest with the strength of a wild machete. Bulbous tears would have drowned the sides of her cheeks, they melted the rosiness of her blush — or would have had she allowed herself the last bits of vulnerability. Yet she kept this part for herself, Barekhna fought once more a valiant fight with her heart — would it ever find peace? New beginnings : they were a luxury it seemed that would never be in her cards. Marriage — that had landed her straight into the arms of a carnal rage, the short lived pleasure weighed in and cracked at the edges. Their plasters would not last the toils of her past.
Not now.
Not when her uncle was out of prison.
Not when Erina had threatened her in the open.

Walls Barekhna deduced — walls were what she needed to make. Now more than ever.

"You can talk to me you know," Aliyaar spoke in his softest tone, "that's the whole point of having a significant other."

"I don't want one. It's too much burden for this one life."

Tipping her head against the tinted, bullet proof mirrors of the roaring monster, her fingers trudged over the buttons on the side of the door. She marveled at the mirrors moving swiftly, at the gentlest of touches of her fingers. How easy it could have been if men worked that way too — Barekhna mused, her husband did, not the rest. What was demanded of her was a far too great price for the results to destroy her. Love, she barred it's entrance into her home. Love would be a platonic feeling till the ends of time.
Love, lust, lure, lore — words had all destroyed her — and she was not ready for more. The fire that died inside Aliyaar's eyes at her denial to open up branded her more than it hurt him.
Better now than later.
It had to be done — and he would thank her later.

"What do you want from me then?"

"Leave me alone. Give me the space I deserve."

"What if I do?" He challenged.

"I'll be happy."

The words would bite her sooner rather than later and all of them knew that — but in the moment anger topped all else.

"Your wish is my command, space is what you will have."

As the sun vanished, Aliyaar was left with his heart broken once more. Beyond repair.

What was it in the stars and the full moon that were aligning, slowly but surely as the car whizzed by? Their starry gaits left behind trails of dust — grainy and whizzing as he squinted his gaze through the tinted car windows. Spectacles of dire desires formed in between the starry line, sprinkled through the thin streaks like a message meant for a lover unknown, they shimmered. They swelled in front of his eyes, the lenses beginning to pinch in the sides of his cornea, drying them about beyond measure as the car turned into the garage of the home. Liberated from the constraints of the vehicle, air brushed his cheeks and tampered with the hot swells of sweat on the apples of his cheek.

Aliyaar stepped over and into the threshold, marching straight into the parlor that was well lit with candlesticks on either side. A yellow cast over the pale beige walls, the red accents depraved of the liveliness they would in a life former have been part of, destructed the sight. His long limbs ached with the need to tear each one apart, to slowly turn them into rubble — to stare as he fell apart under the molten eyes and the frozen stars. In time — he would too become an artifact forgotten, the grains of sand would wash over him and turn him into nothing.

There was little left in his legacy, that belonged to him.

A toned figure with salt and pepper hair, tan skin with a light scruff that reached his side burns sat in the centre of the two seater. His arms spread either side of him, the muscles  of his body covered in hand stitched suiting — the threads not peaking through a dedicated craftsman's job. Staring at the man before him, his eyes twinkled and inside them was a blue that could match the lightest of foams of the sea ; and a million other stars that would haunt the tales of his past. Of their past.

"And you are?"

The man's voice was thick, the words rolled off of his aristocratic tongue like the most luxurious of honey's, dribbling down the throat in their warmth. Yet there was an air of cold around it — sharp enough to pierce like the icebergs in the Arctic. He rolled his hands over the slender leather sleeve, embossed with the names unreadable from age. A thick cigar propped in between his teeth he burnt the stick, motioning for Aliyaar — who stood with an awkward fluidity to sit before him.

"Aliy— Aliyaar Alamgeer sir."

He threw in for calculated measure, his heart ran wild as if it wanted to break free from the constraints of all that held it back. Moving his fingers he brushed them over his jacket, at least they had not completely lost their motion — he chuckled dryly. Tingles spilled down his spine at the gaze that took him in, whole, a calculative smirk that haunted him reminded him eerily of Barekhna. Truly she had been raised by this man before him.

Estranged son of a former Viceroy, Raphael Williams played the part of a blue blood without a hitch. From the power inside his throat to the accent that chipped his private school's posh trainings like thin chips, troubled him. Besieged him — in an inferiority that was unknown at first. It was a game of charades and he knew, he was not good at hiding what he felt. Yet he would play for once, he would learn, and then he would defeat them single handedly at a game they had devised.
For humor.
For her.

"And what are you doing at my residence Mr.Alamgeer?" He spoke, leaning in, the radius of his pupils doubling in size.

"He's my husband uncle Raphe."

There she was in all her glory — his savior.
His liberator.
His tormentor.

"Husband?" He snapped, staring at Aliyaar's frame that twitched at the foul intensity.

God be with him — he prayed underneath his breath. The interrogation was just about beginning, and he could only hope, he would pass. Again.

"My little dipper," the man sighed, his shoes rustled over the expensive carpet imported from Persia, engulfing the young woman in a hug.

The sight was picturesque. Their arms wrapped around each other, her frame finally softened and the lines on her forehead dissolved into the mass of her flesh as she stood in between his arms, hearing the beats of his heart thud at soft intervals. How long had she waited for this moment. A decade. Ten years they had been deprived of each other and now in his arms at-last, she did not want to let go. With a mighty force she wrapped her arms in a lock around the sturdy neck of her uncle, his arms held her in place, leaving behind kisses on her hair and forehead.

Glowing with an afterglow from the starlight outside they were a painting out of the renaissance perhaps. Her dress moved in soft waves next to the iron wrapped fireplace, the beads sewn into the side of his trousers reflected the effervescent glow, a halo of colors surrounded them and their shadows were drunken in by the cluttered space. Large portraits in bronze hung over the mantle piece, their pictures that seemed from a lifetime ago — depicted the change that time and it's torment had brought. Fresh strokes of air spilled in from the open doors that led on to the deck, dropping softly into the garden that had been looked after meticulously even in the owner's absence.

Barekhna pushed his arms away, wrapping her palms around his wide wrists she pushed him on to the sofa and sat next to him. In a swift motion she crossed her legs and pushed back the hair that had fallen to trap her sharp nose, pursing her plump lips she placed a deft kiss upon his cheekbones, much like he had once done in her childhood. His cheeks had sunken in, her fingers froze in action as they felt around the familiar planes. A part of her was baffled — was it a dream? Or a morbid joke that everyone was in on? Her earrings grazed her cheeks and the fine diamonds that had been showered upon her shone with the dexterity of a powerful ruler.

"You got married to him?" Raphael spoke with a sharp undertone.

Barekhna swelled in size, suppressing the giggles that threatened to bubble to the top. Pinching the inside of his wrists in warning she hushed the man, resting her head over his shoulder like she had done so many a times. 

"Aliyaar is a gentleman uncle," she snickered.

"I would hope so your father didn't marry you off to a man that's anything but." He spoke with distaste.

"So Ali-yaar," Raphael spoke with force, butchering his name in the process, "what is it that you do?"

"I'm a businessman." He coughed, fixing his collar that had tightened over in the last few minutes.

"A drug dealer would say the same."

"I own a few sugar mills, sir," he gulped, "and — and a few other small businesses that I have shares in."

"My Barekhna," Raphael spoke with pride, dropping a kiss on to her soft hair, "is made of money. What is it that you bring to the table?"

"Love. I bring to her love," he replied hastily, "which is far more than all your wealth could ever offer." The latter half for his ears to her alone.

"You lack the fire a CEO should have."

"Uncle Raphe stop already, he's a good man, and you know I wouldn't marry anyone." Barekhna tutted.

Arming himself for battle Aliyaar denied the generous offer to smoke. His lungs burned as the duo chatted away in hushed tones, their hands waving about with energies that were hard to meet. Subtle drawings on the wall behind him with scrapings that resembled the art style of a temperamental teenager caught attention and he relented, stalking up to the window sill slower than ever, running a finger over the lacquer covered edges. They tasted of desperation and they smelt of desire. Emotions unaccounted for and left to haunt those that no longer roamed the walls, Aliyaar felt his face was pasty in the ghastly reflection over the distorted panes.

Heavy on his feet Aliyaar took the shortest route out of the softly lit lounge, following his downcast shadows up the daunting staircase, each of which bit at the heel of his boots as he climbed up. The muscles of his calf were stiff and the wrap of his luxurious formal trousers was just a sweet reminder of how easy it was to be a façade. To be dense and to dissolve on the edges of the brightly lit streams. Aliyaar was drowning in disappointment, he felt the heaviness crushed his mouth in a way that the gap between his lips was forever sealed. The headache and the heartache, both fought to deprive him from senses — alarmingly exciting as it was.

Dropping his weight on the edge of the queen sized bed, the pale upholstery matched the skin of his hands and the sheets rustled under his grip. With languid pain he unbuttoned his shirt, softly, remembering the foggy emotions that had clouded his brain just that morning. Waking up next to her, in peace, exchanging a kiss of need rather than want, showering and hearing her loose her words in the midst of breakfast — few hours and it was gone, like the sunlight that had left once it struck coal, she had gone too ; everyone else had a heftier claim to her love and attention other than him.

➖➖➖➖➖

Fissures rose and dissolved on the top of the still glass, the light color of the champagne, drowned in the lightest of pallors, added for an extra touch the brightness. Thin stemmed and bulbous the glass rested in her hands, her fingers wrapped around the stem, the red of her nails clashed her dress and as perceptive as it was, destroyed the calmness of her desire. Scalloping around her face the locks fell messily, legs crossed she perched her derrière on to the bed, the soft mattress sunk underneath her frame. Wrapping her lips against the glass a last time she downed whatever little remained, staring at the man before her with nothing but stars inside her eyes.

Taking in his baby breath perfume — a calm touch from his otherwise avant-garde tastes, Barekhna tasted the sweetness of the moment on her tongue like it was treasured honey. His suiting was immaculate and the tiny diamond in his ear, just one of the many ways he had pissed his aristocratic family off with, was a reminder of who was. That him in prison — was for a reason. Sniffing away the last bits of negative emotions she rested her head in his lap, the skylight inside his bedroom's roof was large and covered most of it, the stars shone above and they sighed in peace below.

Shades of blues and blacks had painted a spectrum of millions of colors and changed the once calm, desolate sky into a show of power. The twinkles and the alignments were clear, pristine, the North star spotted amongst the likes of Jupiter and Venus — everyone had gathered. A night of revelations — they were here to play their part. Shadows drenched the room and swallowed up the street whole as the lights were switched off, magnifying the blanket above them, it's aura doubled in size and glared into their eyes.

Like a Queen calls to her slaves.

Barekhna's head found itself in to her uncle's lap and the glass lay forgotten on the wooden tray, an array of cheese and crackers disposed off just moments ago. A ghost of a smile lingered on her full lips, pinching her stiff cheeks to lift from their usual home — to not dispose themselves off into a death so easy. At most it was the feeling of menial fulfillment that kept her warm, the room a misty mess after years of misuse cut through her bones but not enough to warrant a bit of her worries. Attentions and energies were spared for other issues in the moment. Hands running through her hair massaging the dense scalp tickled and gently undid the knots of fury.

Thick hair furled itself around the pale skin that slipped out of the dress, slender shoulders with the lightest swipes of highlight were dropped and meandered under the beige duvet that held balls of lint, slender fingers pushed them aside, eyes made with the patterns of rocks of years old satiated meeting the cold ones that had seemingly frozen over in the Arctic for years. Swimming clouds passed through and shaded the crimson minds with what their worths were; what they could be. Strenuously clenching the teeth that had once been aligned like the stars above with the use of sleek braces, a pink tongue darted through, swiping over her lips. It tasted of wax and chemicals, a lipstick, much different from the mint that her husband tasted like.

Barekhna frowned, her brows furrowed in thought as the voice of the man behind her dropped a few decibels. Tunnel vision, an array of memories that had been written for her, rushed through her mind and satiated a deep craving. The emotions of carnage and fury splayed into a tender throb at the mention of him. As of late, everything had been a comparison. How he did it better, how he was beyond this world. It was a startling discovery. It scared her, the newness of it all. For once, she wanted to face her fears, not. Unlike her nightmares though, this fear was bittersweet.
The bitter taste of not wanting to feel and the sweet taste of wanting to fall.
Barekhna was forced into a crux, and she wanted to be let free.

"Little dipper?"

Her uncle's voice rolled off of his tongue with a thickness, his accent overbearing — deprived her of air. She still did not realize he was here, it was a realization that would take years for her to come to terms with. His hands massaged the scalp, tender strands fell on to her face and she snuggled into his waist, feeling his crisp voice drench the silence of the bedroom.

"I need to tell you something." He whispered softly, a soft rumble — a bit of fear shook behind it.

Dimly her eyes stared into his, boring holes that would forever be a haunting of what was to come. Two lies and a single truth had built them up, and now two truths and a singular lie would undo what was left. His hands shook with fear for a moment, the tongue inside his superior mouth quivered. The space in his lungs expanded and burned the longer she stared at him. She reminded Raphael every inch of her.

"Go on then! I'm waiting." Barekhna replied eagerly.

"I want you to know that none of what I'm to say changes things, you'll still be my little dipper, regardless of what you think." He explained.

"You're scaring me!"

"My Barekhna isn't scared of anyone." He chuckled.

"She's scared of the hollows in your eyes."

Raising her hand in the air she traced the deep eye bags that sat over his handsome face. Digging her nail ever so softly into the skin she traced the circles and the smile on her lips grew as she traced down his jaw, pinching his chin as she did so. Swiftly she wrapped his hair around her finger, twirling it around, imagining a tiara covered in furs and pearls sitting on top of his head. Like it had during their tea parties, where though crumpets were plenty, so were gemstones.

"You've always wanted to know how I knew your parents so I'm telling you now."

She perked up at his words, placing a hand underneath her head she stared at his face as his hands continued to paint patterns on her arms. The warmth of his touch was a startling difference from Aliyaar's. This one rang of the comfortability of her own father's, softened the blow down of a tale she almost felt coming, her brain throbbed and anticipated the words to fall through in eagerness.

"We met your father in university, your mother and I — we had," Raphael stilled, squeezing her palm softly, "we had known each other since we were children. Two peas in a pod kind of a thing," he explained.

"Go on."

"Then your father stepped in and we took him into our circle. We did everything together. Eating, sleeping, studying and hanging out. You name it, we did it. Saleem and Sophia were more of a family to me than my own in those four years."

The hesitation to move forward irked Barekhna and she sat up, staring straight into his eyes as he continued with words that failed to crop up on his tongue. Her head rested over the sturdiness of his shoulders, fatigue shrouded her appearance and she fought to keep her eyes open, his fingers running down her spine calming and dissolving the last bits of worries that remained within her.

"Then it happened," he sighed.

Staring at his eyes, suddenly a red with water clouding them, she felt her heart lurch from it's hold. The beats paced in unequal pace and she knew whatever it was would be the end of her.

"You don't have to tell me." She whispered.

"No I have to! I'm afraid that hiding it for this long has done more harm than good." He retaliated.

God don't let it be something that shatters me, Barekhna sent out a lonesome prayer. The wind had stilled and frozen, separated from the walls and security of all that lasted, she was losing her senses. Given that her faith had turned into a thin twig — Raphael's absence had lead her astray, into a damnation that the presence of her newly sought husband had sorted out, a bit. Clasping his hand she kissed the back of his sweaty palms, the softness of her lips grazed over the top of his cheekbones and reminded her of her childhood.

"I fell in love with Sophia."

The statement landed in bleak silence. Barekhna inhaled sharply, staring into the eyes of her uncle, inside them was a deep longing pain. Light in them was like a thick mortar, dug deep enough until the skies had become mortified. Lost their realities.

"Wow." Barekhna shuddered.

"Yeah," he chortled, returning to his forlorn state in a micro-second, "I loved her and she loved me. We started dating, and your father Saleem he — he joked about being our love child. It was heavenly, those moments of affection. Then we — we were engaged and —"

"And what uncle?"

Shifting she stared straight at him, her eyes bore holes into his face, her hands pressed into the side of his cheeks, swiping away at the tears that fell like a pool of lava over his cheeks, then down her palms. Dabbing at them with the back of her dress she offered him her shoulder to sob on, to rest his head and let go that which that stood between them like a wall of thick ice.

"And I was diagnosed with prostate cancer. The doctor's told me I wouldn't survive," he spoke bitterly, "and you know what I did?"

"What?" Barekhna spoke.

"I broke off the engagement, Sophia would be left all alone after I passed, how could I be selfish? So I convinced your parents to get married."

"Why? Why force them when they were nothing but friends?"

"She was pregnant and feared having to raise it alone. Your father, Saleem, was ready to step up and so it was agreed upon." He bit his teeth in pain.

"Then—then how did you survive?"

"Five years after their marriage and birth of our child doctor's decided to do a surgery on me. We succeeded."

"Fi-ive years? And you didn't come to get mummy back?" Barekhna froze.

"No. They had been raising our daughter to be an impeccable woman and their young son to be a gentleman. They had found love, I could not in my selfishness allow their home to break."

"Dau-ghter? Does that—" she gasped as realization dawned on her.

"You're my daughter too Barekhna. A piece of me, the most precious part of me."

"You're lying!"

"Never. I know it's hard to realize but I've relapsed and this time it's my lungs. The doctors fear I won't survive, it was time for you to know."

"Do my parents know you told me uncl— dad."

"Yes, please forgive us."

Raphael spoke through sobs as she called him a title he had been dying to hear, the words warmed him and his lips pressed on to her forehead softly, a mess the two wrapped their arms around each other. They had such little time to spend their eternity together — she felt powerless. Her hands held him tight, the pounding in her ears washed away the numbness. The cold melted just a bit, it allowed light in as she broke their embrace, kissing him and tucking him in, she walked out.

Barekhna wanted to rejoice and mourn on her own.

➖➖➖➖➖

Aliyaar's fingers prodded over the zipper of his luggage for a moment too long. The cold metal against his searing flesh was like branding the back of his palm with coal. His hands stiffed and the bones of his fingers were pale against the translucent skin, the edges marked with the stains of the leaking ink pen he had found discarded in one of the taupe drawers. A note etched in his cursive writing lay with a single rose on top of the nightstand to the left, underneath the windowsill, the yellowed page of the notepad rested and drifted from it's corners as the wind beat it to it. His head heaved from the weight of his wonders, improbable that she would retire any time soon to her bedroom, he packed the lasts of his stuff.

For the second time that day, all traces of his presence from her life had been removed.

Undiluted light filtered from the threshold of the open bedroom door into the room, painting the front of it an ugly shade as the yellow and whites mixed. Green splattered along the way and the long shadows from a large distance crept up the walls and dissolved on top of his silken dress shirts that had been in a mess, thrown in to his luggage, wrinkles covered them and the edge of one stuck out — tearing as he zipped with his eyes blurred. The lens had long since been discarded and the floppy glasses, with a glass lens broke lay on the side table that he had borrowed from her.

Everything that he received from her had been borrowed. Her time, attention, love and her smiles — all had been borrowed and now were returned as the lease ended. A few short weeks all that were needed for his dreams to break once more.

Perching the luggage on to the ground he fixed his jacket and ran a hand through his messy hair, letting it reign terror on top of his acne free forehead. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, indents left behind from his tight spectacles pained as he massaged the sore skin. The lining of his stomach rumbled in a spectacular motion and he felt himself wretch over air for a moment, his hands gripped the antique dresser, beginning to drag the suitcase in it's heaviness away.

"You're leaving Aliyaar?"

Barekhna's breathless tone stilled his actions. Her hair was a mess and the heels that had once added to her height were held by the crook of her fingers. Gone was the smile that covered her face with pride upon meeting her uncle, instead a look of melancholy weaved it's way around her, touching and tainting her as she stepped closer, the sardonic grin on her face shattered his illusions of merriment a bit more. Placing a hand on to his chest, he felt his heartbeat get faster and race like her horse did in the polo grounds. Aliyaar's legs lost their feelings as she rose up his chest and massaged the base of his wide throat, placing her lips in the centre of them in a drunken stupor.

"Have you been drinking Barekhna?" He frowned, the distaste no longer hidden.

"I have! I'm sober though," she tutted, her eyes the windows to a soul shattered, "atleast God was merciful in one way, no?"

"What has gotten into you?"

"I just learnt that my uncle is my biological father." She shrugged like it was no big deal.

"What?"

"Yeah! Long story my lovely saint, one that I knew was coming my way years ago. Still hurts."

Suddenly as if a realization hit her, she forced the man with all her strength on to her bed, forcing herself in between his arms. Barekhna's facw shattered like a sheet of ice as she stared into his worrisome eyes. How much had she hurt him and still he had only his sincerity to offer. Chuckling dryly, she pouted, the numbness around her heart began to melt finally as she felt the words her dad had just told him. Barekhna had figured it out, atleast some part of it — a part of her had wished Raphael to be her father so she would not have had to deal with her father's family, as a child. Though now, Barekhna lost herself. Staring into Aliyaar's eyes with a molten mess she saw her pale self.

"Who am I Aliyaar? My father that raised me, whose family tortured me isn't my father. My uncle who took me in is my father. I had an inkling this would occur you know, but," she shook her head, nuzzling into his neck.

"Barekhna." Aliyaar whispered, wiping her tears, he kissed her hairline.

"Yo-you were leaving?"

"I was giving you the space you needed."

"Who am I Aliyaar?"

Barekhna stared at him with all the hope. He would hold her and help her she knew. She was being selfish again, she knew.

"You're Barekhna. Saleem or Raphael doesn't matter because both men raised you. You're simply Barekhna, a lawyer with the power to force men to their knees jaan. You have the power to make a saint turn into a sinner." He smiled at the last part.

"Wha-what about you? I've a messy life don't I?"

"You're my home Barekhna. In me you'll have a home even when the entire world views you different." He smiled softly, "I have loved you from before I knew anything but that you had starlight for a smile. This changes nothing. You're Barekhna. Always will be."

She stared in awe, her hands pinched his chin, suddenly embarrassed that she could not offer him the consolation he wanted. She was ashamed, the arduous task of asking him for comfort was wrong. She had no right. However, Barekhna knew it was all she wanted.