Chapter 16.

"Don't shut me out."

The words even as they left her mouth were nothing more than an innocent out cry. For help. Dipped in a silver shade of the moon her fingers pressed to his bicep and held on to them, the cusp of her nail digging in as she prayed — held her breath in tact. Empty she stared at him, with her eyes running over his suddenly collapsed face. The brunette strand if hair that only at his hour appeared lighter curled over his brow, sharp lines matched the hardness in his orbs. This was not him. Not the man she knew, nor the man she married.

"I'm not Barekhna. There isn't much I can say."

Aliyaar shrugged, the words weighed his tongue down, heavy lies tied him to the ground as he spoke with a straight face. His fingers were sweaty, was it the cold in the world or the sudden icicle that had wrapped around his heart? The dabbed at the side of his head and he massaged it counter clockwise, shifting over the Egyptian feather mattress, his fingers dug into the sheets and the length of them curled around the expanse of the duvet.

"You're lying."

Barekhna tutted, her tone crisp and alert, the crook of her arms letting of him. The winds eased into the room from the door that had been left ajar, whistling in they tickled the skin on her cheeks and brushed aside the fickle worries that dripped down her being. Curling her legs into herself, her head turned to him, his back to her — the warmth from it sheltered her from the exhausting cold of the night. Her ass hung off of the bed as she fixed her position, underneath her curved ribs a dull ache thrummed.

"Why would I lie about this?" Aliyaar scoffed.

Depraved shadows covered his pale skin as dim lights, in the intensity of their pasty pallor turned his skin flaxen. The thicket of his hair lost it's life as his blood dribbled from the centre of his mind to the tops of his cheeks. Dreary, the chill bit through his flesh and sliced into the shin bone hid under the thick layers of his tailored fit attire. Spinning the edge of his head slightly, raising the chiseled corner of his chin just an inch from it's relaxed state he stared into her eyes. Just from the corner. The mead color of his eyes was marred and mixed with shades of heartbreak, betrayal and despair. Just above his soft mouth the scruff that covered his face, fell into a riverine and curled around — had he failed in his one true pursuable desire?

Barekhna was human. Breathing and living, she had lived a life before he had seen her five years ago, even then she had lived as a woman. Had experienced, noticed and known much more than he could have. Aliyaar pushed his fists into the side of his thighs, a dull pain crept up he leg like a redundant trigger. Of the seriousness— of the fact that it was not a dream. That he would not be roused from it anytime soon.

"Aliyaar I see it in your eyes, you are not okay."

"When I married you Barekhna I married your past too. I can no change it," he sighed, rubbing his face, "it's fine."

"Is it? I know it hurt you." She frowned.

"It doesn't matter," he smiled at her, squeezing her hand in assurance.

To whom does me being hurt matter? He thought, even as his arms wrapped around Barekhna and stroked her soft back to reassure her. His parents had been focused on his sister, on his younger brother — it was where he had given up first. Then it came to Barekhna. The lack of feelings and reciprocal, her laughs and giddiness that were all reserved for men that were not him. The pain drowned him, threw him into the deepest of Oceans and kept him there until he learnt to breathe with the ache in his lungs. Aliyaar admired everyone around him — they loved or well atleast liked him, yes, but he knew what it in it's truth was.

"Aliyaar?" Barekhna snapped her fingers before his face for the fifth time.

"Yeah?"

"Dinner?" She pointed to the tray resting on top of the dresser.

Perfumed plates of porcelain with a gilded copper finish on their wedged rims and translucent flowers painted in complete glory over them sat on the copper trench, it's twig like handles curved like the back of a mountain. Skittish flowers stemmed from them and lapped around the rest of the rectangular tray, it's depth unclosed with the secret of the base of the cutlery and crockery. In a neat arrangement, the dinner plates covered with a metallic cover, kept secret the confines they held. Not a single drop of their scent erupted. In the centre was a thin glass vase, covered to the brim with water and a thicket of jasmine's, curled around the top half of the vase.

Mellow lights reflected on top of it, the smooth lid crushed the rays and they fell on to the wall opposite. The width of the room was covered in green, from accents to furniture, with tiny floral prints that took him a century back. Adjoined to the living quarters was a private sitting space that his eyes just saw. The area was lit dimly, only a single gas bulb burnt in the centre, it's buzzing sound drowned out all others. Thick carpets made with the finest crème threads and inferno details — lapped around and hid the wooden floorboards. Large in it's own right ; though paling in comparison to the rest of the furniture the antique dresser drowned in the vast sea of the bedroom's luxuries.

Stepping closer, with his steps a tad bit too heavy, he ran a thumb over the top of the dresser. Covered in a harsh lace, like the ones his own grand mother would at times knit, a thick candelabra sat on it with a stub of a pale candle. Time had locked itself out of here, it had not aged a day since the early nineteen hundreds. A round mirror with an oval border, in shades of gold that formed wide roses and their stems sat on top of it, beneath the small boxes. Of rogue or to hide the letters from a secret lover? The ends of his long fingers ticked at the locks of the box, stopping as his eyes faced the tray of dinner.

An eternity lingered between the time it took for him to reach the tops and wrap a hand around it's handle, and lifting it. The cover though raised a few inches, the thick smell of the fine ingredients used diffused into the barred bedroom at an exhausting speed. Lemon and pepper, hints of cinnamon and an array of other ingredients plopped into the air and stirred their hungers alive. For all it's worth, they were united in their ravenous appetites. As if teasing and torturing both of them, his hands retracted at a gentle pace and nothing seemed to cause him to change his speed. With slow intervals as he lifted the covers, the art on the plates began to dance in front of him. Twigs cut off at the tops — extended into flowers beneath the plate, which had once been the only part visible.

The cover landed on to the side of the dressed with a soft thud, the other following suit as he carried it back, over to the bed. Barekhna already sat with her legs crossed, her back pressed to the head of the bed and the hair now free of all restraints curled around her face.  Dreary moonlight lit up her skin from the deep trenches, her cheeks paled in comparison to the color of her rebelling lips that had meant when they said he was a good kisser. His fist curled around the handle, even as it dug into the palms hardened by experience and work. Aliyaar pressed his knee into the spring mattress before sitting, his leg tucked beneath him and the food in between.

Wordlessly Aliyaar poured the lemon water into the tall crystal glasses. Who were a testament to the glories and riches of the man who owned the house. Shaped like a budding rose, the glass's stem pressed into his hands like an accepted weight. Pushing the glass filled almost three fourth of the ways to the top he passed it to Barekhna — who took her drinks never more than that mark. The large dinner plates were covered in true British delicacies. A Sunday roast.

Slices of beef roasted sat, covered in a thick gravy. To it's left were the roasted potatoes and Yorkshire pudding. Though the color palette was a bit too dark, the scent of the food made it all the more capricious. It glistened under the lights, speaking a luxurious tale that one could only hear from the tips of their tongues. Passing a plate on to her, he cleaned the silver butter knife and fork, their stems shaped like jagged thorns. The napkin was embroidered with gold and stars — the emblem of the family, an outcry from the traditional floral brocade. He passed the heavy base bowl filled to the top with redcurrant jelly, she enjoyed it in particular. Whilst he preferred his food free of all condiments.

She moaned as her mouth chewed the first bite, the voice triggered endorphins and he felt his mood liberate. Her lips wrapped around the fork before licking the back of her gravy covered knife. The tip of her tongue — a shade of cherry darted across the width. Sending tremors straight down his back. Aliyaar stared at her shamelessly, from the cover of his eyelids and long lashes, the mocha eyes held themselves on top of her being. His knife stubbed the back of the plate in a creaking noise as he sliced through the sliced beef a bit too hard.

Did they imprint themselves into her skin like a spark or an unsolicited fire like hers did to him? Did the sound of his voice — in it's depth and crackling warmth do the unspeakable to her like hers did to him? Did the sight of him make her feel like the luckiest of beings? Did she too turn to God and thank Him for letting him into her life? Did she too hold him on the highest of pedestals? Or was it only him?
Not that it mattered much, he observed, chewing the salt and pepper covered potatoes slowly. The price of his love was to be returned someday, even if not it in the same capacities. He did not demand her love but her respect. It held little weight what her affections were for him — so long as it was not hate.

"Why are you so quiet?" Barekhna whispered.

The crackles of her words were like the embers from a wild fire pricking his skin. He ran his gaze over the dusty face that appeared dusky in the deep darkness. His hands stopped in place, though his jaw continued to move with an unimaginable kindness. He was humane. Even when it came to food. The ends of his hair cropped up despite the n number of times he combed them back — now falling on to his forehead ; a sign of his defeat.

"I'm always this quiet. I don't have the habit of talking whilst I eat." Aliyaar replied.

"At home though—"

"That's everyone else talking, I remain silent Barekhna," he sighed, holding back himself from snapping, "words are not my forte."

"You're still pissed about my past!"

Barekhna's voice carried in it the tremor of a gong that strikes as it says 'bingo'. Her eyes were laced with an infernal red, the laps of undiluted white inside them marred the murky orbs, that matched the shade of his. Her lips formed a frown, the jam on the bottom of her lips smeared across her cheek and chin. Pushing the plates and tray aside, she shifted, the sheets rustling from her motions. Her breath only calmed as she sat before him, in the width of distance between his legs, her hands wrapped around his. The pads of her thumbs genially massaged his calloused hands, that burnt her from being in contact far too long.

"I'm sorry Aliyaar. For the foolishness of my youth. I understand that you had perhaps an image of me that this tears to pieces and maybe even," her words slaughtered her throat with cruel pain.

Barekhna watched herself as her words — full of emotion, die on the bed of her tongue. His eyes filled up with a lattice of tears, shredding any last piece of her wreck-less inhumanity. Rubbing her fingers through his tumultuous hair she stroked the back of his neck, his face pressed into her shoulders as hot tears burned through her skin. Barekhna felt the beats of her heart turn against her. Haste filled, strong and painful they shook her core. The sounds of his soft sniffles were calming, as he rose once more to stare into her eyes. In them the ferociousness of an animal. There in that moment, Barekhna could see the depths of his love, for the first time.

It scared her — to be loved so much.
So ardently.

"I know that everyone is flawed Barekhna, and I won't hold that against you. Even if I'm pissed I will never." He spoke through clenched teeth.

"So you're not pissed about me not being a pure virgin?"

"When will you understand that I love you for you and not the vessel that is your body. Barekhna," he sighed disappointed, "it is your soul that captivates me."

"Then why must you sob?" She frowned.

"Don't you get it?"

"I'm sorry I don't."

"It's because I'm jealous. Of a man I know nothing of. From a man that was lucky enough to be loved by you!"

"Oh."

"I do not care of what you did with whoever that man is. I will always stand by you and protect you if people use that against you because that is what love is." He explained.

"You love me that much?" She whispered, her hands pressing softly to his cheeks.

"I do."

"Aliyaar sometimes I think the stars all aligned wrong because how did I end up with you?"

It was a question.
It had an answer — but she was not ready to hear it. So Aliyaar smiled softly, kissing her cheeks, feeding her the remnants of their cold dinner.
He had never felt more alive.
Not in the thirty one years he had lived.

➖➖➖➖➖

Lustrous bulbs hung from the tall ceilings of the cathedral attached to the private school in the outskirts of London. Thin columns, pointed towards the sky with a stabbing disposition, held their own front as a thick carpet rolled to the front of it's entrance from miles away. Built on a huge five hundred acre property, the school was made for the elitist of the elites — it was no wonder that the owners son would get married in it's exuberant atmosphere. Seven columns surrounded the sharp slopes fitted on the top with round windows and large doors, a comfortable twenty four feet tall. Though the copper lions on either side of the limestone staircase could have been the epitome of lavishness ; they simply were not.

A bulb was far more regal in the vicinity, wrapped with copper vines that cast shadows along the n number of pews and the isle. Lined on either side with chrysanthemums, the tall windows let in the winter sunlight — a rarity. Of course even the God above would rejoice on such a union, as the newspapers printed in great earnest. Media houses dwelled outside the doors, only a select few let into the room to match the gaudy affair with their words and work. Thick wood, shaped like vines and flowers settled above and long the hard benches of the pews, names in gold embossed over each one. An orchestra stood behind the officiant whose robes could feed at-least a hundred of the starving mongrels.

It was the wedding of a blue blood indeed, and the owners of St.Athens Private school, had invited every single person from their son's class. The rosy atmosphere was lined not with romance alone, instead nostalgia rumbled the beds and what had once died, was revoked once more. A maestro's work alone could have gotten the rich, the snobs and the cruel alone in a room. Without stabbing. Without stubbing.

Gold brushed over the tall ceilings and the painted glass was a kaleidoscope in it's own right. Incomparable — as the stars and cosmos spun over the top half of the walls and some more. Yellow and reds sprouted on the rectangular panes, the statue of Mary hung from the top, dropping until the middle of the room. The rich to their religion seriously. They needed someone to have power over them ; to have a faith to linger on to something. It helped them, as they sinned, to know that they could be forgiven. It was no great marvel then, the money blowed on the decor — the prince deserved his dream wedding.

Samuel Athens weds Erina McCarthy.
The names were written in Richmond gold, around them were protruding vines and doves. The running theme was heavenly bodies and peace, her eyes calculated. Long, slender cages in molten copper stood out with the tiny doves that remained captured inside. Show of power equated to cruelty perhaps, Barekhna scoffed, her fingers pinching the loose strand of hair away from her face. The Gianvito Rossi heels dug into the fur of the bushy carpets, dragging across the space slow as they walked in line with a long list of people, searching for their names. One of her hands tucked the wedding invite neatly in between her fingers, the other curled over Swarovski crystal evening clutch. It's midnight black shade matched the fabric of her Carolina Herrera column dress, the slant neckline with a silk bow wrapped her frame in an attempt to show off. The dip of her waist met the curve of her hips, the bare skin of her somewhat visible legs seduced just at the sight.

Above the peaking cleavage of her breasts the yellow gold necklace sat, regally. Enwrapped in pearls and rubellite's, the centre studded with an amethyst, they drew attention to her sultry eyes and the soil shaded orbs. A soft sigh escaped the edge of her carmine painted lips as she found their names 'Mr&Mr's Aliyaar', on the top most pew to the left. Her mind struck with unease at the attempt to trigger her, clearly the bride was not over her petty high school mean girl days. Teemed with energy she stared at her wrist watch, from what it looked like, the ceremony was to begin within ten minutes.

Aliyaar's arm around her waist remained stoic even as they sat down, the side of his waist pressed against the armrest and his tuxedo taped to the back of the pew. His legs crossed and he could feel her rest her back against his arm, the curls of her loose hair pushed to the back from one side, a pearl hairpin keeping them away. There was unease that built up and around her eyes, like a haze — almost destructed by and through what he could imagine was to happen. His fingers ran the sides of her waist in an attempt to sober her, though still she wore her icy chemise, Aliyaar could hear the fondling cracks in her heart.

His words and tone seemed foreign even to his own ears as he thanked the server, for their drinks. Bubbles rose to the top of the flavored sparkling water, the strawberry flavor overpowered the bitterness as he sat beside her, breathing in the strong scent of her perfume. Barekhna looked like power and she meant it. The shell of softness, the woman that had been manipulated was gone. Replaced instead by one full of ire, dripping her hands in the bottoms of hell to burn anyone that would let harm come her way or their way. Creaseless, like her ethics the dress rose a few inches as she crossed her legs, the only spot of white the silk bow that rose from behind.

His ring finger was covered in the wedding band that was left a bit frayed, not rounded to perfection, a single rose carved in the centre of it. It had been Barekhna's choice — eclectic. Twisting the ring from underneath his finger, Aliyaar forced his nerves into tense box, one that would not be allowed open anytime soon. She had insisted he leave his hair in a rugged mess, to allow the gentlest of strands to fall over his forehead. He only agreed — in silence to do as told. Their perfumes were a mix of depth smokiness and a sweet fruitiness, meshed into a framework, like thin daggers sharpened around them, stabbing the passerby's. His lips pressed on to the glass once more, taking a sip larger than intended as the groom's party took their place, the bride arriving.

Blonde with green eyes that could rival the grass that covered the expanse of the school, Samuel Athens lived up to the blood in his veins. Taller than most, lean, his figure waited on the altar with an anticipation so raw. His jaw ticked as his eyes ran over the pew they were seated on, undoing the buttons of his baby blue suit, he scratched his jaw. There was a rage in the eyes, pride held his shoulders into a perfect position, not anything could calm the thunder as he stared at Barekhna, not even as his wife to be walked to him.

Her dress was elaborate. A low rumble of a peach, the lacy veil extended behind her. The sweetheart neckline hugged her cleavage, like a second skin the skirts swished along her legs, a thigh high slight gave a peak at the tan skin of her legs, and the heels that held her feet hostage. The brunette locks were wrapped in a soft bun and the blue eyes — matching the bright aura of an ocean, they stared with hate at Barekhna. She pushed her neutral lips into a thin line before placing her cold hands into the warm ones of her husband. The words of the Father fell on to their ears, the room turning into a mess of a hush — save for the tears and sniffs of their parents.

Aliyaar squeezed her waist in assurance as they followed the crowd out of the room, towards one of the many ballrooms that the school owned. Their shoes sunk into the carpet that lay above the dewy grass, thick gushes of air teased their skin and turned them a bit more pale than their natural disposition. He walked alongside her, his shoulders brushed against hers and his lips whispered jokes that he had worked on all morning. To lighten up the mood. She passed him a soft smile — a breakthrough from the stoic demeanor she had worn all afternoon. The strokes of wind did little to still the warmth that breathed inside their hearts. Aliyaar's body offered her a warmth that nothing else could offer him.

"Did you like your first foreign marriage?" Barekhna whispered, her lips set into a smirk.

"I don't think we are welcome here." He shrugged.

"Ten points for common sense." She teased.

They crossed the threshold hand in hand, yellow lights lit up the magnanimous foyer of the school. Huge chandeliers hung from the top and the latticed arches wove tales of dreamers who had worked on this property — a former castle, part of the groom's mother's dowry. Triangular windows were the sight, marveled at with the wooden linings on the panes. Grey clouds gathered outside and thunder rumbled softly, in sheer generosity. The first and the rose trees were in neat arrangements around the building, a circular staircase rounded over as they walked further in, over the gold carpets with uniformed guards to the sides. In a mesh they entered the large ballroom, the doors full of guests despite both of them having been thrown open.

Glass cabinets hung beside the doors, on display the awards and trophies the couple of the evening had won in their time as the school's students. Mighty chandeliers that had once been moulded by the finest hands in England, lapped with filament bulbs kept the room alight. Warm, husky laughters shook the room with intensity, the flags of both the powerful families hung from the top of the room, the stage set for the groom and his bride's family. Walls with a tan paint and stroked with brown, marble veined with red lines, it resembled what it had years ago.
Power.
Hunger.
Greed.

The bride and the groom walked in last, the lights lowered fell into a rhythmic spotlight over their frames, the elaborate gauze and pearls — pinafores and satins on their skins reflected the affluence they had grown up in. Their cheeks grinned from one side to the next, the tops of their plump cheeks were in a deep red, a burgundy that could match the serpent looming over their heads. Tips of their tongues offered soft glimpses into their honeyed vocabularies ; albeit one could sense the poison behind it. Lifting their eyes they shot straight glances towards the chief guest, the one that had been invited to spite — Barekhna Saleem, the woman who had dictated their lives a decade after being out of sight.

"Would now be a good time to greet the couple?" Aliyaar enquired.

Even a blind man could have sensed the stares of hate thrown their way by the main couple. The bride and groom were making their day more about her, a thought that irked his very being.

"It's never going to be a good time," she tutted, her eyes boring holes into his, "but we move."

"We could just ditch and get food." He shrugged, feeling out of place amongst the large crowd.

"Fish and chips — I'd take them over this any day," she frowned, "but I need to show them that I'm doing fine."

Ceasing in the moment, their conversation fell through as a waiter stepped forward with his hands on either side of a silver tray. The hors d'oeuvres were making rounds already, their bright aroma was enough to cut through the richness of the many lush perfumes that had changed everything and removed the natural scent of wood and rain inside the ballroom. In their pert little figures they sat on the tiny serving plates, gloved hands passed them around the room, before they eventually reached the couple standing in imminent darkness.

Wrapping her fingers around the base of the smoked salmon canapés, she bit into it softly, the crumbs of toasted bread left behind their marks on her lipstick. Her next action was to sip on the sparkling glass of water, dusting her hands she took the thick linen napkin from Aliyaar's hands, thanking him gently. The roe left behind a salty flavor in her mouth, the popping of the fish eggs against the soft palate of her mouth was a visible sensation, one she had missed after returning to Lahore. Tipping her head at an angle, with eyes that were full of sporadic mischief, she picked the remaining piece from Aliyaar's hands, biting into it. Her teeth sunk into the cream cheese, the soft feline eyes that resembled one of a siren, she winked at him.

Barekhna's hair crossed over her shoulders and hid the fine details of her collarbone — the porcelain skin that was struck with airbrushed glitter could be deemed beyond elusive. The hints of her subtle perfume mixed with his proactive one, the depth of smoky richness that alluded was an inkling of his captivating personality.
What had she been thinking? The irreversible time ran through her mind like a broken record, the childishness of Samuel — which stemmed from the anger in his actions to the way his wealth had corrupted him over. Why had she ever thought him to be the pinnacle of a man from upper society? When all the while Aliyaar had been breathing.

Regrets. A hundred regrets trickled down her skin and pricked her fingers like sharp pins as she stared his face — her favorite sight by leagues in the moment. The soft brows and the carcass of a stubble on his jaw, peach lips that she had learnt were the greatest tormentors of her desires, softer than they looked. Barekhna mourned, even as Aliyaar wrapped an arm around her nimble waist, even when he pressed his lips — skimming the skin of her shoulders like a ghost's touch.
How could she have not saved her first time for him?
The saint that he was ; was a gift. A charm. Beguiling — and she knew that never in her life would she ever feel as whole as she did with his understanding strokes.

'— one of three men I'd die for.' The words from the night before rung through her ears, the deep wooden orbs rested on the side of his face were the scar from her nails still remained. She had done it as they fought with the soft pillows, accidentally. Those words were sincere, Barekhna had meant them with all of her faith. She knew it hurt him, but it was true.
Barekhna would never die for Aliyaar.
Barekhna would always kill for him.

Staring at the space cleared before them, as Samuel and Erina both sauntered towards them, Barekhna felt Aliyaar's hold on her waist tighten. Was it insecurity or comfort he offered? The two went hand in hand — she decided after a moment of debate with her logic. Sighing, she sipped on her drink slowly, the edge of her lips pressed into the rim of the cup ; with her eyes focused. Tapping her nails into the glass of the flute, soft chimes — of poison and warfare sounded, skimming her epidermis with goosebumps. Anticipation tickled her throat, the bouts of laughter she held back at the cowardice they portrayed did little to hide the snarl inside her eyes.

The shade of earth they were not humble.
The shade of wood they were not dependable.
The color of chocolate they were not sweet.
The color of coffee they were not part of a routine.

Sharpening the blades of her tongue Barekhna walked into the open arms of the bride. Hugging her until the two were squeezed without air, she pressed her nails into the skin of the dense Erina. Marks would be left behind — for good measure. Stepping out with no pleasantries exchanged Barekhna wrapped an arm around Aliyaar's waist, tucking it into his hand that he held free. The action was fluid and perfected to the t, a motion of ingenuity. He stared down, passing her one of his more softer smiles — the one that had his lips melt into his cheeks and turn the same shade of pink. One where his eyes turned into specs of amber ; the best part of him Barekhna hummed. At last turning to face the reasons behind her bitterness, the hound and his whore.

"Congratulations." Barekhna offered, though her tongue had been dipped in silver shade and offered no consolation.

"Are you sure you mean it?" Samuel grumbled.

Rolling her eyes she tutted, her tongue clicked against the top of her teeth. Turning her head away from them, Barekhna pinched Aliyaar's soft palms.

"We do. My husband and I," she breathed out, batting her lashes, "we loved the reception and the ceremony."

"Ah! The husband." Erina brushed off.

Still not over herself — Barekhna wondered. The way her words had rolled off and then fell on to ears mute and deaf — was enough to show the bride that despite everything she still did not own this show. Aliyaar remained silent and level headed, only nodding at Samuel as the latter forwarded his hand for a shake. He shrugged, and Barekhna giggled under her breath. So there had been a bit of corrupting—she thought elated. With her eyes full of glitter and joy she stared at Erina ; botox could do wonders — for even women around her age she noticed. Frowns around her left brow and smooth skin on the right one, she would have hoped that wealth would have guaranteed a better plastic surgeon.

"How's work?" Samuel spoke, his voice weak.

"Going wonderful," she replied, "I've got a talent for attracting the bad ones though."

"Should I be offended?" Aliyaar spoke for the first time since their arrival.

Barekhna laughed, waves of them danced into the air with the aura of an eccentric lawyer — well and truly Raphael William's heir — people would say.

"So he speaks." Samuel nodded in his direction.

"I do," Aliyaar bit his tongue — morals can be ignored once, he thought, "though I'd rather not waste my energies with tasteless people."

"Wow Barekhna seems like you still haven't lost your hero complex tendencies." Samuel teased, his wife laughing along with him.

"Now don't make into something I am not." Barekhna said.

"Does your husband even know of us?"

The meaning was clear as day.

"I do Mr.Athens, I'm glad my wife's taste in choosing a partner and her friends has gotten better," he smiled.

"Let's not sour our mood by remembering mistakes, after all they do say 'one man's trash in another man's treasure'."

"I agree," Erina spoke, her eyes full of toxin like they had been that night, "cheers to our wedding and William's release."

Barekhna frowned at the words. Her uncle had not been released. She opened her mouth to refute the claims but a notification on her phone won her attention.
Raphael vs Erina — Mrs.Athens withdraws court case against the middle aged billionaire.

Now...
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