Chapter 14: Chapter 13 | Engagement

He's wearing a simple blood-red kurta—leaning towards maroon—with fitted white pants. It's plain, nothing extravagant, yet it looks simply amazing on him. And just like that, insecurity starts creeping in, making me wonder if I even deserve to stand beside him.

But then I remember the Love Yourself chant those seven boys from the other side of the world drilled into my mind, and I smile to myself.

Love yourself, Ziah. You are beautiful, babe.

I steal a quick peek to see if he's turned away, but—no. He's still staring.

Oh my Allah, this is so embarrassing.

His obsession with staring needs to be studied.

My hands itch to cover my hot cheeks, but I resist the urge, gulping down the lump in my throat as I continue following Mamma.

"Never thought I'd see a shy Ziah," Fuzail says as he walks toward me, grinning.

"Same here, bro," I grin back, feeling happier now that he's here.

"First, my heart stopped when I heard you were marrying Ziyan—Zi-yan—the same guy you've labeled as your enemy for years. And now you're blushing, sneaking peeks at your soon-to-be husband? Woah, woah, woah—I need an energy drink to handle this." He places a dramatic hand over his chest, looking personally victimized by this entire situation.

I laugh at his ridiculousness. "The unexpected always happens at some point in life, Fuz."

He nods, smiling at my words. "That's true, my little gi—"

I immediately stop him before he can ruffle my hair—a very bad habit of his and Ziyan's.

"No, no, no! Hafsa will kill you if you ruin this. And I will too if I look ugly in the pictures because of you."

He holds his hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay!"

I grab his arm, linking mine with his. "Let's go, bud."

With a nod, he walks me toward Ziyan, who already looks bored out of his mind.

"Here comes your bride."

I take a seat beside Ziyan, my cheeks burning as butterflies throw a full-blown karaoke party in my stomach.

Enjoy, enjoy, it's your day.

Fuzail gets called away, promising to return soon, and now it's just me and Ziyan, sitting together in front of a crowd of relatives—uncles from both my mother and father's side.

Mamma said she was only calling close relatives, yet I spot our neighbor's mother's daughter's daughter running around.

I sneak a glance at Ziyan, who's staring at his very polished shoes, looking as calm as ever.

I want to compliment him. He looks too good not to.

But shouldn't he be the one doing that first?

...What if we change the rules?

It wouldn't hurt anyone, right?

Oh, wait.

It would hurt someone.

My ego.

Fine. I'll make him say it first.

"How do I look?" I ask, tilting my head slightly.

Ziyan blinks, surprised by my question, his grey orbs settling on me in silence. But his silence speaks—and all I can feel from it is positivity.

"Beautiful," he finally says. "You look beautiful. This color suits you."

A soft smile plays on his lips.

I bite mine to hide my grin.

"Thank you! You know, you don't look that bad yourself. No—scratch that—you look handsome, dashingly beautiful. Damn, dude, why don't you wear these types of kurtas daily? I'm telling you, wear these to your important meetings, and they'll accept your proposals before you even start your presentation!" I pat his arm, grinning.

He lowers his head, chuckling.

"If I wore them every day, what would be the point of wearing them today? Some things should be saved for special occasions—only then do you get such big compliments. If I wore them daily, I wouldn't have heard your sweet words." His voice is calm, explaining like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

I nod, considering his words. "You sometimes speak logically. I like that."

I pat his back like an old grandpa, nodding in approval, and he chuckles again, his head still low.

But before I can say anything else, a voice—dripping with disapproval—cuts through the air.

"Haniya, I know your child is getting married to her cousin, but that doesn't mean she should be this friendly and free with him. Look at how close she's sitting, talking to him as if they're already married. Kids nowadays really cross their limits if we give them too much freedom. Are you sure this is an arranged marriage?"

I freeze.

The disgust in her tone is thinly veiled with a fake laugh, like she's pretending it's a harmless comment. But she's talking loud enough for everyone to hear—including us.

My hands clench into fists, and I quickly scoot a little back, deciding to zip my mouth shut for the rest of the day.

But before I can completely shrink into myself, I take a peek at Ziyan. His jaw is clenched, his grey eyes locked on someone over my shoulder, burning with an intensity that makes my stomach drop.

Then, he parts his lips, and my heart thumps against my ribs.

"Aunty?" His voice is calm—too calm. The kind that makes people uneasy.

"Yeah?" My mother responds.

I mentally hiss.

That woman stutters, probably feeling the heat of his stare.

"When are we starting the ceremony?" Ziyan asks, standing up.

I follow his movement, my ears glued to his next words.

"In a few, darling," Mamma answers with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Ziah's grandparents are on their way—they should be here in twenty to thirty minutes."

"Why do you ask?" she questions, watching him.

Ziyan shoves his hands into his pockets and then, turning his full attention to the other woman, he says—

"Thought of grabbing an ice cream for Ziah. I don't want any bitterness on our special day."

The old woman glares daggers at him.

But Ziyan, with an expression so calm it could fuel anyone up, raises an eyebrow.

"Would you like one?" he asks, voice dripping with mock politeness. "I heard eating something sweet gets rid of bitterness on one's tongue. And I think—before I give Ziah her ice cream—you need one first. No?"

I don't stop myself from chuckling.

She mutters something under her breath and stomps away, throwing one last glare at us.

"God, Ziyan, that was so mean!" Mamma slaps his arm, laughing.

Ziyan only shrugs. "Wasn't she the one being mean? Interfering in things that aren't her business?" He scoffs, sitting back down.

"Oh, Mister, where is my ice cream?" I pat the couch beside me.

He raises an eyebrow but stands up—only for Mamma to immediately stop him, forcing him to sit again.

"These kids," she mutters. "I'll tell Saif to bring one. You sit here."

She walks away, and I literally watch her pass by Saif without saying a word.

Ziyan pinches the bridge of his nose as kids scream their lungs out, running around in heavy clothes.

"Indeed, a very simple engagement party where only a few people were invited," he mocks, rolling his eyes. "'Few' in the sense that I can't even see people here."

His adorable sarcasm makes me laugh.

"Goodness, why are you so allergic to big gatherings?" I giggle.

But just as the words leave my mouth, I see it.

The way his body stiffens.

The way his fingers suddenly start fidgeting.

The way his gaze drops to the floor.

And then, his eyes—softening, flickering with something deep, something raw—before he clenches his fists, shoving whatever emotion was about to spill back inside.

My heart clenches.

A flashback—still crystal clear in my memory—hits me like a truck.

The day I saw him more vulnerable than a newborn.

The day he locked himself up, refusing to look at his dead father—because the sheer crowd of people at the funeral scared him.

He couldn't even look at his crying mother.

And from that day on, he rarely attended any gatherings, using work as his only excuse.

The day he hugged me and cried for hours is still so clear in my mind. That day, I saw another Ziyan.

With Uncle's death, the joyous, extroverted Ziyan died too. And in his place, a silent Ziyan was born.

People always say boys are Mama's boys because their mothers pamper them. But with Ziyan, it was different. He was his father's prince. And after his father's death, he was so broken that he didn't utter a single word for a month.

Like me, he hates crying in front of others. In all the years I've known him, I've never seen him cry—except that day. And even then, it was in a dark room, where only I was present.

He was too scared to even step outside, too afraid of the pitying looks. He stayed locked in his room for five hours straight. I can still remember the way he shook his head over and over, just like a child, when I asked him to come out.

And I can still hear his voice—mumbling against my neck—that he was scared to face reality. That the moment he stepped outside, the sight of all those people in white, their sorrowful faces, would slap him back to reality. And he didn't want to face that reality.

And now, standing here, I feel like shit for not understanding why he wouldn't want a big crowd in his home.

Not when the last time people gathered here, it was for something so devastating.

I clear my throat, forcing the lump away, and glance at Ziyan. His jaw is clenched.

"They came!"

Mamma's excited yell snaps me out of my thoughts, and she rushes forward. I force a smile and turn to see my very healthy grandparents entering.

"Assalamu Alaikum, Mamma!"

Mamma beams, hugging her mother with a bright grin.

"Walaikum Assalam, my love." My grandmother cups her face and presses a tight kiss onto her forehead. Then, almost instantly, she pulls back and scans the room. "Where is my granddaughter?"

Mamma pouts. "You abandoned me already?"

I giggle at their cute bonding. "Here, Ma!" I call out with a grin.

Her eyes land on me, and with a swish of her very heavy dress, she rushes toward me.

"Oh, my baby!"

I barely have time to react before she cups my face.

"How are you?"

"Alhamdulillah, fit and fine. Doing great as ever!" I grin.

She winks. "That's my girl."

Giggling, I pull her into a tight hug.

"Okay, okay, now move—I have to hug my grandson-in-law too." She pats my arm, making me step aside.

I glance at Ziyan—only to find him staring at me in horror as he gets pulled into a bone-crushing hug.

"This handsome hunk is going to be your husband?!" she exclaims, stepping back to inspect him. "You look even more beautiful in real life than in the picture Haniya sent me!"

Before he can react, she grabs his face and presses a long, tight kiss on his forehead.

When she pulls away—two very visible lipstick marks remain.

I burst into mad laughter. And I'm not alone—everyone else joins in too.

I know Ziyan's hands are itching to wipe them away, but doing so would look rude, so he forces a smile instead.

"Since Ziah was a kid, I always knew she'd be blessed with a handsome husband—just like me." My grandmother pats his back proudly.

"Assalamu Alaikum."

When Ziyan greets someone, I instinctively glance over my shoulder—only to stumble back a step.

Grandpa stands there, dressed in a sharp black suit, a flat cap resting on his head, and a wooden stick gripped in his hand. His wrinkled face is set in a hard, serious expression.

He nods at Ziyan, mutters a barely audible "Walaikum Assalam," and moves forward. This man is the walking definition of I, Me, and Myself.

"How are you, Grandpa?" I smile at the old man, but he barely acknowledges me, narrowing his eyes to look at Ziyan. He won't even tilt his head.

"Alhamdulillah."

That's it. No follow-up. No and you? He walks past me without a second glance. The only person this man has ever been a gentleman to is his wife.

"Your name?" His voice is deep and unwavering as he questions Ziyan.

Ziyan glances at me before answering, "Ziyan Obied Ali." His voice is soft—the respectful tone he always uses with elders.

"Do you have a job? Do you earn?"

I want to laugh. Oh, Grandpa, if only you knew.

"I do."

"What is your salary per month?"

And there it is. The one question I know Ziyan won't answer.

Before he can even attempt it, I lean closer and whisper, "Grandpa?"

He bends slightly, raising a questioning brow at me.

"He's my boss. I work under him, remember?" I lift an eyebrow of my own.

His throat clears, and he gives a nod, processing that bit of information. "So you earn well. But can you take care of my daughter?"

I grin. He sounds like a king handing over his precious princess.

"I can. And I promise I'll take care of her with whatever I have."

Ziyan's voice is steady, but his eyes—those grey orbs locked onto mine—send warmth rushing to my cheeks.

Grandpa doesn't respond. He simply lifts his stick and points at Mamma and Abbu, making them step back like they're dodging an incoming attack.

"What are you waiting for? Start the ceremony."

With that, he strides toward the empty seat in the front row.

"Sit down, sit down," Grandma huffs, pushing him into the chair as if he forgot how to sit.

I do the same, heart hammering.

Finally, Hafsa and Nisma arrive with a tray carrying the rings. Please be simple. Please be beautiful.

Ziyan's aunt sits beside him in her wheelchair, while my mother stands next to me. My chest feels tight. My entire body buzzes.

I'm about to become someone's fiancée.

Not just anyone's.

Ziyan's.

My cousin.

The boy I once had a huge crush on.

I remember being a kid and furious when someone told me I couldn't marry him because he was my cousin. I'd forced him to promise me he'd marry me one day, throwing the biggest tantrum of my life.

Of course, back then, it was because he was sweet to me and bought me candies every day. But as I grew older, I realized how dumb I had been. I buried that childhood fantasy deep down.

And yet... here we are.

"Say Bismillah and take the ring, Ziyan."

His aunt's soft voice pulls me back to reality. I lift my lashes—only to find his grey eyes already on me.

I squeeze my hands together. I'm going to faint. I swear I'm going to faint.

He takes the ring from his aunt.

I sit frozen, too awkward to offer my hand. Would it look desperate if I just gave it to him?

Okay. I'll count to ten. Then I'll—

One... two... three—

Before I even reach four, Ammi takes my hand and places it in his.

Ya Allah, if I faint now, they'll think I have some disease. Please, just give me some energy.

Even though this isn't the first time my hand has been in his, this time is different. This time, my stomach flips when my cold fingers touch his rough palm.

His hold is gentle, no hesitation in the way he slips the ring onto my finger.

Loud cheers and claps erupt around us, making me shrink into myself.

Now, it's my turn.

I take the ring Mamma gives me and slip it onto Ziyan's finger.

And the moment I do—

"MY BABY!"

I get crushed into a bone-breaking hug by Mamma.

But Grandma is fast. She pushes Mamma away and steals me for herself.

I giggle at their antics, but my chest feels light. Happy. I never thought I'd be smiling this much when I said yes to this marriage.

I genuinely thought I'd be crying for the rest of my life. But this... this is actually fun.

Am I being childish?

Probably.

Do I care?

Not at all.

Unless, of course, Ziyan suddenly turns into one of those cold-hearted book husbands—telling me to shut up, sleep on the floor, and stay out of his sight.

But Ziyan isn't like that.

He's never yelled at me for no reason. Never blamed me for anything. And as for sharing a bed?

I have my own room in this house. So I really have nothing to worry about.

"My little bean has grown into a woman," Grandma sniffles, swaying me in her arms. "She's finally getting married!"

"I still can't believe these Tom and Jerry are actually getting married."

Fuzail dramatically wipes his fake tears, shaking his head. "My eyes are being betrayed."

I don't blame him.

This is the same guy who has heard me rant about how much of a rotten tomato Ziyan is.

And now, I'm willingly choosing the rotten tomato as my life partner.

Yeah. Even I'm still processing that.

My eyes find Ziyan's aunt, who's watching us with an adoring smile. I quickly stand and walk over to hug her.

"Congratulations. I can't wait to see you as my daughter-in-law."

Oh no.

I'm blushing.

Again.

My cheeks already feel warm, but now a whole new layer of red spreads across them.

I give her a shy smile before sitting back down.

"Stop that," Ziyan mutters.

I blink at him. "Stop what?"

"That shy smile. It doesn't suit you. You look like a creep."

A chuckle escapes him—right before a punch lands on his back.

"Shut up, you witch! I didn't ask for your opinion. I'll smile. I'll grin. It's my mouth, and you have no say in it."

I flip my dupatta instead of my hair—because my hair is perfectly set—and give him a hard glare.

This male witch won't rest until he ruins my peace.

Next Day

"Grandma! What are you saying?! I always go with him what is new in that?!" I huff feeling so frustrated that I want to pull my hair out of my skull.

"That has to be changed now, he will be your husband soon, so you are not allowed to go with him" she shakes her head and again we hear the horn sound.

Ziyan is waiting since past 10 minutes and this women is not letting me go out.

"Grandpa!" He shrugs with an head shake.

"Your grandpa cannot do anything hear darling, you should have gone with your father, now since no one is their to drop you, you will be staying in the house today" she is seriously asking me to go to the office at 7 when I should be their by 9, what should I do? go and sweep the floors? Wash the bathrooms?

A sigh of irritation escapes my lips, after assuring that my hijaab is perfectly set, I grab my bag and before grandma  could come out of the kitchen and grab me by my hair, I take my shoes in my hand and with one loud bye I rush out ignoring her 'dont you dare Ziah'.

A hiss leaves my lips when earth ditches me and small stone pinches my leg sole but I ignore the pain like a matured girl and I quickly hop in the waiting car.

"Drive fast" I pat Ziyan's arm asking him to hurry but he stares at me confused "what are you looking at? start the car or do you want to hear grandma's lecture" he quickly comes in alert when he hears grandma's name and before the door of my house opens he starts the engine and we leave the place.

"Ya Allah" I breathe out resting back "What happened?" Ziyan looks curious so I tell him how Grandma was so against me meeting him and how she didn't let me step out of the house, and how like a super women I escaped.

They did not put any breaks on me meeting him and when we were single and now when we are engaged they are bringing Haram and Halal here? Seriously?

A chuckle leaves his lips and he shakes his head, but I start wearing my shoes.

After arriving we part our ways and I quickly rush towards my floor where I find our boss seated in her big talking to someone in call, I make my way towards my friends who are surrounding my desk.

"Hey, whatsup buddies?" I throw my arm over Alia's shoulder who grins at my presence "hey" Zoe gives me a smile but I see Zach staring at the box seated on my desk.

A gift box, okay today no food but gift? That's sounds amazing.

I like gifts.

"Is this mine?" I ask them and they nod "who else have creepy stalkers other than you? Come on open it I was waiting for you since past 10 minutes" he takes a seat and I roll my eyes at his rudeness but sit as well not before throwing my bag on him.

Zoe and Alia grabs their chairs to sit beside us.

"What will be inside this?" I giggle feeling excited "it says only Ziah should open, that means he know we eat what he sends her?" Zach speaks as I take the box and it's a little bit heavy.

Grandma! What are you saying?! I always go with him! What's new in that?!" I huff, frustration bubbling inside me to the point where I feel like pulling my hair out.

"That has to change now. He will be your husband soon, so you are not allowed to go with him." She shakes her head stubbornly, just as another impatient honk blares from outside.

Ziyan has been waiting for the past ten minutes, and this woman refuses to let me leave.

"Grandpa!" I turn to him, hoping for backup, but he just shrugs, shaking his head.

"Your grandpa can't do anything here, darling. You should have gone with your father. Now, since no one is there to drop you, you'll be staying home today."

She seriously expects me to show up at the office at 7 AM when I'm supposed to be there by 9? What am I supposed to do—sweep the floors? Wash the bathrooms?

A deep sigh escapes me. After making sure my hijab is perfectly set, I grab my bag. And before Grandma can march out of the kitchen and grab me by the hair, I snatch my shoes in my hand and dash for the door.

"Don't you dare, Ziah!" she shouts after me.

But I ignore her, sprinting barefoot. A sharp hiss leaves my lips as the rough ground digs into my soles, but I push through like the mature woman I am.

I throw myself into the waiting car.

"Drive fast!" I slap Ziyan's arm, urging him to hurry.

He stares at me, confused. "What are you—"

"Start the car! Or do you want to hear Grandma's lecture?"

The moment I mention Grandma, he snaps into action, starting the engine just as the door swings open behind us. We speed away.

"Ya Allah," I breathe out, sinking into the seat.

"What happened?" He glances at me, curious.

I tell him about Grandma's sudden rules, her bringing up halal and haram now when they never stopped us from meeting before. I even describe my heroic escape.

Ziyan chuckles, shaking his head. I roll my eyes and start slipping on my shoes.

When we arrive, we part ways, and I hurry to my floor. Our boss sits in her big chair, talking on the phone. I head straight to my desk, where my friends are already gathered.

"Hey, what's up, buddies?" I throw an arm over Alia's shoulder, who grins at my presence.

"Hey," Zoe smiles.

Zach, however, is staring at a box on my desk.

A gift box.

Okay, no food today, but a gift? That sounds amazing. I like gifts.

"Is this mine?" I ask, already reaching for it.

"Who else has creepy stalkers other than you?" Zach snorts. "Come on, open it. I've been waiting for ten minutes."

Rolling my eyes at his rudeness, I sit down, tossing my bag at him. Zoe and Alia drag chairs closer.

"What do you think is inside?" I giggle, feeling excited.

"It says only Ziah should open it. That means he knows we eat whatever he sends her," Zach mutters.

"I told you, he's a sweet stalker," I joke, lifting the box. It's a little heavy.

I untie the ribbon, flip the lid open—

And my heart jumps out of my chest.

A loud, gut-wrenching scream rips from my throat. Zoe's shriek follows.

A dead rat.

Its fingers and toes are severed, its half-slit neck oozing blood.

The box slips from my hands, crashing onto the floor. My body seizes in terror as my breath turns ragged. My stomach churns.

A note sits beside the mangled corpse.

Remove the ring yourself, or I'll cut your finger just as delicately as I did to the rat.

My ears buzz. I clamp my hands over them, trying to block out the horror.

Alia clings to Zoe, sobbing. Zoe trembles.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but the image is burned into my mind.

A wave of nausea hits me.

Gasps and murmurs fill the office.

"Fuck," Zach curses loudly.

......

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