Raneya cried through the night—not just for the life that was being stolen from her, but for the piece of herself that had been torn away. It was as if her soul was being auctioned off, lost to the highest bidder. She mourned the girl who once dared to believe in possibility, the girl who thought sheer willpower could move mountains. Now, all that was left of her was a broken girl, buried beneath layers of resignation, too exhausted to even rise from her bed.
But the universe, in all its cruel irony, had a perfect sense of timing.
Just as she was drifting between heartache and exhaustion, the morning sun decided to assert itself with all the subtlety of a marching band. Golden rays pushed through the curtains, shoving their way into the room like a nosy neighbor with too much time on their hands.
And there he was.
Her father. Standing in the doorway.
The grim reaper of her freedom.
"Get ready," he said, voice cold and unwavering, as if he were delivering a daily weather forecast. "The groom's family will be here soon."
Her stomach churned—not just from the flood of dread but from the weight of it all, from the overwhelming realization that her future had been sealed without her consent. She sat up slowly, her hair a tangled mess, but her defiance sharper than ever. "Please, Baba," she begged, her voice raw with desperation. "I don't want this. I don't want a life that isn't mine."
His gaze didn't flicker.
"This is the life you will lead now," he said flatly, the words landing like cold stone on her chest. Unforgiving. Final.
And just like that, the door to her dreams wasn't just shut—it was locked. Bolted. Boarded up for good measure.
Her tears fell again, harder this time, but she barely felt them. Her heart shattered for the last time as she realized: There would be no more fights. No more pleading. There was only the suffocating weight of a future already chosen for her.
But then, as if in some twisted joke of fate, her mother and sister stormed in, armed with what could only be described as a green explosion—an A-line dress the color of envy and an emerald necklace that looked like it had been stolen from a royal vault.
Fazeela clucked like a pageant coach. "Raneya, you'll look so beautiful. Like a Mughal princess—but, you know, more... obedient."
They dressed her like a mannequin, their hands moving with mechanical precision, clipping, pinning, powdering until she was nothing more than a vessel for their ideals.
Her mother's voice came, steady and relentless in the background, as if rehearsing a line she'd said a thousand times. "Daughters who strive to maintain their family's honor never feel unhappy. They prosper. Learn to live for your parents. We want to complete our duty before time runs out... Life is unpredictable, you know?"
Raneya blinked—twice. Once for the weight of her mother's words, and again for the sheer effort it took not to scream, "Yes, life is unpredictable, especially when you're auctioning off your daughter like cattle at a village fair."
She slumped into her reflection, the irony of it all suffocating her. "Prosper," she muttered bitterly, "In what? Spirit? Emotion? Or just in my cooking skills?"
Fazeela snorted, a brief flicker of disappointment crossing her face, but she said nothing further. This moment was too sacred to waste on her daughter's loose tongue.
Meanwhile, outside…
Zaryab—the man of the hour, the potential prince or prankster—was leaning against his sleek, polished car, looking like he was auditioning for a budget cigarette commercial. Tall, dark, and handsome—exactly the type of guy girls in TV dramas warned you about. A wisp of smoke curled lazily from his lips, his eyes fixed on nothing, oozing a brand of confidence that was as thick as the secondhand smoke surrounding him.
From behind, Saniya—his sister, part-time PR agent, full-time headache—approached with arms crossed, scowl in place. "Zaryab!" she snapped. "What the hell are you doing? You look like a bad Bollywood villain on a low budget!"
Zaryab flicked the cigarette away, crushing it beneath his heel. He turned to face her, unbothered. "Relax, Saniya. It's called a vibe. You should try it sometime."
"Oh, please," she deadpanned, rolling her eyes so hard she nearly gave herself a concussion. "You're supposed to make a good impression. Instead, you're acting like some heartbroken teenager after a cricket match."
Zaryab smirked. "Jealous, are we?"
Saniya gagged dramatically. "Of you? I'd rather kiss a lizard."
With an exaggerated flourish, Zaryab lit another cigarette. "I'm just being real. They'll get used to me eventually. Go back in the car and leave me to work my magic."
Saniya wasn't impressed. "You think this is funny? If you don't shape up, I'll tell Khala. She'll have a nice little chat with you."
Zaryab froze, feigning terror. "Khala? Oh no, not Khala! Please, Saniya, not her!" He staggered back, hand to his chest. "She'll ruin me! I can't survive that!"
But before Saniya could finish her threat, the air shifted. The ground trembled beneath them as heavy footsteps approached, slow but deliberate. The figure emerging from the shadows was unmistakable: Rukhsana Khala, a fortress in black, clad from head to toe in a niqab and burqa. Her stick was raised like Thor's hammer, a weapon of maternal wrath.
Zaryab groaned, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "Saniya, please, I'll be good. I promise—no more cigarettes! Let's go inside before—"
But it was too late. She had already spotted him.
"Zaryab!" she roared, voice booming across the yard like thunder. "You selfish boy! You're out here poisoning the air like it's your personal playground! Do you know how many children are dying because of people like you?"
Before he could even react, her stick WHACKED across his arm.
"KHALA!" Zaryab shrieked, hopping back like a cartoon character, causing the cigarette to fall from his hand. "That's assault!"
"Call it justice," she sneered, brandishing the stick once more. "You think smoking is cool? You're not cool. You're a walking warning sign!"
She swirled, picking up the hem of her dress like a ballerina, and continued her tirade. "You're killing the environment. You're killing the air. And worse—you're killing my hope for humanity!"
Zaryab, now dodging every blow, danced away like he was in an action movie, avoiding each strike with comedic precision.
With another swift whack, the stick landed squarely on his shoulder. Zaryab let out a dramatic howl, clutching his arm. "Khala! Please! I can't breathe! Enough!"
Khala stopped in her tracks, glaring at him. "You're lucky I don't have a shovel. You'd be digging your own grave by now!"
"Okay! Okay!" Zaryab raised his hands in surrender. "I'll behave! I'll be charming! I'll act educated! Just… stop hitting me!"
She paused, eyeing him. "Oh, now you're listening?" With a final flick of the stick, she sent him stumbling forward.
Zaryab moaned dramatically, "Khala, please, I can't breathe! Enough! Enough!"
Khala surveyed him for a moment, then nodded with sudden calm. "Good. Now let's go meet the girl."
They turned to leave, but then—
"Khala? What are you doing?" Saniya froze mid-step.
Khala had knelt down, picked up the fallen cigarette, and took a long drag.
Zaryab gasped. "WHAT?! Khala! You're SMOKING?"
Khala grinned slyly, puffing the smoke out. "Don't mind me, dear. I'm just having a moment," she said, muffled by her niqab. She glanced around quickly, making sure no one saw, and then, without missing a beat, stood up, holding the hem of her abaya like a cape and strutted toward them, cigarette still in hand.
Khala yelled back, without skipping a beat, "It's called research, Zaryab. I'm making sure I understand the issue before I lecture you again!"
Zaryab and Saniya just stared, speechless.
"She's… unbelievable," Saniya muttered.
"She's a menace," Zaryab grumbled, "But somehow, she's still my favorite person."
They couldn't help it. They burst into laughter as they watched Khala, the unstoppable force of nature, waddling ahead with her cigarette dangling from her lips, stick flying behind her like some rebellious superhero.
As they followed her, Zaryab called out, "Hey Khala—have you been working out? You look kind of slim!"
Without turning, she shouted back, "Finally, someone notices! Unlike you, I evolve!"
Saniya groaned, "Let's just get this over with."
Khala raised her stick dramatically as they entered the house. "Behave yourselves, or I'll be back for more!"
And with that, the groom's party approached the lion's den.