I still couldn't believe I was getting married tomorrow. My heart felt fuller than ever—overflowing with joy, disbelief, and nervous butterflies.
I was marrying the man I'd loved for the past two years. We met during our master's program at university, and somewhere between shared lectures, group projects, and stolen glances, we fell in love.
He formally asked my father for my hand in the most respectful way, and now, here we were—on the cusp of a new beginning.
My house was bursting with life. Every room echoed with laughter, clinking tea cups, and the soft rustle of chiffon and silk. The aroma of fresh jasmine garlands hung in the air, mingling with cardamom and rosewater. Fairy lights wrapped around every banister and tree branch, casting a warm glow on everything they touched. Our home looked like something out of a dream.
Being my father's only daughter, the occasion was monumental. He was one of the most respected and influential men in the city—powerful, but protective. Naturally, the wedding was nothing short of a grand affair. Yet despite the spotlight constantly on our family, I had grown up tucked away from the public eye. My father made sure I was shielded from the paparazzi, kept far from tabloids and headlines.
People knew my name, but rarely my face. A few pictures existed—blurred, outdated—but none that left a lasting impression. I knew, though, that tomorrow would change that. My wedding photos would be everywhere. Social media would devour every detail—the lehenga, the groom, the venue. Every smiling frame would be picked apart by strangers.
I tried to push the thought away.
"Noor, your mom is calling you to meet someone," Sanobar said from the doorway, her voice warm and familiar.
Sanobar, our housekeeper, was more than just staff—she was family. She'd been with us since I was in diapers. She ran the house like a silent general, her eyes always watchful, her hands always steady.
"Okay, I'm coming," I replied, standing in front of the mirror to quickly fix my hair. My pale peach dress shimmered under the soft lights of my room. I checked for stray pins, smoothed my dupatta, and exhaled before making my way down the staircase.
As I descended, I spotted my mom in the sitting room talking to someone. I blinked—then did a double take. It was her.
Shella Aunty.
My mother's best friend. Her presence always brought with it a wave of perfume, Turkish drama-level fashion, and extravagant gifts.
She had married a Turkish businessman over a decade ago and moved to Istanbul. Her husband practically owned half the Bosphorus, if family gossip was to be believed.
The moment she saw me, her face lit up like a chandelier. She opened her arms wide and pulled me into an enveloping hug.
"Oh my, darling baby girl! You've grown into such a beautiful woman—I can't believe you're getting married!" she gushed.
I smiled warmly but couldn't help the tiny complaint that slipped out. "Why didn't you come to any of the pre-wedding events, Shella Aunty? I kept asking about you."
She sighed dramatically. "Jaan, Mehmet had some very critical meetings, and Orhan's convocation was just yesterday. We couldn't leave any earlier. But thank God, we made it in time for the wedding!"
And just like that, the name landed like a thud in the middle of my happiness.
Orhan.
The devil himself.
I followed her gaze—and there he was. Sprawled like royalty on the living room sofa, legs crossed, arms casually thrown over the armrest, sipping iced tea like he'd just conquered Europe. He looked like a movie star and acted like the villain in one.
Spoiled. Arrogant. Too rich for his own good. And let's not even begin with the face. Ridiculously handsome and painfully aware of it.
He didn't even bother standing. Didn't greet me. Just stared—and smirked.
That same smirk.
The one that used to make my blood boil. The one that instantly dragged out a whole album of awful memories: the time he blamed me for stealing his comic books, the time he "accidentally" locked me out in the rain, and the worst—the paint incident.
The last time he visited—six years ago—he'd lost a board game to me, sulked for an hour, then poured a full bucket of yellow paint on my head and said it was a "science experiment."
He wasn't a child then. He was nineteen.
A full-grown, bratty adult with zero shame and even less remorse.
I clenched my jaw as I walked toward him. He was a guest. One I had to greet. Even if it made me want to scream.
"Orhan," I said stiffly, like his name tasted like lemon rind.
He raised one brow, lazily. "Noor," he replied, voice as smooth and smug as ever.
"Glad you came," I added, forcing a smile that made my cheeks ache.
"Are you?" he asked, tone mock-innocent.
"Of course. Absolutely thrilled," I said sweetly, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.
He chuckled, low and unhurried. "Still angry over the paint incident? Come on, you looked like a sunflower in that yellow. Brightened the whole driveway."
I rolled my eyes. Calm down, Noor. Not worth it.
"Ah yes, the good old days," I said. "What a mature memory, dear Orhan. Truly one for the scrapbook."
He grinned, clearly enjoying every second of my discomfort.
Just then, Shella Aunty chimed in with that nostalgic, gleeful tone only mothers use when remembering their kids' past sins. "You two used to be inseparable. Always bickering, always playing. He had so much fun visiting Pakistan when you were around."
She turned to me. "But these last six years? Nothing. He refused every time I asked him to visit. Until now. I had to beg him to come. I told him your wedding was not to be missed."
I glanced at Orhan. His face was unreadable, gaze fixed on some invisible point on the ceiling.
I looked away before I found myself trying to decode it.
Shella Aunty was whisked away by another guest, leaving the two of us standing there—awkwardly and alone.
Silence stretched between us like taut wire.
I shifted. "So. Six years of avoiding Pakistan like it's cursed, and you finally show up to my wedding. Miraculous."
He leaned back further, exuding indifference. "I figured I'd watch the drama unfold live this time."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Weddings. Always messy. Always entertaining."
"You really haven't changed," I muttered.
"Neither have you," he replied. "Still dramatic. Still pretending you're calm when you're two seconds away from flipping the table."
My jaw tightened. "Still imagining things, I see."
He smirked. "You wear your emotions like jewelry, Noor. Flashy. Loud. Always visible."
I scoffed. "And you wear your ego like cologne—overpowering and impossible to ignore."
He chuckled, not the least bit offended. "You're still fun to annoy."
Someone called my name from the hallway. I turned to leave, tugging my dupatta over my shoulder.
"Try not to spill paint this time, Orhan," I said sweetly. "I'm the bride-to-be."
He laughed softly behind me, and I hated how warm it sounded.
I didn't look back.