The house of Sikandar's Barkat Mansion was a fortress of pride. Its white marble walls glowed in the late afternoon sun, standing tall against the years like a monument to ambition. Long corridors stretched across the estate, their floors gleaming with polish, lined with portraits of ancestors who had carried the name before. Servants moved quietly across the gardens and terraces, trained to preserve the dignity of the place.
Inside, Agha Jan sat in his study. In his seventies now, his hair was silver, but his presence carried the weight of a general. His face was carved with lines of struggle, each wrinkle a story of nights spent planning, days spent fighting, years spent building an empire from nothing. He often said his wealth was born not from gold but from hunger he had once known as a child, hunger he had sworn his children would never taste.
And so, they never did.
The six Sikandar siblings had grown up in comfort, heirs not just to wealth but to a name that commanded respect across the city. Yet Agha Jan often feared he had given them too much. They had never walked barefoot to school, never waited for bread to rise, never wept over a failed investment.
Their world had always been full, their desires always met. Sacrifice was not a word they understood.
That morning, the family gathered in the garden for brunch beneath the shade of tall neem trees. A long white cloth stretched across the table, set with fruits, parathas, and steaming cups of chai. One by one, the siblings arrived, their personalities as distinct as the flavors on the table.
Wajdan Sikandar, the eldest, entered first with his wife Rubab. His confident stride drew every eye toward him. Tall, handsome, self-assured, he had always been the pride of the family. The younger cousins admired him, calling him their "hero." His smile charmed easily, but there was restlessness in his eyes—a hunger that never slept.
Sania, the eldest sister, followed with her son in her arms. Graceful and diplomatic, she moved like someone who had learned to smooth quarrels with a single glance. Her words were always carefully chosen to please.
Zavian, the second brother, came next—quiet, sharp-eyed, calculating. He spoke little but observed everything, his silence heavier than speech.
Then Ruhan arrived with his wife, Kaina Fatima. Ruhan's calm presence carried weight, though he never flaunted it. Principled and steady, he spoke less but always spoke truth. Kaina, warm and kind, greeted her in-laws with gentleness. When she noticed a servant struggling with a heavy tray, she bent to help him. A small gesture—unnoticed by most—but Agha Jan saw it and, for the first time that day, smiled.
The youngest two, Rayyan and Aleena, arrived together, their laughter lightening the air. Still idealistic and untainted by ambition, their bond was strong in its simplicity.
The family sat together, unity only surface-deep. Conversation flowed easily until Wajdan began to speak of business. He boasted of a new venture he was planning, another bold risk. Zavian nodded with interest, Sania listened politely, but Ruhan frowned.
"Brother," Ruhan said carefully, "perhaps patience is wiser this time. We have much to preserve—not just to chase."
Wajdan laughed dismissively.
"Patience is for the weak. Like you, Ruhan. You didn't even choose to be part of the family business, so stop poking your nose where it doesn't belong. Sometimes I wonder if you're truly a Sikandar at all. Sikandar's don't wait for the world to hand them success—they take it."
An uneasy silence followed. Sania quickly intervened.
"Wajdan, Ruhan—remember, Baba's rule. No business talk at the dining table. These matters belong in the office."
She urged them back to their food, but the tension lingered.
At the head of the table, Agha Jan remained silent. His gaze lingered on Wajdan, eyes heavy with disappointment. Once, that eldest son had been his pride. Now, he was becoming his greatest worry.
That evening, as dusk settled, Agha Jan sat with his sister on the veranda. Fireflies flickered in the quiet garden.
"They have everything," he murmured, "but I fear they have learned nothing."
His sister answered softly, "Phaa, you gave them an empire. But perhaps, in shielding them, you took away the hunger that built it."
Inside, the siblings retired to their rooms.
Ruhan spoke quietly to Kaina.
"I worry," he confessed. "Not for myself—but for the family. Wajdan wants control. I can see how far he'll go to take it. Baba gave us a name, a legacy. But cracks are already forming. What will become of us when he is gone?"
Kaina met his eyes with steady resolve. "Then we must be the ones to hold it together. Wealth can be divided. Honor cannot."
On the upper floor, Wajdan stood alone on the balcony, gazing across the estate. The city lights glimmered in the distance. His jaw tightened as he lit a cigar, whispering to himself,
"One day, all of this will be mine. It belongs to me, and to me alone."
In the study, Agha Jan switched off the lamp. Shadows stretched long across the marble floor, jagged and sharp—like fractures the house itself already knew were coming.