The Qureshi house pulsed with an undercurrent of anticipation so thick, even the ceiling fan seemed to hesitate before every spin. The drawing room, drenched in marigold light, had been transformed into a matrimonial theater — trays of perfectly aligned snacks, polished silverware glinting like weapons of charm, and flower arrangements that looked too elegant to breathe around.
It wasn't just a rishta visit. It was a declaration. A verdict. A show.
Zaryab entered like a man summoned to a boardroom, dressed in a crisp white kurta, polished to perfection, confidence stitched into his collar. Saniya trailed behind him, nervously clutching her clutch like a lifeline, her bangles rattling a chaotic rhythm. And then came her — Rukhsana Khala — storming in like she owned the air in the room, her abaya flaring behind her like a cape. Every step was a performance. Every look, a judgment.
Fazeela met them with a tight-lipped smile, the kind that said, I'm managing just fine, even as her fingers trembled around the chai cups. Aanya sat poised, pretending disinterest while watching like it was the season finale of Rishta Roulette. Qureshi Sahab, the patriarch, adjusted his waistcoat for the third time — an unspoken tell that his composure was cracking.
And upstairs, behind a locked door, Raneya sat motionless.
The men quickly excused themselves to the "man's corner" for their customary interrogation. Chai was poured, compliments exchanged, and then came the inevitable question.
"So, Zaryab beta," Qureshi Sahab began, his tone that of a courtroom judge. "What are your future plans?"
Zaryab straightened, voice smooth, rehearsed. "I'm working at a reputable firm, but I plan to launch my own startup. Financial independence is essential before marriage."
A single nod of approval. "Vision. Good."
Elsewhere, the women played their own game. Saniya leaned toward Aanya, eyes sparkling with mischief. "So, your sister and my brother... think they'll make a 'serial-worthy' couple?"
Aanya smirked. "Depends. Can your brother survive a girl who bites before she bakes?"
In the far corner, Rukhsana and Fazeela's passive-aggressive duel was already in full swing.
"Haye Fazeela, you look exhausted," Rukhsana cooed, sipping her tea like it came from a royal estate. "Tired of life or just your lazy daughters?"
Fazeela sighed. "No one's lazy, Rukhsana. Just a busy home."
Rukhsana laughed, tossing her dupatta with flair. "My daughters worship me. I've raised them like queens, not couch potatoes. MashAllah, I'm glowing. Look at this skin!"
Fazeela didn't flinch. "Yes, glowing. Like an overused ring light. Sit before your selfie session turns into CPR."
The room burst into laughter. Even Rukhsana cracked a smile.
But the laughter died the moment the topic shifted.
"Should we bring Raneya down?" Saniya asked.
Fazeela nodded, straightening her dupatta like armor. "Yes. It's time."
In her room, Raneya sat frozen before the vanity, the chandelier above casting a golden hue that felt less heavenly, more mocking. Her bottle-green dress clung like ceremonial chains. The kohl around her eyes couldn't hide the exhaustion, the swelling, the ache of a hundred sleepless nights.
She stared at her reflection — a stranger. A doll made up for display.
Aanya entered with her usual swagger, arms folded. "Still in tragic heroine mode? If you're auditioning for Banno Ki Aayegi Baraat, you've nailed the look. The mood? Not so much."
Raneya said nothing. She fastened her jhumkay slowly, like each clasp was a silent protest.
"You know," Aanya continued, stepping closer, "sulking won't stop this. They've already decided. You're the final dish on the buffet — beautifully presented, already served."
Raneya's voice was quiet. Cold. "You've learned to survive in this circus."
"Better than being the clown." Aanya's smirk held no warmth.
Raneya rose. Adjusted her dupatta. The bangles around her wrists jingled like tiny alarms. She walked, not like a bride-to-be, but like someone walking to her execution.
Downstairs, conversations halted the moment she entered.
She was stunning. But not the kind that invited compliments — the kind that silenced rooms. A haunting beauty. Regal, reluctant, tragic.
Zaryab forgot to blink.
Rukhsana gasped softly. "She's giving Mughal-e-Azam heroine. Beautiful and... doomed."
Fazeela cleared her throat. "Let's talk about the wedding."
"As soon as possible," Qureshi Sahab added. "Before Ramadan."
Zaryab nodded. "Whatever suits the families."
Words like dowry, dates, decor, dishes floated like confetti — celebratory to everyone but her.
Raneya sat still, smile stitched on like a costume. Her hands were clasped, nails digging into her palms. The room buzzed with plans. But her heart... it roared with something else.
And then it happened.
"I don't want this marriage."
Silence.
It wasn't just a sentence. It was a grenade tossed into the middle of a scripted celebration.
Fazeela blinked. Qureshi Sahab froze. Zaryab's polite demeanor cracked.
Rukhsana gasped, hand on chest. "Drama?! And I didn't even take my BP meds today!"
Aanya looked at her sister, stunned. Saniya glanced between her brother and Raneya, wide-eyed.
Rukhsana tried to lighten the mood. "Beta, if this is about the menu, we can do chicken roast and biryani! But don't cancel the show!"
Raneya's voice was sharper now. "It's not about the menu, Khala."
Fazeela's response came cold. Precise. Final. "A good daughter respects decisions made for her. This is about family. Honor."
And there it was. The chain. The cage. Honor.
Raneya's shoulders dropped. Her throat burned.
Then came the whisper. "Fine. Do as you wish."
The tension dissolved. Smiles returned. Tea was poured again.
But inside Raneya — something had shifted. Quietly. Dangerously.
She smiled, nodded when expected. But a storm had already begun.
And this time, it wouldn't pass quietly.