The wedding day arrived like an omen dressed in celebration.
The sprawling tent stood like a palace of illusions—draped in silk, drenched in gold, and hiding beneath its grandeur the quiet decay of a girl's dreams. Fairy lights blinked like oblivious stars, unaware of the storm crackling beneath their glow. The scent of saffron biryani, rose sherbet, and heavily ghee-laced samosas wafted through the air, clashing with the chatter, laughter, and chaotic beats of the dhol.
Fazeela Qureshi was on the verge of collapse.
Dupatta flying like a war banner, she barked across the hall, "Aanya! Where are the garlands? Has the nikah platform been set? And ya Allah—where is your father?!"
Aanya, lipstick smudged from arguing with florists and fending off gossiping aunties, shouted back, "Ammi, it's all under control! Breathe!"
But Fazeela wasn't convinced. Her stress had peaked somewhere between the missing mehndi cones and the disappearing photographer. Meanwhile, Qureshi Sahab was pacing like a caged lion, snapping at decorators, threatening caterers, and muttering about honor, timelines, and family expectations.
And then—the drums erupted like thunder.
The baraat had arrived.
The crowd surged toward the entrance like a tide. Dhols roared, petals flew, and the groom's side entered with wild energy. At the front was Saniya in a blinding pink lehenga, twirling like a top gone rogue. And behind her came the hurricane herself—Rukhsana Khala.
Clad in a billowing black abaya and niqab that did nothing to dim her oversized personality, she charged through the crowd—and danced. Or attempted to. Her arms flailed, her hips buckled, and her feet stomped like an earthquake wrapped in fabric. Her abaya puffed out like a parachute caught in a storm, sending a poor child scurrying in fear.
Guests doubled over in laughter. Even the dhol players missed a beat, struggling not to collapse mid-rhythm.
Fazeela's voice cut through the music like a whip. "Rukhsana! Sit down before you bring the tent down!"
More laughter.
But just as quickly, silence fell.
"The bride is ready to enter."
The dhols quieted. Chatter died. Anticipation thickened the air like fog.
And then—Raneya appeared.
Draped in deep crimson, she glided into the hall like a ghost—silent, poised, tragic. Gold embroidery shimmered on her lehenga like gilded chains. Her dupatta framed her face with painful precision, her kohl-lined eyes distant and hollow. Every anklet chime sounded like a cry.
Gasps followed.
"She looks like a queen," someone whispered.
"Like a dream," murmured another.
At the far end, Zaryab forgot to breathe. He'd seen her defiant, in simple clothes, full of fire. But this… this was art. A silent poem in motion. A beauty too still, too quiet.
But what he mistook for grace… was grief. What he thought was elegance… was entrapment.
He didn't know he was marrying a storm wrapped in silk.
Fazeela's eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "Mashallah," she whispered.
Even Rukhsana Khala clutched her chest. "Bilkul pari lag rahi hai. No wonder Zaryab's staring like he's seen Jannat."
The crowd swelled with admiration—but it passed through Raneya like smoke. Compliments felt like petals scattered on a grave.
She walked the aisle like a martyr headed to sacrifice.
Saniya met her with a tray, grinning. She fed her sweets, teased her gently, and offered blessings. A cousin slipped a silk scarf over her head in tradition. Raneya didn't flinch. She accepted it all—silent, unmoving, dying inside.
Then came the silence.
The molvi stepped forward. The mic crackled. The hall held its breath.
"Raneya bint Qureshi, do you accept this nikah?"
A thousand voices echoed in her head. A good daughter never says no. Our decision is right. A family's honor is worth any price.
Her throat burned. Her soul screamed.
But her lips parted. "Qubool hai."
A second time. "Qubool hai."
A third. "Qubool hai."
Each utterance felt like a dagger twisted deeper into her own chest. Words spoken by a stranger. Words that didn't belong to the girl she once was.
The hall erupted.
Cheers, flower petals, selfies. Music. Applause.
But inside her—something withered and died.
Then came the rukhsati.
Women cried softly. Fathers blinked away emotion. Fazeela clung to her daughter like it was her last embrace.
"Be happy, beta," she whispered. "This is your home now. Make it yours."
Raneya didn't answer. She just inhaled the scent of her mother's dupatta one last time—childhood memories crashing over her like waves she couldn't stop.
Her father stood tall, emotion buried beneath steel. "We've chosen the best for you," he said.
Did you?
Then Aanya flung herself into her arms. "Please don't go!" she sobbed. "Don't leave me with these drama-crazed people!"
Was she heartbroken? Or stealing the spotlight again?
Raneya smiled faintly, a ghost of humor in her empty gaze. "You'll survive," she whispered.
But would she?
Zaryab stepped forward. His hand stretched toward her like a promise. He was glowing—proud, mesmerized, convinced he had won.
He didn't see the funeral behind her eyes.
She took his hand.
Rose petals rained down.
Laughter. Music. Goodbyes.
The car door shut behind her with a final click—the sound of fate sealing shut.
Through the tinted window, she saw her family—smiling, waving, clapping. Believing they had given her everything.
Raneya smiled back.
A perfect, hollow smile.
But deep within that smile… a fire flickered.
This wasn't the end.
This was the beginning of the war.