"You know, Mahveen, one should have fate written like yours,"
Mahveen glanced up at the mirror, meeting her aunt Shayra's gaze, who stepped inside the room with a smile that she had craved for years but was finally at the receiving end of it.
Coming to stand behind her, shayra rested one hand on Mahveen's shoulder, her fingers cool against the heavy bridal dupatta that draped over Mahveen's head and chest. The intricate embroidery glinted under the soft room light, framing her simple yet elegant choker necklace.
"I still can't believe it," Shayra continued, setting a glass of water on the stand in front of Mahveen. "Our little Mahveen, finally getting married. And to Faizan! You're so lucky."
Mahveen's lips twitched into a shy smile, her ears burning beneath her veil. She lowered her gaze, fingers toying with the hem of her dress.
"Are you shy now? Oh, come on." Shayra leaned down, her breath warm against Mahveen's cheek. "Look at you. Faizan's going to be over the moon when he sees his bride."
"It's not like that, Aunt," Mahveen said, her cheeks flushing deeper.
"That, we'll see." Shayra's fingers adjusted the veil, smoothing the fabric with a gentle yet lingering touch. "The groom's party is already on their way. Why don't you drink this energy drink and rest for a while? I'll get the girls out so they don't disturb you."
Mahveen nodded, feeling tears welling up behind her eyes while her aunt handed her the glass which she brought to her lips, the water cool and oddly sweet against her tongue.
"Come on, girls," Shayra called over her shoulder, ushering the bridesmaids out. "Let the bride have a moment to herself. Plenty of time to gossip later."
When the door clicked shut, silence settled over the suite. Mahveen placed the now-empty glass aside and rose to her feet facing herself in the mirror, fingers smoothing the soft, layered silk of her bridal maxi. The girl staring back at her looked like a dream — the kind she'd prayed for on countless nights.
All praise is due to Allah, she thought, her eyes misting over. As an orphan she couldn't have asked for more than what he bestowed upon her.
After her parents died in a tragic accident, five-year-old Mahveen was taken in by her father's family. They were strict, holding tightly to their rules and traditions, but they never neglected her and thus despite being the orphaned, she was raised alongside her other cousins, given all the necessities a girl could ask for.
Now, she was about to marry the man she had prayed for — the man of her dreams. Raised under her grandfather's watchful eye, a man devoted to his faith, Mahveen had absorbed his teachings like rain to parched earth. Faith became her anchor and in her quiet prayers, she had always asked for a pious husband who would share that same unwavering belief — a man who feared Allah and honored his word.
Today was special for Mahveen, not just because she was getting married, but because, for once, she felt the warmth of motherly love. Her aunt, who had always kept a polite but measured distance, had finally bridged that gap. The smile, the gentle touch, the soft words — things Mahveen had longed for but never dared to expect.
She hadn't realized how starved she was for that simple affection until today, when Shayra had leaned close, eyes soft, and spoken to her like a mother would to her own daughter and the memory of it spread warmth through Mahveen's chest, a feeling that all was right in her world.
A sudden wave of dizziness hit her, snapping her out of her thoughts. The room before her swayed around her, the bridal suite blurring into a hazy mess of gold and red. Mahveen pressed a hand to her temple, stumbling toward the bed.
Why do I feel so lightheaded?
She sank down onto the mattress, her breaths shallow. It had to be because she hadn't eaten. The last thing she'd swallowed was a handful of nuts and the drink her aunt had handed her.
I just need to rest for a moment, she thought leaning back against the headboard and let her eyes drift shut. The room seemed to tilt beneath her, the ceiling spinning slowly, like a carousel of fading lights and then darkness enveloped her.
The glass doors of airport slid open, and a wave of humid air hit Zayaan like a slap. With a phone pressed to his ear, he dragged his suitcase through the crowd with furrowed brows.
Zayaan's grip tightened around the phone as he pressed the phone harder to his ear, his jaw clenched. "Maybe it didn't," he said, the words sharper than he intended. "Maybe there was nothing worth staying for."
Not waiting any longer he ended the call and shoved the phone into his pocket while his eyes scanned the parking area before he approached a cab.
On seeing him approach, the driver stepped forward, sweat gleaming on his forehead. "Sir, where to?" He asked as he seized Zayaan up and down who looked like foreigner, yet not.
"Imperial Suites."
The driver nodded before grabbing the bag and shoving it into the trunk while Zayaan climbed into the backseat, the door slamming shut with a hollow thud behind him. The air inside the cab was thick, smelling faintly of cigarette smoke and leather.
Zayaan leaned his head against the cool glass, strands of hair falling over his forehead. The phone call had drained whatever energy he had left, leaving him hollow. His eyes were heavy, burning from hours spent poring over medical journals, trying to finish the medical report.
He had no interest in sightseeing. Whatever nostalgia Delhi held for him could wait until after the wedding — the only reason he'd flown halfway across the world.
Half an hour later, Zayaan found himself standing in front of the Imperial Suite. A bellboy stepped forward, eyes scanning Zayaan up and down before reaching for his suitcase. Zayaan handed it over without a word, fishing out a few bills to pay the cab driver.
Zayaan rubbed the back of his neck, the ache in his muscles spreading down to his spine. "Just give me my key card," he said, leaning against the reception desk. "Zayaan Sarfaraz. Or maybe Eric."
The receptionist's manicured nails clicked over the keyboard, her brows knitting together. "I'm sorry, sir, but there's no suite booked under either name," she said, glancing up with a practiced, apologetic smile.
Zayaan's jaw clenched feeling the dull throb behind his eyes intensified. Before he could snap, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, the screen flashing Eric's name.
"Where the hell are you?" Eric's voice came through, loud and too cheerful. "Is your flight delayed? Everyone's waiting!"
Zayaan stepped away from the desk, pressing a finger against his temple. "Are you at it with your pranks again?"
"What? Man, what are you talking about?"
Zayaan exhaled sharply, eyes closing. "They said there's no room booked under my name."
"Oh, so you're here? But what nonsense are you sprouting?"
"I'm tired, Eric," Zayaan muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. The lobby lights seemed too bright, the scent of floral air freshener too strong. "Just tell me where the hell I'm supposed to be."
"Okay, okay, calm down," Eric said, his voice losing its humor. "Where are you right now? Let me come get you."
"At the reception desk of Imperial Suite."
There was a beat of silence. Then a groan. "You've got to be kidding me. I told you, it's Royal Palace Hotel. Royal Palace, not Imperial Suite!"
"....."
"Man, this is why I said let me pick you up. But no, you had to play it cool and do it yourself,"
Zayaan swallowed, his throat dry. The lobby felt like it was closing in around him, the chandelier lights blurring into one.
"Stay there," Eric said, more gently this time. "I'll come get you—"
"No," Zayaan interrupted, pressing a palm to his temple. "I can't. I can't travel anymore. Let me just take a nap. Then you can pick me up."
"Fine," Eric said, a heavy sigh on the other end. "Just call me when you wake up."
Zayaan shoved the phone back into his pocket and turned to the receptionist with sagging shoulder.
"Any rooms available?"