If I don't see a 100 comments on this chapter I'm gonna start crying. This is my favourite-est chapter EVER! Dont flop besties. Thanks.

Chapter 19.

Grant no chance to spare an expense — rule number one, she wrote in a cursive over the manilla pages. Hardening ink underneath the innocent sunlight, inside her maternal home, a plan was underway in the apex of her frontal lobe. The emblem of her beloved grandfather's enterprise on the bottom left of the crème page deterred her from her goals ; not even slightly. It was a sight to see, the vines intervening in the shapes of roses and a tiny bird perched on to a branch. What had once been but a small corner shop, was transformed into a large empire worth billions — though somewhere along the way they had lost their authenticity.

Make it a larger than life affair — she mused over the second line at the top of the page that had been written in the state of a sloppy sleepiness, the i's mixed with the f's. The penmanship of a child. Spreading her arm over the page that flew from the corner, slapping her skin every now and then, she searched for ways and methods to woo. An alarming contrast from the usual 'how to get away with murder'. A soft stunt next to the gory details that had since assisted her job. Tapping at the keyboard with an inhumane pace, her eyes filled with a power skimmed over the blobs of singular words. Lists upon lists, most highlighted purple from clicks.

Nothing genuine though.
Nothing Aliyaar.
Not in the least.

Running her long fingers through the blow dried hair that curled underneath her chin, she pouted internally. The crimson pattern of her matte lipstick matched the deep tone of her nails, and the jumpsuit she wore. Straps ran down her thigh all the way to the spine of her pencil heel. Carnal in it's making the satin jumpsuit hugged her chest and the attached trousers slouched over her figure.
Comfortable.
Chic.
Gold hoops — chunkier than the eraser she had thrown Aman's way this morning curled over as accessories. Clasping in her fingers the black suit she sauntered out of her bedroom, the rumbles of her stomach loud and clear.

It was windy and life was abuzz in the manor. The windows thrown open with their latticed grills and covers removed for more affect. A chilly zephyr blew her hair around like the call of a lover in the fields beyond. It's iciness turned her pale cheeks a deeper hue, in competition with the lusty shade of her lips. With the disposition of kings Barekhna's eyes were power renewed. A line ran through her swollen eye lids — tears and lack of sleep the main culprit. Tracing the walls with a distance of but a breath between them, she took her last steps, turning into the private lounge.

Unfiltered and beyond raw — the sun's rays crashed over the wide room. Narrow in it's roof, the slight slant over the hunched altar and mantle were attractive. More than ever with the addition of a few period paintings. Drooped curtains curled around the iron frames like servants in attendance, behind their thick gaits the Parakeets flew and performed routines of great extravagance. The sounds of their chirping was alluring in the silence that morning had to offer. Perfection. Limitless joy seized the moments. A morning star and it's performance with the loud clouds. Dark and light battled to find common ground — the winner though was clear.

Sweeping her woody eyes over the empty room, Barekhna threw her figure over the couch. The rest of her family had left — her parents on a brunch and his brother for his duty. Taking in the fresh air, misty in it's might, she sipped on the glass of water — the only thing present. Fluttering her lashes, she tapped the warm skin above her bosom, fingering the thin gold chain there.
Classic, unoriginality runs in this clan.
Amassing her valuables she stood up with power — demanding it even from the tiny ants that managed to crawl in her path. Through the feminine tones of her perfume the scent of respect overpowered.

At ten in the morning on a weekday there was only one place in a household like there's where life thrived. Through the large hallways that had been collected unnecessarily. Doors and passages of great secrecy led to the large kitchen. Where cauldrons always simmered over the stovetops and something was always cooking for the residents. A team of chefs, under the supervision of the lady of the house — the ailing Sameen Khawar, ran a tight ship. At the southern end with a door on all four walls, one leading to a private garden, it was by no means ordinary.

On the colossal countertops an array of fresh produce collected, and gained weight. Lettuce, avocados, cucumbers and what not brought in straight from the expensive grocery store just down the road. Mint and parsley from their own garden. Citrus was plenty in the wooden bowls and meat chopped into neat pieces was thrown into a heavy base pot. Gravy to begin simmering in a few minutes or it would be late for lunch. Something unimaginable. Through a glass door that lead to the garden, light covered the room and the led's installed only recently remained only for accessories.

The base of her heels clicked against the glossy floors, every spectacle of her shadow captured inside them with care. Her hands slid the designer shades over the arch of her forehead, the taps of her fingers drew attention — if her shoes went unheard that is. Barekhna's lips twitched into a half smile, the muscles of her cheeks stretched over a few inches as she opened the pivoting door with the back of her shoulder blade. Despite the cardamom and nutmeg that calmed her otherwise, she only bared her teeth at the kitten her cousin had adopted. Saliha Khawar was in a mood lately — going vegan and then adopting a cat — two things the furthest from her personality.

Barekhna tapped the wooden cabinets that hung over the top, thick beams supported them. Her fingernails tapped over lightly, alarming the peaceful silence. Tipping her head to touch the handle of the cabinets she clicked her tongue to the roof of her mouth, pushing the copper mug to the side. Her hawk like eyes narrowed over the women that stood before her, the workers that her own father had hired. She shook her head in knowing disappointment. Fisting the maroon tumbler from the glass enclosure she poured in the cold-brew her mother always prepared. Heavy amounts of cream and a drizzle of vanilla followed in, her lips finally slouched in a posture of calmness.

Calamity brew in her brain.

Barekhna took a large sip and felt the cream wash down her throat, filling her empty stomach. A large tray of breakfast complete with a vase of orange flowers was perched on the central island. Her unbothered grandmother fluttered around, adding finishing touches to the array of breakfast prepared for who Barekhna could assume for her cousin who had taken to the bed. She feels under the weather — her mother had frowned as she explained. Sophia Saleem was too soft hearted.

"Where's my breakfast Muskan?" She turned to the cook under her mother's supervision.

"Ma'am I - for—got."

Her shaky gaze and loud gulps gave away the lie — bright and clear.

"Or did you find my grandmother's company especially heartwarming?"

"Itni bhuk hai tou shohar keh ghar jao. Waisay bhi shaadi shua larki apnay susral mein hi achi lagti hai." Sameen Khawar reprimanded.
[If you're that hungry then go to your husband's home. Anyways a married woman looks good at her in law's place only.]

"Tou ap ki beti aur nawasi yahan kia kar rahi hain?" Barekhna tutted, raising a brow in the woman's direction.
[Then why are your daughter and granddaughter here?]

"That's a different situation."

"They are here for a more permanent stay so I figured."

"When are you leaving your job?" She called as Barekhna turned to exit the suddenly suffocated room, "you're almost thirty, it's time you started a family!"

"Never. You're not entitled to ask me when I will have children."

"They will be my—"

"Nothing. Aap keh kuch bhi nahi lagain gai kyun keh unki ma wohi ghaleez aurat hai jo ap ko kabhi eik aankh nahi bhai!"
[They will be nothing of yours because their mother is the same disgusting woman you never liked!]

"Oh and," she spoke breathily, "tell your grandson he has no chance with Lilah."

"Who even wants to marry that mazoor."
[Disabled person.]

"That mazoor as you say has far more success under her belt with her own merits, than your grandson ever will."

Keeping up her pace to walk away from the large crowd of menially bought workers, and their poisonous owner, she wrapped her arms around the door's frame. Giving it a strong tug, she pushed out, the edges of her heels digging into the corner of the glossy trolley. With her head sanely placed on her shoulders, the tumbler and files tucked away underneath her arms Barekhna lazily walked out to the garage. The polished red Mercedes — sent over by the generous courtesy of her husband, glimmered with glitters in its pearl coating and seduced her with it's lights.
Like a king needs his sword and a queen needs her crown, Barekhna needed her car to torment and deliver shrilling promises that were flown over.

The slight buzz of her phone and a single text that brightened the screen caught her sharp eyes. Taking a deep breath her fingers tapped at the number italicized in the shade of blue, sending a two word text with the period adding a formal crispness. More than she wanted, more than she realized, garnering the support of Zayed Hussam was more than important at this moment.

➖➖➖➖➖

An alabaster sky met with the deep shades of age and lack of attention. Round clocks stuck in time with their detailed hands striking the same hour for the nth time that week, shook the debris of worn out dust. Striking the soul out of the eyes that had seen it for ages, the buildings hand built by those that were turned to dust decades ago, the valor of the courtyards alive still after change of powers — uncountable. Disposed to the side of the tall building with it's large towers, security guards with their parachute jackets and sharp rifles stood with an alert transgression. A garden of flowers, their ends crushed with shoes that cared for nothing, budding heads munched on by the ducklings that swam in the man made pond nearby.

Sounds of clicks, flashes of light and thrusts of microphone's in the faces of the people erupting from the large chambers was a signature image for a high profile case such as this. A challenge to the government's latest policies by a group of parents — reminded the committee and it's well wishers of the often discussed case of George Archer Shee. Though times had changed since then, the moods and control had not — being a relatively newly freed estuary of Shee's birth nation, it was only fitting that such a moment arose now.

The kings could feed their children with the breast milk of others, but the populace knew how to rip a king's teat.
For better.
To the worse.

Strutting down the still full hallways, the liquid amber of her eyes fixated on the thin wristwatch that she wore. An abstract mess, the hair that had been worn loose now tied into a bun at the nape of her neck, pinched the edges of her ear lobes. Resting the large frames over her nose bridge as they moved out from the shade of the roof, into the still bright sky, she was followed by her stuttering assistant. Zooming from between the sweaty bodies of journalists that struck her shoulders and cheeks with their heavy equipment, her mind remained trained on the rough plan she had developed over her lunch break.

The crème tiles of the parking lot contrasted with the heels that kept her feet in place, the black satin coat brushed the ground. Despite the sudden wave of heat her breath remained cool, her eyes pulled together in an arrogant snarl. She had almost won today's hearing had it not been for the judge being bought. Still a moment to celebrate — the case moved to the Supreme court because of her strong points. Now, it was all time to wait until the fist took it's bait. Spooning her hand around the metal handle of her car, spotless like she had left it, Barekhna motioned for the man in his signature black leather jacket to follow her.

It oozed with authority, the engines roaring to life with a soft silence, humming through the veins underneath that were pumped with the finest of oils. Tires rolled through the tarmac and crushed loose pieces, remorseless as they pushed the crowd out of it's way — matching the dominance of it's owner. Luxurious in it's touch the steering wheel turned over the main avenue, the mechanic voice of the GPS gathered their attention as they trudged through an unknown territory. Lights flashed their way, their breaths mulled into a distance as they put off their first words to each other. Both parties eagerly anticipating.

Through the corner of her eyes, peeking sometimes in the view finder, Barekhna took in the man's face. Rugged — something his best friend was not. The wild beard and hair that flopped over his arched forehead and sharp eyebrows, lips that were curled into a smile ; a trait he shared with Aliyaar. His fingers had not stilled ever since he got into the car, chatting with his wife she assumed. If she were to go by the smile that brightened anytime his phone buzzed that is. The slouched jeans and button up, were a contrast from the uniform she often saw him adorn whilst visiting their home. Though, this was the first time she would be able to make conversation with him.

"Are you sure this is enough?"

Barekhna's accent slipped from her tongue, wrapping the words as they took in the sight of the secluded wooden cabin she had rented on Zayed's insistence. Her fingers dug into the trousers of her jumpsuit, raking in the sight of the woods that continued behind, until they would meet with the city of Lahore. Walking inside, they took in the wooden walls and carpets that were mismatched, books gathering dust sat in the corner and there was only one bed in the edge that rounded around the walls, nothing but glass behind it.

"Is this even safe?"

A shudder passed through Barekhna's spine as she mulled over all that could go wrong. Her fingers drummed the dining table, it's texture worn out, dulling with age she hoped. A dingy fridge stocked recently only kept the thought of starving away. Murder, she thought, it would be the perfect place to murder someone given the isolation. Despite the owners assurances of the one way bullet proof glass and what not, Barekhna could not help but question the genuineness of it.

"It's safe Barekhna, a friend owns this cabin and Aliyaar loved coming here for some down time." Zayed spoke softly.

"Are you sure?" She questioned, staring at him skeptically.

"One hundred percent. I can't tell you the number of times the two of us have had takeout and dropped into a dreamlike state."

"What was it that the two of you talked about?" She enquired.

"Ask him," Zayed smirked, "he's way more in love with you than you think."

"It's kind of gross that two men were talking about a woman younger than them."

Dropping her mass on to the bouncy mattress she crossed her legs, resting her weight on the crux of her elbows she stared at him through the curled lashes she had spent minutes on this morning. Biting her lip, the curl it furled up into was forced to rest into a single line as she stared at the suddenly alarmed man. His eyes were full of annoyance and an ire — potential underneath that mass of his hair was there. Aliyaar had chosen a wise man to befriend she hummed in the centre of her throat. Curiosity pinched her nose with a want so rampant she would have signed away her entire fortune in that moment. The man she had married was a natural lover, but had never explained the tale of how it began. It was like being teased in the bedroom, he offered her more but withheld what she truly desired.

"I wouldn't agree when most of it was me hearing him murmur Darwish's poetry in a drunken stupor." He scoffed, running a hand through the silken hair.

"Aliyaar used to drink?" She sat upright, alarmed suddenly.

"No. Chinese food and nihari was enough to get him drunk. I assure you bhabi jaan your husband is an innocent man."

"Devar ji I've been taught better than to trust the words of someone part of the country's intelligence." She hummed.

"A lawyer is far more cunning than a soldier."

"Touché."

"Anyways my uber's here so I'll go entertain your husband," his eyes twinkled with mirth, "let me know whenever you want him over."

"Of course." She nodded, looking around the space for potential, "bring Inaya over for dinner sometimes babu."
[sir.]

Crème cushions? Check.
Faux flowers? Check.
An unhealthy amount of sweet and sour ribs? Check.

The tiny list filled her hands a few moments after Zayed walked out. The sun had set and through the willowy trees that blanket of it's rays spurt with promising gait of swans. Long shadows inched over the glass windows and the iron grills attached for a more secure arrangement. Wild flowers in the round base marble vases, perched on the wooden table. The space now cleaned with the help of hired maids, looked much more larger and full of vigor. Zayed had an eye for spotting a diamond in the rough.

Securing her hair with a single bobby pin, the curled strands covering her left eye, left much to imagine for the startle of her vision. Spritzing her perfume behind her ears and over the jugular she texted her aide. Nervously, trekking through the tiny space.

It was now a game of waiting.

➖➖➖➖➖

"Why have you brought me here Zayed?" Aliyaar groaned, his best friend had been acting like a nuisance all evening.

"To relive our bachelor days Aliyaar." He spoke.

"At least give me my phone to text Barekhna about it, she will be worried."

"I don't think so. Remember she doesn't love you." Zayed chuckled.

Aliyaar punched his best friend in his arm, grinning as he saw the soldier wince from the uncontainable force. His own gut felt as if a wrench had been thrust through it, a pain so consuming that deprived even the skies of their usual starriness. Turmoil crept up his spin and spurred images of revolt in his mind, the corrupting smells of hatred so putrid that love felt like a far fetched dream. An inanimate thought that no longer was his. The truth was abating his own emotions the strength it took for him to not keep her to himself. To share even if the jagged piece he was given with the world. A crime. An inconsolable one at that.

"Itni jaan kahan sai aai hai!" Zayed groaned, still reeling from the after affects of his best friends ministrations.
[Where did you get all this strength from?]

"Should have thought about what you were saying."

Aliyaar shrugged, his woodpecker like gaze ran over the territory, though a blurry lump to his eyes he could smell the wildflowers and freedom. An uprising in the trees behind the cabin, like nature at it's calmest welcoming him towards his own destruction. The evil fates assigned to him had made sure even a moment's rest was illegal for him. An ailing great grandfather, a younger sister in a country miles away and a business he was on the brink of being kicked out from. He had not a lot going on for himself, and the dried out chuckles were a testament to that.

"You should go in, I need to make a call."

"Why do you get to talk to bhabi?" He whined — an impossibility for a man of his rank.

"Maybe because mine actually loves me?"

"Zayed that's the stupidest reason I've ever heard!"

"Unless you want to hear Inaya and I act sickly sweet, go in and begin eating, the food was delivered before we arrived."

The signs of his rumbling stomach were there. Shaking his head, the amassed wealth of his hair striking the bridge of his nose with sheer prowess, blind sighted him more than ever. His lenses and spectacles had gone missing and all day he had spent bumping into walls and people — embarrassing beyond measure as the details skipped sight. Unlocking the door he slid the key under the terracotta pot, the door had a problem, it could only be opened from outside — unless one had the master key which was always with the owner. Whistling softly, humming the tunes of a song he had heard not long ago, he stepped into a piece of his safe haven.

His respite from the torments of the world.

The lasts of the dried leaves crushed underneath the soles of his shoes, obsidian shades poured out from the slender distance and choked his eyes of the little that he could see. His knuckles brushed the heavy wood out of his way, a loose splinter ruptured through the top layer of his skin. He winced. An ache throbbed in his vein as he pushed into the room. Fully shrouded in the unwavering darkness, his fingers reached out to the switch board. A few inches to your left — he remembered clearly, twisting the upper half of his body. Sharp sounds in a gully outside diverted his attention. Taking a deep breath Aliyaar gulped, walking towards the cause of the sound.

Timid steps and short paces took him around the width of it, his shoes bumping into objects, creating a clutter he assumed. It intensified, the pungent and sweet scent of her cologne as he walked towards the small study within the cabin. He salivated at it, imagining with an articulate vividness her beauty as he stroked the exposed brick with the rough pads of his thumb. How can she be here? He chuckled at the mystified thoughts, how naive his brain was to picture with full force her slender figure before him.

"Zayed I'm thinking I'm going crazy with the thoughts of my wife," he laughed at his tone — sickly, "I feel her presence! Oh my stupidity!"

A sudden click and whiff of warm air behind his ears, had his face flushing. Stilling mid step he inched closer to the walls, looking with a dexterous manner for the switches that he knew were somewhere around. His knees bent and struck the sofa, wincing he shook the tremors in his feet, rubbing the suddenly tender and sore flesh.

"What if I tell you she's actually here?"

A siren's sultry voice beguiled him nearer. Almost like a short murmured mewl, her accent filtered through the still air. His breaths turned heavier, shallow till they crushed his lungs in a delightful burn. A tip of his head, and his eyes struck gold. In the slim shadows, slanted lights fell into the centre of her gold specked eyes, the bushy arched brows setting them a frame. The ghost of a smile grazed her lips. Her nails dug into his warm skin.

"Surprised saint?" She arched a brow.

"Um—I—"

"I'll take it as a hard yes." Her lips whispered against his cheek.

Pressure landed against the underside of his jaw as her smooth lips lay flat for a few seconds, perhaps determining accurately how harsh his pulse had become under her touch. With hazed eyes he made out the contours of her face. A blurry effect added on top. Sensing her fingers wrap around his ear lobe, tug it towards herself, he could only lean in silence. Cold touched his skin and his eyes cleared, deftly he felt around — so that is where his glasses had been. Now with a clarity previously unpossessed, he stared at Barekhna's face.

Even after years, it was his favorite sight.

Barekhna's fingers clothed in a silken glove, brushed the switchboard behind his toned back. Yellow lights came to life, the central glass chandelier hung right above a decadent spread of food. Though, he had barely noticed given the strong smell of her perfume that rendered him incapable of understanding anything. Stepping out from their close proximity she performed a sullied out twirl — an act unlike her.

Barekhna was fire.
The epitome of desire.
A sensual entity that no man could dull.
Stood before him in a corseted dress, the shade of rubies — much like the gossamer ones that hung from her earlobes, rested above her knees. The hard silk hugged her frame, not an inch left undefined as it ran across her breasts and down her bicep. The shoulders left bare for his eyes to feast on. Her feet, covered in maroon pumps, their thin heels gave her the height to tower above his shoulder.
To meet his eyes.
Red like the lipstick on her teeth, the silk gloves kept her aristocratic fingers from sight. Protected them from the air of fire. From the battle.

"Recite a verse of Darwish." She spoke.

"To someone, I can't forget you, not because I have a strong memory," he stepped closer, reaching out to hold her hand in his, "but because I have a heart that never denies those who settled in it once."

"I wrote a piece myself, would you like to hear saint?"

"Of course."

"Swimming through the rivers of fire,
I have arrived at a conclusion.
He is more of me than I could ever be of him.
My soul is more his, than it is mine.
I am intoxicated with the brandy of his eyes."

"What does that mean Barekhna?"

A shock convulsed through his body. Inside the very heart that the blossoms of his affections had once began was a thunderstorm. It beat hard. Lost it's power to supply his mind with the oxygen needed as he stared at her with eyes wide open. The emptiness of his mouth — the dryness it left. A crackle diffused into his eyes, and the skin below his eyebrows sagged. What words could not utter clearly ; silence would tell perfectly. It was perhaps a dream or a sad joke — Aliyaar assured himself. His fingers tightened around her wrist, her own heartbeat could have matched the prowess of his own. Formidable in the avant-garde proclamations. Barekhna's words were gilded gold. Weighing over his consciousness like a delirious emotion.

"It means what you heard. That I Barekhna Aliyaar-Saleem, have fallen whole heartedly in love with you — Aliyaar Alamgeer."

"You're lying to me." He wheezed.

"For a client, and for a man, I would never lie."

"Do you know what you've just said?"

"I know. I want to scream it to the tabloids as well," Barekhna whispered, gathering the ribbons of courage, "that I would kill for my husband because seeing him troubled torments me. That for Aliyaar, I will never put myself in harm's way, because you deserve to live with the woman you love."

"Yet you have your selfish reasons too," he smiled, his eyes finding light in hers.

"When it's you Aliyaar I will always be selfish. I may love a saint, but characteristically I'm still a siren."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."