The weeks following Azaan's confrontation with Nida had been blissfully quiet. Zaina had slowly begun to find her footing, leaning into the safety and warmth of her new life. Azaan continued to create an environment of love and encouragement, leaving her notes in unexpected places, bringing her flowers every other day, and braiding her hair every morning without fail.

But the peace was short-lived. The world outside their little sanctuary hadn't forgotten Zaina Khan.

It started one morning when Zaina was in her studio. She was working on a particularly intricate design—a soft pastel lehenga with delicate embroidery that blended modern cuts with traditional craftsmanship.

The faint hum of her thoughts was interrupted by the sound of her phone buzzing incessantly on the desk. She frowned, wiping her hands before picking it up. There were dozens of messages, missed calls, and notifications.

Her heart skipped a beat as she opened the first message from an unknown number.

"Wow, you really glowed up. Guess money can do that for you."

The next one was worse:

"Azaan must've lost a bet to marry someone like you."

Her breath hitched as she scrolled through more messages. They were all laced with the same venom: disbelief, mockery, and cruel comparisons.

It didn't take long for her to find the source. An old picture of her—awkward and visibly uncomfortable in an ill-fitted outfit from her teenage years—was making rounds online, paired with the caption: "From this to the wife of Azaan Khan? Money really can buy anything."

The post had gone viral overnight, and the comment section was filled with scathing remarks.

The room began to spin, the cruel words flashing in her mind: Not good enough. Too plain. A pity case.

Her breathing grew shallow as the panic rose. Her fingers gripped the edge of the desk, her knuckles turning white. She tried to steady herself, but the weight of the past and the present collided, pulling her under.

Azaan found her moments later, standing frozen in the middle of the studio, her phone clutched tightly in her trembling hand.

"Zaina?" he called softly, approaching her.

When she didn't respond, he moved closer, his brows furrowing as he saw the tears streaming down her cheeks. "Zaina, look at me."

She flinched at the sound of his voice, her body jerking as if she'd been startled. Slowly, her wide, tear-filled eyes met his.

"I..." Her voice cracked. "They're right, Azaan. They're all right."

Azaan's jaw tightened, his chest aching at the sight of her unraveling. He stepped forward, taking the phone gently from her hand and setting it aside. "No, they're not."

She shook her head, her voice trembling. "Look at me. Look at those pictures. How could you—why would you choose someone like me? I'm nothing."

"Stop," Azaan said firmly, cupping her face in his hands. His touch was warm, grounding, and the steady strength in his voice cut through her spiraling thoughts.

"You are everything, Zaina. Do you hear me? Everything."

She shook her head again, more tears falling. "But they—"

"They don't know you," he interrupted, his thumbs brushing away her tears. "They don't see what I see. And what I see is the most beautiful, kind, and talented woman I've ever known."

Her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor, her head falling forward. Azaan dropped down with her, wrapping his arms around her tightly.

"Breathe, jaan-e-man," he whispered into her hair, rocking her gently. "Just breathe. I've got you."

Her small frame trembled in his arms, her sobs muffled against his chest. His chin rested lightly on the top of her head, the height difference making the gesture feel protective, like a shield against the world.

"I'll always have you," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm against her broken spirit.

Gradually, her sobs subsided, and her breathing evened out. She stayed nestled against him, her cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

"Better?" he asked after a while, his voice soft.

She nodded, her voice barely audible. "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me," he said, tilting her chin up so he could look into her eyes. "It's my job to remind you how amazing you are."

As she gazed up at him, her face flushed and tear-streaked, Zaina was struck again by how tall he was. His broad shoulders loomed above her, making her feel impossibly small in comparison.

"Azaan," she said hesitantly, her voice still shaky.

"Yes, jaan-e-man?"

She hesitated, then whispered, "Why do you love me?"

His lips curved into a soft smile as he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Because you make me feel alive in ways I never knew I could. Because you're strong even when you don't see it. And because... you fit perfectly right here."

He tugged her closer, pressing her head against his chest again. "Right where you belong."

She let out a small laugh, the sound more genuine than it had been in days. "You're so cheesy."

"And you love it," he teased, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of her head.

That evening, Azaan called a close friend who worked in public relations. Together, they crafted a response to the online vitriol—a statement that shut down the mockery and turned the focus onto Zaina's growing success as a designer.

But Azaan didn't stop there.

The next morning, the media buzzed with a new story: photos of Zaina at her sketch table, the intricate details of her designs highlighted. Azaan had leaked the photos himself, ensuring that the world saw her talent rather than the outdated snapshots that had been circulating.

Alongside the photos was a statement from Azaan himself:

"Zaina is more than my wife. She's my inspiration. Her strength, creativity, and heart make her extraordinary. For those who don't see it—you're missing out on knowing someone incredible."

The backlash from the post was swift, with many people rallying to Zaina's defense. Overwhelmed by the support, Zaina decided to take a leap of faith.

A few days later, she attended her first industry event as a designer, wearing a soft lavender gown she had created herself. Azaan walked beside her, his hand resting lightly on her back as he guided her through the crowd.

When someone asked for a photo, Zaina hesitated. But before she could refuse, Azaan leaned down and whispered in her ear, "You're perfect, jaan-e-man. Let the world see it."

The confidence in his voice gave her strength, and she nodded. As the camera flashed, she felt her shoulders straighten, her head held high for the first time in years.

Standing beside Azaan, with his love radiating around her, Zaina realized she wasn't just surviving anymore. She was thriving.