The desert wind didn't whisper secrets—it screamed them. It carried the gritty taste of betrayal on its breath, scratching against the white walls of the Aziz haveli like a persistent beggar. I stood at my bedroom window, the latticed marble cool beneath my fingertips, watching the sand dance in whirlwinds below. Tonight, the very air felt charged, heavy with a promise of storm.
Or perhaps it was just the storm in my own heart.
"Aisha Begum, you shouldn't be at the window."
Gulli's voice, soft as silk but edged with worry, came from behind me. My maidservant, my secret-keeper, my only friend in this gilded cage. She moved to my side, her dark eyes wide with the same fear that had been gnawing at me for days.
"They're talking again in the courtyard," she whispered, leaning close. "Sheher Khan's men have returned. They brought gifts this time. Silver jewelry. Fine silks from Lahore."
A cold knot tightened in my stomach. Gifts meant the negotiation was advancing. Gifts meant my father was seriously considering the proposal.
"Sheher is a vulture circling a dying animal," I murmured, my eyes fixed on the distant gate where torches flickered. "He smells weakness."
"Our Sardar is not weak," Gulli said loyally, but even she couldn't hide the tremor in her voice.
"No. Just desperate." I turned from the window, the heavy silk of my lehenga swishing around my ankles. "A tribal war with the Maliks would drain our resources, cost lives. And Sheher has positioned himself as the only bridge to peace."
"The price of that bridge is you," Gulli said, the words hanging between us like a death sentence.
The price was indeed me. Aisha Aziz, daughter of Sardar Aziz Khan, bargaining chip in a game of tribal politics. Sheher Khan of the rival tribe had proposed marriage—not as a request, but as a solution. A compensation marriage to settle the alleged murder of a Malik tribesman, a murder he claimed was committed by the Chaudhry clan, our other enemies.
But Sheher didn't want peace. He wanted power. And marrying me would give him a legitimate claim to my father's lands when the old man eventually passed.
What no one knew—what could never be known—was that my heart, my soul, my very self already belonged to another. A man whose name spoken aloud in this house was blasphemy.
Zayn Chaudhry.
The memory of his face, all sharp angles and stormy eyes, flashed before me. The feel of his calloused hands against my cheeks. The taste of his lips on mine during our secret meetings under the ancient banyan tree at the edge of our lands. We were married in the eyes of God, bound by a nikkah performed in secret by an old, sympathetic cleric. A union that would be considered treason by both our families.
"Aisha?" Gulli's hand on my arm pulled me from the memory. "You're trembling."
"I need to see him," I breathed, the decision crystallizing even as I said the words. "Tonight."
Gulli's face paled. "Bibi, no! It's too dangerous! Sheher's men are everywhere, watching!"
"All the more reason," I said, a desperate resolve hardening within me. "If the walls are closing in, I need to look into his eyes one more time. I need to know if our plan... if there's still hope."
"There is always hope with him," Gulli said, her faith in Zayn almost childlike. She had been there that night, our only witness. She had seen the way he looked at me, as if I were the only star in a black sky.
"Then help me," I said, gripping her hands. "The servants' passage to the eastern orchard. The moon will be dark in two hours. That's when I'll go."
Gulli searched my face, saw the determination there, and nodded slowly. "I will prepare your darkest chador. And I will keep watch here. If anyone asks, you are unwell and sleeping."
I pulled her into a quick embrace. "What would I do without you, Gulli?"
"Let us never find out," she whispered back.
---
The two hours crawled by like years. I paced my room, my mind racing with possibilities, with terrors. What if Zayn said we should run now? Could I abandon my family? What if he said we must wait? Could I bear to be handed to Sheher?
When the final call to prayer echoed through the haveli and the compound settled into its deepest night silence, I moved.
Gulli helped me into the plain black chador, pulling the fabric completely over my head and face until only my eyes were visible. She handed me a small bundle—a waterskin, a piece of dry bread, a dagger she had smuggled from the kitchens.
"For protection," she said firmly when I tried to refuse the blade.
I took it, tucking it into the sash at my waist. The weight felt foreign, dangerous.
The servants' passage was a narrow, dusty corridor behind the main kitchens, used for taking garbage out to the compost pits. It smelled of spices and decay. I moved silently, my heart hammering so loud I was sure the guards at the main gate could hear it.
At the end of the passage was a small wooden door, warped by time and weather. Gulli had oiled the hinges earlier in the day. It opened without a sound.
I slipped out into the night.
The eastern orchard was a ghostly place in the moonlight, the twisted shapes of apple and pomegranate trees casting long, grasping shadows. The air was cooler here, sweet with the scent of night-blooming jasmine. And there, at the far edge where the orchard met the wild desert, stood the ancient banyan tree.
Our tree.
Its massive, spreading branches created a canopy that felt like a separate world. And leaning against its thick trunk, arms crossed, was a silhouette I would recognize in total darkness.
Zayn.
He pushed away from the tree as I approached. Even in the poor light, I could see the tension in his shoulders, the grim set of his mouth. He wasn't dressed in his usual fine clothes, but in simple, dark garments that spoke of travel and purpose.
"You came," he said, his voice a low rasp that sent shivers down my spine.
"You asked me to," I replied, stopping a few feet from him. The space between us felt charged, electric.
"It was foolish. Sheher has spies everywhere. I saw two on my way here."
"Then why did you ask me to come?"
"Because I'm leaving, Aisha."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I took an involuntary step back. "Leaving? Where?"
"To find the truth," he said, stepping closer. The moonlight caught his face now, and I saw the dark circles under his eyes, the fatigue mixed with fierce determination. "Sheher's plot. The murder he's framing on my family. I have a lead. The man who actually fired the shot—a mercenary—he's hiding in the northern hills. If I can find him, bring him back alive to confess..."
"Then you'll be cleared," I finished, hope flaring in my chest. "And the compensation marriage would have no basis!"
He nodded sharply. "Exactly. But it will take time. A week, maybe more. And in that time..." He reached out, his hand hovering near my face before he dropped it, as if touching me would break his resolve. "In that time, you must be strong. You must let them think you are defeated. You must play the obedient daughter."
The hope sputtered and died. "You want me to... prepare for a wedding to Sheher?"
"I want you to survive!" he snapped, the control in his voice cracking. "Do you think I can concentrate on hunting the truth if I'm constantly imagining you being dragged to that monster's chambers? I need to know you're safe. I need to know you're buying me time."
Tears pricked my eyes. "And what if you don't find him in time? What if my father agrees to the marriage date before you return?"
Zayn closed the distance between us in one swift movement. His hands came up to cradle my face, his touch simultaneously rough and infinitely gentle. "Then I will storm the wedding itself. I will burn down the pavilion. I will fight through every guard between me and you." His dark eyes burned into mine. "You are my wife, Aisha. Not in secret, not just on paper. In here." He pressed a hand to his own chest. "And I protect what is mine. Do you understand?"
I understood. I understood the madness, the danger, the sheer, terrifying scale of his love. It was a desert sandstorm—uncontrollable, destructive, all-consuming.
"I understand," I whispered, leaning into his touch.
He leaned his forehead against mine, our breaths mingling in the cool night air. "Three things I need from you," he murmured. "First, trust me. Second, be the best actress this desert has ever seen. And third..."
He kissed me. It wasn't like our other kisses—soft, exploratory, stolen. This was a brand. A claim. A promise etched in fire. When he pulled away, we were both breathless.
"Third," he finished, his voice thick, "remember that. No matter what you see, what you hear, what they make you do. Remember that you are mine, and I am coming for you."
A sudden noise—the snap of a twig—made us both freeze. Zayn's head whipped around, his body instantly shifting to place himself between me and the sound. His hand went to the knife at his belt.
From the shadows of the orchard, a figure emerged.
Not a guard. Not Sheher's spy.
My younger brother, Kamran. Fifteen years old, his face pale with shock, his eyes wide as they took in the scene: his sister, wrapped in the arms of Zayn Chaudhry, the enemy.
"Aisha?" he breathed, the word filled with disbelief and dawning horror. "What... what are you doing?"
Zayn's grip on me tightened. My heart stopped.
Our secret was out.
Kamran's eyes widened in shock. "Aisha? What are you doing?"
Our secret was out.
[End of Chapter]
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