After the brunch, Agha Jan sat alone in his study. That night he slept there, but before closing his eyes, his mind returned to a single thought: my children have never known the taste of want—because I have always provided.
He often reminded them that he had once walked barefoot to school, books wrapped in a cloth bag, while they rode in polished cars with servants carrying their lunches. But to his children, those stories felt like legends, distant and half-believed.
Their childhoods were wrapped in silk. Festivals were celebrated with grandeur, vacations spent in hill stations, wardrobes filled with the finest clothes. Even their quarrels ended with gifts. If Rayyan cried over a toy, another was bought. If Alyana wanted a dress, it appeared before the week was over. Sacrifice was never demanded. Patience was never taught.
In his fierce love, Saad Sikandar had unknowingly raised his children in a glass house—shielded from rain, untouched by wind, but fragile against storms.
Among them, Wajdan had always been the brightest star. As a boy, bold and charming, he was admired by cousins and adored by younger children who followed him everywhere. Teachers forgave his mistakes, uncles praised his cleverness, and Agha Jan himself looked at him with pride—or so Wajdan believed.
In truth, Agha Jan's quiet admiration belonged to another: Ruhan. He saw in Ruhan a reflection of his own youth—discipline, humility, and patience. But he never voiced this, leaving Wajdan to believe he was the chosen one.
Where Agha Jan's ambition had always been tempered with discipline, Wajdan's grew tainted with recklessness.
By his early twenties, Wajdan was known not just for charm but for daring risks. He invested in cafés that closed within months, construction projects that swallowed money whole, and imports that collapsed before they even began. He borrowed heavily, gambled quietly, and laughed it all off as if fortune were a game that bent to his will.
Each time he failed, Agha Jan covered the losses.
"He is my son," he told the family. "Let him stumble—he will rise stronger."
But not everyone believed this.
Kaina, Ruhan's wife, often watched Wajdan with unease. She noticed how servants whispered about unpaid bills, how school fees for Wajdan's children went unsettled, how suppliers left his office frustrated. She saw food wasted on his plate while debts piled up. Yet Wajdan carried on, certain the family's wealth would always shield him.
One afternoon, Kaina overheard Rubab speaking quietly about six months of unpaid school fees. Kaina hadn't meant to listen, but the words lingered.
Later that week, Agha Jan called Kaina to his study. He spoke to her with the warmth he reserved for his daughters-in-law, whom he treated as his own. "Tell me, "He asked gently, "what would you decide in this situation? Your judgment will be ours, and we will respect it."
Kaina hesitated, her respect for him keeping her from answering fully. That night, she shared the conversation with Ruhan instead.
"Your brother is burning a fire he cannot control," she whispered. "And when it spreads, it won't burn only him. It will burn this house—and Baba Jan's dream of seeing us united."
Ruhan's brow furrowed. "Baba still believes in him. And when Abba believes, who can speak against it?"
That evening, the family gathered again for dinner. Silver dishes of biryani and qorma were placed before them, filling the air with rich aromas. Yet beneath the warmth, unease simmered.
As always, Wajdan spoke first. He boasted of a new deal with foreign partners. "This time, it will be different. Within months, I'll double the investment."
Sania smiled politely. "Insha'Allah, bhai."
Zavian gave a curt nod, calculating silently.
But Ruhan, quiet until then, raised his eyes. "And if you fail again, Wajdan? How many times will Baba's name be risked before you think of the family's honor?"
The table froze.
Wajdan's smile faltered, his tone sharpening. "You speak of honor as if you own it. Do not forget, I am the eldest son, and the one who carries Baba's name. Not like you, who abandoned the family business to play at jobs. And yet, you dare lecture me?"
Ruhan folded his hands tightly, holding back his anger. Kaina touched his arm gently, urging restraint. Wajdan's words were harsh, but Ruhan answered only with silence.
Before the tension could break further, Agha Jan's deep voice cut through. "Enough. Not at my table." His eyes narrowed on Wajdan. "Have you forgotten the rule? No business talk while we eat."
The meal continued, but the warmth was gone. Shadows stretched long across the marble walls, as though the house itself felt the first fracture.
That night, as silence settled over the corridors, Ruhan whispered to Kaina, "Do you see now? This is only the beginning. I fear for Baba Jan—how much more of this can he endure?"
And in the stillness, the storm waited.