Chapter 22
In the dark room, only the lamp's glow and the ticking of the clock could be heard.
Sitting against the headboard of the bed, she was running her fingers through Diyan's thick hair as he lay in her lap. His tiny hands were wrapped around one of hers, while he was lost in the sweet valleys of sleep.
Though he was only three years old, his words and actions didn't match those of a child. Even before falling asleep, he had kept talking to Hoor for quite a while, to which she had responded absentmindedly.
Once assured that he was asleep, she gently laid him down on the bed, adjusted him properly, and placed a cushion beside him.
Then, carefully managing the heavy bridal lehenga she was wearing, she stood up and stopped in front of the mirror.
She was still dressed in her bridal attire, and the heavy makeup had added to her beauty in a way that no one who saw her could resist praising her. But the very man for whom she had adorned herself so elaborately hadn't even cared to look at her.
As she gazed at her reflection in the mirror, her mind drifted back to the events of the day.
---
(A few hours earlier...)
Even today, she was afraid of Aahil. She wore an expression that everything was fine, but inside, her heart was pounding hard. Her hands and feet felt cold.
She still hadn't forgotten Aahil's behavior from the previous night. A deep sense of fear regarding him had settled inside her.
She was seated next to Aahil, in whose lap sat a three-year-old boy wearing an off-white sherwani and similar khussas. His wide eyes were fixed on her with great curiosity.
At that moment, Hoor didn't know who he was, but whoever he was—he was an adorably beautiful child.
Daaji, however, was glaring at the boy with anger and disgust, and Bilqees Begum looked the same. The guests were all whispering to one another.
The truth only came out later, when they returned to the haveli—that boy was Diyan, Aahil's son.
Back at the haveli, Daaji could no longer be restrained. Earlier, Salman Sahib and Bilal Sahib had barely managed to calm him down in front of the guests, but now nothing could hold him back.
All the family members were gathered in Daaji's room.
Aahil stood before Daaji, holding Diyan in his arms, his head held high in defiance.
Meanwhile, Hoorain sat beside Rukhsar Begum, her face filled with worry, unable to understand what exactly was happening.
"What did I tell you?" Daaji said sternly, glaring at Diyan so harshly that the innocent boy shrank in fear and buried his face in Aahil's chest.
"What did I tell you? He must not come here. I will not tolerate this sin in my house for even a moment!"
Daaji's tone held nothing but hatred and contempt for the child.
Hoor turned to Rukhsar Begum, who placed a comforting hand on hers to calm her.
"Daaji, please… don't use such harsh words."
Aahil, who had been trying very hard to control himself, flinched at Daaji's cruel words. He held Diyan even tighter to himself.
"Don't teach me what to do. Just leave, and throw him away somewhere. Otherwise, neither you nor Hoorain are welcome in this house."
As always, Daaji had given his verdict, final and absolute.
Aahil's eyes, filled with pain, turned toward him. That indifference—the rejection—was breaking him inside.
"I will neither abandon him nor leave Hoor behind. As for this house—I already left it three years ago. Today I only came to take what belongs to me, and now I'm leaving with it."
He stepped forward, gripped Hoor's hand tightly, and pulled her up from beside Rukhsar Begum, ready to leave.
Hoor was utterly confused—should she stay behind or go with him?
"Stop right there, Aahil!" Daaji's thunderous voice halted his steps, though he did not turn back.
"You cannot do this!"
At that, Aahil gave a bitter smile. His eyes grew colder than ever.
"Daaji, there is nothing that cannot happen. What was not supposed to happen—has already happened."
The bitterness in his tone silenced even Daaji.
It was Aafiya Begum who broke the silence.
"Oh no, how can you just walk away? First tell her the truth in front of everyone. Then watch—she won't even look at you again!"
At her words, Hoor looked at her in confusion, while Aahil bit down on his lips.
"Tell her that the child in your arms is the son of a prostitute—God knows whose. Hoor's friend told us everything. She said your son betrayed her friend—gave her false hopes and then married someone else. It's good she told us, or else who knows how long he would've kept deceiving us all."
Everyone listened in shocked silence—except Fahad.
Aahil's face flushed red as he tried to control himself. He clenched his fist tightly, fighting the urge to explode.
He didn't say a word in his defense—because he knew Daaji would never believe him.
But the pain and hurt in his eyes didn't escape Hoor.
After hearing all that, she didn't know what to do. Everything had come at her too suddenly.
"Now go! She's not coming with you anyway," Aafiya said mockingly, looking at the stunned Hoor.
Her silence was worrying Rukhsar Begum. On the other hand, Fahad and Mehak were rejoicing, sure their plan was working.
Aahil, too, feared she would believe the slander like everyone else. His grip on her hand loosened.
Everyone present thought the same—that she would step away from him.
But the loosening of his hold jolted her back to her senses.
She looked at him—his eyes and face were dangerously red with anger and pain.
Then her gaze fell on Diyan.
For a fleeting moment, the accusations had shaken her, but she was not the kind of person who saw only one side of the truth.
It took her only a moment to make a decision—one her heart was at peace with.
"Daaji… please don't mind, but I want to go with Aahil."
Lowering her eyes respectfully as she spoke, her words left everyone stunned.
Her tone carried the firmness of her resolve.
And Aahil—he couldn't even move.
The girl he had punished without listening to was now standing beside him in front of everyone.
---
"They take pride in themselves not without reason, Mohsin—
For how can the one we love ever consider themselves ordinary?"
---
Rukhsar Begum and Salman Sahib were relieved. But Fahad and Mehak burned with rage—their every plan foiled.
They forgot, however, that when Allah is with someone, no one can harm them.
Hoor had never given up on waiting, nor had she ever lost hope in her Lord. She knew well—every act of God has wisdom behind it, unknown to humans.
She tightened her grip on Aahil's hand.
"Shall we go?" she asked softly, looking into his eyes.
Aahil could only nod—speechless—and led her away.
Daaji, this time, only watched them leave in silence.
---
Ayesha was in the kitchen making tea for herself and Sharjeel when the doorbell rang. She went to check and froze when she saw Aahil standing outside.
Quickly fixing her dupatta, she opened the door.
She was surprised to see him there on his wedding night, but still, she stepped aside and let him in.
"Where's Sharjeel?" Aahil asked from the doorway. If Sharjeel wasn't home, he would turn back.
"Brother is inside. Please sit, I'll go call him."
She led him to the drawing room, then hurried toward Sharjeel's room.
"Brother, what happened?" she called softly as she entered, but stopped in shock. He was sitting with his head buried in his hands.
At her voice, he raised his head. His bloodshot eyes blazed with fury.
"Why did you do it?" he demanded, glaring at her.
Ayesha didn't understand what he was talking about. She hadn't even imagined it.
"What did I do?" she asked, frightened by his tone.
Sharjeel sprang up in rage.
Smack!
His hand struck her face so hard her ears rang.
She stared at him in disbelief. The brother who had never raised his voice at her—had just slapped her.
Tears welled up and spilled from her eyes.
"Why did you call Daaji? Why did you poison their minds? Didn't you feel any shame—placing such a huge slander? I feel disgusted to call myself your brother!"
His words turned her face pale. She had never thought he would find out.
"Brother, what are you saying? I didn't do anything!" she wept, unable to bear the hatred in his eyes.
But what she had sown, she now had to reap.
"Don't you dare deny it. Swear falsely and you'll see my dead face!"
He grabbed her hand, placed it on his head, and gave her his oath.
She broke down. Trembling, she pulled her hand away and collapsed on the sofa, sobbing uncontrollably.
"Stop this act! Why did you do it?"
When her crying didn't stop, his voice grew cold.
She forced herself to speak between sobs.
"Brother… I didn't know who she was. I only did it because Fahad told me to."
At Fahad's name, Sharjeel's anger nearly exploded. He clenched his fists hard, fighting to control himself.
Ayesha looked up timidly at him. He stood there, lips pressed tight, glaring at the wall where a picture hung.
She continued, her voice low:
"I… I liked Fahad. He was our senior at university. But when I confessed to him, he rejected me—again and again, humiliating me every time.
Then one day, he came to me himself. He said if I made that phone call, he would believe in my love.
Brother, I couldn't live without him. So I blindly repeated whatever he told me to say.
Later, when I saw how things turned out, I realized why he had made me do it. He had used me—because he found out I was your sister. He wanted to break your friendship with Aahil."
Her tears fell as she wiped them with the back of her hand.
She wasn't heartless, but she had been selfish in her desire.
"When you found out, why didn't you tell me?"
Sharjeel's voice trembled with anger. He wanted to slap her again, but held himself back.
"I was scared… I thought you would be angry… I didn't want to hurt you."
"Oh, and now you think I'm overjoyed? If I hadn't overheard you two talking today, you would've kept me in the dark for a lifetime!"
Her head bowed lower in shame—because it was true. That had been her intention.
Sins are often forgotten instead of repented for. And when the reckoning comes, regret sets in—but too late.
"And even after seeing those pictures, you didn't realize what you had done?"
At that, she looked up in confusion, eyes swollen from crying.
"What pictures? I don't understand…"
Sharjeel froze.
"Where's the number you used to call from?" he asked quickly.
"That number was Fahad's…" she whispered.
Sharjeel ran a hand helplessly through his hair.
He was caught in an impossible place. On one hand, his sister—guilty, yet still his sister and his honor. On the other, his friend—closer than a brother.
He wanted to stand with his friend, but his sense of honor pulled him back.
"Brother, please… forgive me…" she cried, falling to her knees before him.
"For three years, you knew we were searching. Ayesha, you've made it impossible for me to face my friend.
You placed a slander on a widow.
Because of your foolishness, Aahil was disgraced in his own family, forced to wander without a home.
And that innocent child—who had already lost his father—was robbed of his mother too.
Do you think your apology can undo all of this?"
He pushed her hands away harshly and stood up.
"Brother…" she began, but before she could finish, they heard the loud slam of the front door and the sound of a car driving off.
Suddenly Ayesha remembered—Aahil had been there too.
Sharjeel rushed outside, but the place was empty.
On the table lay Aahil's wristwatch, telling them clearly who had just left.
"Aahil…" Sharjeel whispered, staring at it with lifeless eyes.
It didn't take long for them to realize—Aahil had heard everything.
---..........
The sound of clattering woke her up, pounding in her head like a hammer. Sitting up from the sofa, she held her head with both hands—it was still spinning. Maybe the effect of the medicine hadn't worn off yet.
"How are you feeling now?"
Hearing John's voice, she instantly straightened up and looked at him in confusion. She had completely forgotten what had happened yesterday.
"What happened?"
Seeing her stare at him so surprisingly, he placed the bowl in his hand on the table and pretended as if nothing had happened. Sitting beside her on the sofa, he placed his hand on her forehead to check her temperature. It was normal. She flinched and moved back at his touch.
"Alright, go. The bathroom is to the left. Freshen up." He removed his hand from her forehead, glanced at the watch strapped to his wrist, and told her. She just stared at him wide-eyed.
Confused with herself, she got up and walked toward the bathroom.
When she returned, he handed her a steaming bowl, which she carefully held with both hands. The soup was still hot—surely he had reheated it before she came back. For Emma, this new attitude of his was hard to digest. All of this felt very strange to her.
(Looks like… he's drunk. That's why he's not in his senses…) she thought to herself, watching him as he looked out the window. But the moment she looked at him, he shifted his gaze from the window and locked it on her. Quickly, she turned her eyes away.
(What was the need to look at this rude man anyway…) she scolded herself.
She knew very well that now he was staring at her intently. To avoid his eyes, she quickly took a spoonful of the hot soup into her mouth—only for her tongue to burn badly.
"Careful… it didn't burn too much, did it?"
John took the bowl of soup from her hands and placed it on the table.
"I'm fine…"
Though the burn was severe, she endured it with great courage. Once the soup cooled a little, she drank it just to show that nothing had happened. She didn't want to appear weak in front of him at any cost.
"Your condition is much better now. Get ready—we're leaving for the office."
Giving the order, he left the room.
(This habit of giving orders is pure poison…) she thought angrily.
Once he left, she stood before the mirror, straightened her hair with her hands, and stepped out since she had no extra clothes to change into.
He glanced at her appearance with disapproval, then ignored her and drove to the office.
---
It had been many days since he was admitted here. During that time, people kept coming to visit him. But sitting in one place for so long had made him restless. And strangely enough, as long as he was there, the hospital atmosphere had remained calm.
Today too, he had asked the nurse to take his wheelchair out into the hospital park. The sun was shining after snowfall—the warmth of it felt comforting, and people had come out. The snow was still scattered across the ground, where children were playing.
Finding prey in such a time was nothing short of a blessing. Ah, wonderful.
Derrick's eyes kept returning to the man sitting under a tree on a bench. The man kept dozing off, then jerking awake as his head tilted to the side, only to fall asleep again a few minutes later.
Derrick first calmed himself, then pulled out his black pouch—his kit. He always carried it with him, because prey could appear anytime, anywhere. He had to stay ready, right?
Opening the pouch, he pulled out a permanent marker and wheeled his chair closer to the prey. Parking the wheelchair behind the bench, he stared at the man's shiny, bald head. His green eyes gleamed with delight, the way a mother might feel joy upon seeing her child after a long time.
With the same serenity, he wrote on the bald head with the marker:
(I dare you, slap here).
He put the marker back, then spat lightly on his palms, rubbed them together to warm them, and raised his hand high. With full force, he slapped the man's bald head.
Ah—what a sound! The crispness echoed, sending a chill of satisfaction through him.
Startled, the man jumped up, rubbing his head in confusion and looking around. Derrick quickly wheeled himself behind the tree to hide, peeking out just enough to watch. The poor man was baffled, unsure if he had been dreaming or if someone had really hit him.
But he had no idea what was about to happen to him—something that didn't happen even in nightmares.
Derrick now rolled his wheelchair to a better spot to observe.
A little while passed, and the man dozed off again, thinking it had just been his imagination earlier. But then someone passing by noticed the words written on his bald head. The passerby first patted the shiny scalp lightly, then—SMACK!—gave him a loud slap before walking away.
Watching this, Derrick was delighted. The poor man grew even more confused, rubbing his red head and looking around helplessly. But that was only the beginning. One by one, others saw the writing and slapped his bald head too, until his once shiny scalp turned red. The man was nearly in tears. Finally, fed up, he rushed out of the park, practically running away.
Derrick felt a little disappointed at his departure, but soon his attention was caught by a crying three-year-old boy holding a big rainbow-colored lollipop.
Derrick carefully plucked the lollipop from his little hand without him noticing. If you want to cry, then cry your heart out—but wasting food like this? Derrick couldn't tolerate such disrespect for treats.
The lollipop gone, the boy cried louder. As he cried, his eyes landed on a girl his age holding the same kind of lollipop. He walked over to her and yanked her hair with his tiny hands.
The girl began crying too, falling onto him because she lost her balance. She was healthy and heavy, while he was just a skinny little thing—so he screamed and cried even louder. Seeing both of them cry, the other children also started wailing. Soon the mothers were in chaos, unable to understand what had suddenly gone wrong.
Who would tell them that this was all Derrick's doing?
Within moments, the peaceful atmosphere had been ruined—thanks to our Derrick.
"What disaster dares come near me…
When I myself am a walking disaster."
---
To be continue