Zaina stood in front of the full-length mirror in their bedroom, smoothing the fabric of the deep red dress that hugged her figure in all the right ways. She had spent weeks working up the courage to wear it, ever since she'd overheard Azaan mention to her mother how much he loved seeing her in red.

The dress was simple yet elegant—a long, flowing silhouette with a modest neckline and delicate embroidery that shimmered when the light hit it. She paired it with gold bangles and left her hair cascading down her back, loose and soft.

For a moment, she hesitated, her nerves creeping in. Will he like it? Or am I trying too hard?

Shaking off the doubt, she reached for a pair of heels and took a deep breath. Tonight wasn't just about the dress—it was about letting herself feel confident, even if only for a few hours.

Zaina stepped out of the bedroom just as Azaan entered the hallway, adjusting the cuffs of his navy blazer. He stopped mid-step, his gaze locking onto her like a magnet.

For a moment, he didn't speak, his lips parting as his eyes traveled from the delicate embroidery on her dress to the soft waves of her hair.

"Zaina..." he finally said, his voice hoarse.

She fidgeted slightly, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. "Is it too much?"

He took a step closer, his expression intense. "Too much? Meri jaan, it's not enough. You've completely ruined me tonight."

She blinked, surprised by the raw emotion in his voice. "Ruined you?"

He stopped in front of her, his height towering over her as his hand reached up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch lingered, his fingers lightly grazing her cheek.

"You're breathtaking," he murmured, his brown eyes shimmering with warmth. "Mujhse tumse nazar hataana mushkil ho raha hai." (I can't take my eyes off you.)

Zaina laughed softly, the sound nervous but genuine. "You're exaggerating."

"Not even a little," he said firmly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You're wearing red. You know what that does to me, jaan-e-man."

Her heart fluttered at his words, and she glanced away shyly, but he caught her chin gently, tilting her face back toward his.

"No," he said, his lips curving into a soft smile. "Don't hide from me tonight. Let me see you."

Azaan stepped back, his hand slipping into hers as he interlaced their fingers. "We're not staying in tonight."

"What?" she asked, startled. "But I thought we were—"

"I need to show you off," he interrupted, his grin playful but sincere. "There's no way I'm keeping you to myself when you look like this."

Before she could protest, he was already grabbing his keys and guiding her toward the door.

The restaurant Azaan chose was one of the most exclusive in the city, known for its intimate ambiance and exquisite cuisine. The maître d' greeted him with a smile, ushering them to a private table near a large window overlooking the city skyline.

The soft glow of candlelight reflected in Zaina's eyes as she sat down, the golden bangles on her wrist jingling faintly. Azaan held her chair for her before taking his seat across the table, his gaze never leaving hers.

"You've been quiet," he said, leaning forward slightly. "What's on your mind?"

She hesitated, her fingers playing with the edge of her napkin. "I guess... I'm not used to this kind of attention."

He tilted his head, studying her. "What kind of attention?"

"The way you look at me," she admitted softly. "Like I'm the only person in the room."

"That's because you are," he said without hesitation. "Zaina, when I'm with you, the rest of the world disappears."

Her cheeks flushed, and she looked down at her plate, unable to meet his intense gaze.

"Meri taraf dekho," (Look at me,) he said gently, his voice coaxing.

When she finally lifted her eyes to his, he smiled. "That's better. I want you to understand something, jaan-e-man. You don't have to do anything special for me to see you this way. You could be in pajamas with your hair tied up, and I'd still think you're the most beautiful woman alive."

Her lips quivered as she fought back tears. "You're too good to me."

"Bas yeh yaad rakho," (Just remember this,) he said, leaning forward, his voice low and intimate. "I'm yours. Completely. Utterly. And I always will be."

As the waiter poured their drinks and took their orders, Azaan raised his glass.

"To the woman who stole my heart," he said, his smile softening. "And who makes every day brighter just by being in it."

Zaina's throat tightened as she clinked her glass against his. "To you—for always believing in me."

Their eyes met over the candlelight, and for the first time in a long time, Zaina felt truly seen—not just as a designer, not just as a wife, but as herself.

After dinner, Azaan drove them home, the city lights casting a soft glow inside the car. Zaina leaned back in her seat, her fingers idly tracing the embroidery on her dress.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"For what?"

"For tonight. For making me feel... special."

Azaan glanced at her briefly before returning his eyes to the road. "You don't need me to make you feel special, jaan-e-man. You already are."

She smiled, her heart swelling with love as the quiet hum of the car filled the space between them.