Book recommendation of the chapter : Life Sentence by JaveriaNaeem9

The poem is always incomplete, the butterflies make it whole. - Mahmoud Darwish

Azmaray gaped at his aunt. His grandfather had always been distant and cold, but never had he imagined the man to be the murderer of his own blood. Anything, he would belive that man to do anything but had hope he had not stooped so low. Murder. Killing. Homicide. No word made it easier on his soul. The hurt, the open wound filling up with blood once again. He clenched his jaw, observing his aunt. He knew she was not lying, Hooriya never lied. What he wanted to know was what the truth was. What was he hiding.

"Why? What is he hiding?" Azmaray spoke.

"A lot. I can't tell it all to you right now, over here. Soon though". She replied.

"Give me a hint. Please," he begged.

"Listen Azmaray, your father and aunt were about to reveal the truth to you. It would change everything. Your truth will slip from your fingers like sand". She stood up.

"You can't just say that and leave!"

"Azmaray next week is a joint reception of yours and Asghar's. Your grandfather plans to announce Asghar as the new Duke—but remember you have the seal. Don't denounce this place!" She pursed her lips.

Taking a deep breath, Hooriya walked around the table and dropped a kiss on his forehead.

"I will give you the proof and the truth—soon". She promised.

"I trust you," he patted her hand.

Her exit prompted Laila to rush into the bedroom. Her eyes narrowed onto him, taking in his hunched figure. She brushed her lips against the shell of his ear, breathing on his earlobe softly. Her fingers brushed across the plains of his chest. Dragging her nails softly on the visible skin of his neck. Her lips following suit.

"Not now Laila," he groaned.

Taking a seat once again, he rubbed his eyes. His aunt had perhaps shattered the remaining illusion he held of his family. Gripping his collar, she had shaken him. His eyes had finally opened to the cruelty of humanity. The one that wasn't hidden behind the large statues and expensive, historical literature. A crime that was the same in all languages, English, Urdu, Pashto and Greek. The sin was equally shameful in them all.

"Let me Azmaray," she spoke.

Dipping low, she fiddled with the clasp of his trousers. Her hands tracing the veins that disappeared below. Breath and heart beat racing, Laila took a deep breath. She could do this, she had done this for a long time. Her tounge rested on the skin of his stomach. His muscles turning hard as they made contact, his large palms tightened over her hands. Pulling her back, Azmaray forced her onto his lap. His eyes hazy and contorted in deep pain it seemed.

"I said not now," he whispered.

"Let me take your stress away," she spoke, her voice trembling.

"Laila there are other ways to de-stress. Sex isn't the only one!"

"I—I didn't wish to offend you,"she replied.

Huddling into his body, into a small ball she whimpered. Her shoulders shaking and tears rapidly filling into her once lust filled eyes.

"You didn't. But you also need to stop looking at seduction as the only way you can calm me".

He brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His hand resting on her flushed cheek, the pads of his thumb brushing aside the trail left behind by one of her tears.

"Don't close off. Okay?"

"How can I not? I—I want to help you Azmaray. I really want to. But my body shuts down when I'm near you. I take a backseat in my own head. I've always ever known men use women—sex at that for comfort". She whispered.

Speaking her heart out loud for the first time, Laila broke into tears. Her chest caved and collapsed. Her shoulders slumped and hit his arms. Sobbing with pain in her eyes, looking at him with blurred vision. She hoped he had a way to save her, before she drowned completely. The power of seduction seeped deep into her bones but as a human Laila yearned for that comfort, Ayna spoke about. The ones her sister's novels had. The silent understanding.

"Laila it's normal for you to feel that way. Par meri jaan agar ap ko kabhi bhi aisa mehsoos ho tou, let me know. I will stand by you, help you" [But my life if you ever feel like this,] he comforted.

"I don't regret who I've been Azmaray. I just wish I understood emotions better," she spoke.

"Bohat sai insaan emotions ko tarjeeh nahi detay. You haven't missed out much. But I promise to help you out," [A lot of humans don't give emotions importance.] He replied.

———

Anbar brushed her thick silky hair. Frowning as she observed her black roots peeking from under the light auburn dye. Tucking her hair into a three strand braid, starting at the top of her head, looping as she went, stopping when her arms began to ache under the weight of her hair. Wrapping a flimsy hair tie around her ends and fixing the stray baby hairs, she turned around. Wrapping her white chiffon veil on her head loosely, she walked down stairs with conviction her eyes searching for her husband.

To her luck, he was at home. She took a sigh of relief marching upto him. Her features relaxed as she slid on the sofa beside him, her hands resting on top of his. The local news channel on full blast, observing the country's political turmoil as Alamgeer Ahad took the oath as the nation's prime minister.

"Asghar," she tapped his shoulder.

"Anbar". He replied with equal seriousness.

"We need to go to Islamabad tomorrow," she informed.

Asghar looked at her with contempt. His face filling up with signs of confusion, going in his mind for the days agenda. As far as he could remember, there was no such plan. He was meant to supervise the apple fields tomorrow and then stop by their stables to have a look at the horses before this year's tourists arrived. He was sure a trip to Islamabad would not have slipped his mind—especially if it was with his wife.

"Isn't the dress already delivered? Why the sudden trip?"

"My roots are growing out. I need to visit my hair stylist," she pointed at her head.

"Roots?" He stared at her for more explanation.

"You know the part of your head where the hair grows out of?"

"Shouldn't they grow out then?"

"Asgh—ofcourse they should. But as you can see, I'm not a natural red head and need to get it touched up so that the black doesn't show". She explained.

"Okay. However, I am busy tomorrow. Ask Azmaray to take you," he shrugged.

"Meri jaan try to understand I want to go on a road trip with you. Do couple-y things with you. Eik din miss kara dein na zimeedari ko!" [My life] [Skip out on your duties for one day!] She begged.

Seeing her feline eyes open wide, a sheen of water covering her orbs ; lips set into a small frown and her forehead marred with lines, Asghar melted. Into a pool of flesh and blood. His heart softened and his hands touched her soft skin on their own orders. Softly pushing down the creases and brushing aside the soft baby hairs.

"We'll go," he kissed her hair.

Anbar nodded, nuzzling into his arms. Not caring for the fact that they were in the lounge downstairs and that their family could walk in at any moment. They were the ones who had wanted this, she was just letting her walls down—one at a time. The two watched the hourly news in silence. Their breaths the sole company of each other. Hands brushing warm skin occasionally, sending tremors of excitement down their spines. Feeling his hands brush the skin of her neck, Anbar turned stiff and red. The tips of her ears turned a bright beetroot colour. The fairness of her skin emphasising on the blush even more.

Minutes trickled by and turned to hours. Anbars body had slumped against Asghar's a while ago. Her breath having evened out, the veil slipped from her head and the once neatly tied french braid was messily sprawled all over his wide shoulders. He took in her soft vanilla scent, lifting her into his arms bridal style. His muscles flexed, lifting her to his chest he carried her upstairs. His eyes fixated on her sated form. Never had he seen her so at peace.

He knew she still craved Azmaray as her husband. She wanted the regal man as her own, his manners and sharp brain that understood the world perfectly. Not to forget the fact that everything belonged to him aswell. She murmured his name in her dreams, called out for him. Begged him to return to her. And yet, he had no option. Asghar feigned ignorance to it all. If she was making a visible effort, he would not be a fool to reprimand her. However, he craved her. To be his and his alone. Physically, he held ever in his arms every night. Mentally, he was alone as ever. Sliding in behind her, he wrapped his hands around her torso, pulling her into his chest and dropping a soft kiss.

"Here is where you belong مینه". [Love]

————

Walima wardrobe
| Laila |

| Ayna |

| Anbar |

————

Ayna and Zaeem along with Sarah had arrived the night before. Azmaray had had the guest house prepared for them, where they would stay for a few days after the reception as well. The large bedroom that Ayna and Zaeem shared, had a large four pane window that allowed sunlight to stream in from the branches of the trees. The filtered light, spread on her face, whilst Zaeem stared. The light illuminated her skin the dusky shade, turned in a gold earthy hue. Outside he could hear the noises of men running around to prepare for the reception. It was an afternoon event with large media coverage. For which Zaeem was a bit worried, he did not want Ayna to be in the camera eye—knowing how ruthless they could get.

He brushed his fingers in her hair. Massaging her scalp, eliciting a low groan. She shuffled under the sheets, her head nuzzling into his chest, her cold nose rubbing against his pectoral. Her hands held his arm in a death grip, nails digging into his skin. He stared at her with a profound adoration. His heart dripping with love the shade of rose for his beloved. Passionately he left a kiss on the top of her head.

"Ayna wake up. Or you'll be late for the walima," [reception,] he spoke.

His voice husky and heavy with sleep, still. Ayna replied with low moan, shaking her head in disagreement. She was comfortable in the soft mattress and did not want to break this spell of pure peace.

"Please. Or else Laila will be pissed at you," he chuckled.

His sister-in-law when in a state of anger, was not a pleasant sight. Having no choice but to peel her eyes open, she glared at him. Her eyes squinting at him, her hands letting his go as she wordlessly entered the large en-suite. Taking a fast shower, she grinned on seeing her dress already set out on their made bed. It was a rice white shade with Swarozski crystals and zardosi. Red gems studded in between. The body of the dress, cut a few inches above the navel. The net material giving a peak of her unmarked skin. The deep neckline gave a hint at her cleavage and the heavily bejeweled lehnga made her torso appear longer. She pinned the heavy red and white—almost silver veil on her shoulder. Her hair straight and pinned back. The jhoomar made of rubies and the thick choker added an extra oomph.

"Stunning!" Zaeem praised.

The air brushed look of her makeup and the well fitted dress, seemed a million times better on her than it had on the mannequin.

"You think so?" Ayna shyly, questioned.

Her eyes hungrily taking in Zaeem. The black tux with the crepe white shirt and silk bow fit him immaculately.

"Mhmm. I know so. No one could have done this justice. Now come on my love, everyone is already here," he murmured against the skin of her forehead.

"Ziada makhan nahi lagain ab ap," [Don't butter me too much,] she rolled her eyes, her hand sliding in his.

"Meri majal?" [How could I dare to?] He gave a cheeky wink, earning a slap from Ayna on his bicep.

They stepped out into the large garden. Flowers of all kinds surrounded them, with their sweet perfumes saturating the air. A zephyr brushed against her cheek as she stared at her elder sister and Anbar. Both of them looked stunning. Laila in the porcelain white sharara and shirt with golden embroidery. It was a classic, with the geometrical desgins an organza veil with the same gold detailing rested on her shoulder. And in classic Laila style, her hair was styled in a braid and a large maang tikka covered her forehead. A pearl and gold choker style necklace rested in her neck and brushed her collar bone as she smiled at the cameras.

Anbar however, had opted for a mint blue anarkali with a long skirt to go with it. The dress had a square neckline and was filled with a light sprinkling of sequins. Faux diamonds studded into the dress in a floral pattern, cinched at the waist. The ruffles of her skirt brushing against Asghar's legs. He stood out like a sore thumb in his boski shalwaar kameez. A brown shawl on his shoulders. Meanwhile, Azmaray stood with pride in his deep burgundy tux. A black silk dress shirt underneath.

————
somewhere in Lahore

An elderly man sat on the black velvet sofa in his lounge. Smoking a cigar, he chewed onto cashews. His father sitting beside him. Eating fresh juicy mangoes. The television turned on and airing the special programme that ran the reception of Swat's duke, Azmaray.

"Zaeem went here, I'm assuming," the man's elderly father, grumbled.

"Yes," he replied.

Suddenly the camera panned to the stage, where Azmaray had just stood on, helping his wife to the stage. The camera zooming on to her figure. His father, stood up in shock. The dishes cluttering on to the floor, a scream leaving his mouth.

"Salma!"

MWHAHAHA

*insert evil laugh*

IT'S TIME FOR SECRETS TO COME OUT 😼😼😼

ALSO THIS IS WHAT I IMAGINE ANBAR'S HAIR IS LIKE