Part 16

Hello my dear stars

Here is your chapter enjoy and yeah please check the important note in the end

Dont forget to hit the vote button and yeah in the end there r some questions reply them in the comments

Time skip to next day

Author's POV

The soft hum of dawn wove through the quiet corridors of the house, seeping through the tall windows, casting golden streaks of light against the pristine marble floor. A delicate tranquility hung in the air, one that masked the undercurrents of unrest within the walls.

Upstairs, the room was filled with the rhythmic rustling of paper, the soft scratch of a pen against a notebook, and the faint creak of a wooden chair as Sifna leaned forward over her study table, deep in concentration. The Quranic verses from their Fajr salah still echoed in her heart, grounding her in peace amidst the chaos of life.

Across the room, Inayah stood near the mirror, adjusting her dupatta. She had taken leave from the office, working remotely, yet her mind felt heavier than ever.

She cast a glance toward Sifna, who had just stretched her arms, about to rise. Inayah didn't need to ask where she was headed-she already knew.

A knowing smirk graced her lips.

"Wahi baith jaa. Mai khud breakfast banaungi. Tum padhai karle khamoshi se."

(Stay right there. I'll make breakfast. You just focus on your studies.)

Sifna paused, her eyes widening slightly, before a soft smile stretched across her delicate features.

"Ji, Aapi." (Yes, sister.)

The unspoken love between them was evident. Sifna knew her sister would never let her do anything that she could do for her instead.

Inayah turned away, leaving the room with the grace of a queen, her footsteps light yet resolute. As she descended the grand staircase, the scent of freshly brewed chai lingered in the air, mixing with the distant aroma of morning incense.

She had hoped to slip into the kitchen unnoticed. But fate had other plans.

The moment she stepped into the living area, a familiar sight greeted her-her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Khan, seated in the ornate lounge, their expressions relaxed as they sipped on their tea, their voices low as they discussed something she didn't care to know about.

Her fingers curled into fists, her heart tightening. She had no desire to face them this early in the morning.

She lowered her gaze, ignored them completely, and continued walking toward the kitchen. But before she could cross the threshold-

"Inayah beta, kitchen ki taraf kyun ja rahi ho?"

(Inayah, dear, why are you going to the kitchen?)

The saccharine sweetness in her mother's voice made her stomach churn.

She halted. Her shoulders stiffened as she turned around, a mocking smirk playing at the corner of her lips.

"Kapde dhone ja rahi hu. Aap chalengi?"

(I'm going to wash clothes. Would you like to join me?)

Her mother's brows knitted in confusion, but before she could process the sarcasm, Inayah continued, her voice laced with pointed coldness.

"Isn't it obvious? It's breakfast time, so I'm going to make breakfast."

The bitterness in her tone did not go unnoticed. Mrs. Khan hesitated before speaking again, her voice careful, rehearsed.

"Kyun? Sifna kaha hai? Usse keh do banane ko."

(Why? Where is Sifna? Tell her to make it.)

A sharp scoff left Inayah's lips. Anger burned in her chest, threatening to spill over.

"Itna hi pyaar aa raha hai mujh par toh khud kyun nahi bana lete nashta?"

(If you're feeling so much love for me, why don't you make breakfast yourself?)

Her mother's face faltered for a brief second, but before she could react, a deeper, sterner voice filled the room.

"Aise koi tareeka hai apne maa baap se baat karne ka, Inayah?"

(Is this the way to talk to your parents, Inayah?)

Her father.

His tone carried the authority of a man who believed he had earned respect simply by being a father.

But Inayah wasn't the kind of daughter who bowed to authority undeservedly.

A bitter chuckle escaped her lips, cold and mocking.

"Toh aisa koi tareeka hai apni dusri ke saath nainsaafi karne ka?"

(And is this the way to do injustice with your other daughter?)

A suffocating silence fell over the room.

Her father's face darkened. Mrs. Khan shifted uncomfortably.

But Inayah didn't stop. She was done staying silent.

"Mai dua karti hu ki aap jaise maa baap kisi ko na mile."

(I pray that no one ever gets parents like you.)

Her father clenched his fists, his voice gruff.

"Kis cheez ki kami rakhi humne? Tumhari har khwahish puri ki, ache se ache school, college, har sukh diya."

(What did we lack in giving you? We fulfilled your every wish, got you into the best schools and colleges, gave you every comfort.)

Another bitter laugh.

"Mai shukurguzar hu jo bhi aapne mere liye kiya. Lekin jo meri masoom behen ke saath kiya uska kya?"

(I am grateful for what you did for me. But what about what you did to my innocent sister?)

Her voice rose slightly, filled with raw emotion, but not enough for Sifna to hear from upstairs.

Tears slipped from her eyes, but she wiped them away harshly.

"Mujhe is baare mai koi behes nahi karni. Yeh waada raha mera-Mr. and Mrs. Khan, aapko ye Inayah barbad kar degi."

(I have nothing more to argue about. This is my promise-Inayah will destroy you for every tear my sister has shed.)

Her parents watched as she turned sharply on her heel, disappearing into the kitchen.

They sat there, shaken.

But their arrogance did not falter.

Mr. Khan leaned forward, voice laced with restrained anger.

"Bas ek baar Inayah ki shaadi ho jaaye, phir mai is Sifna ko dekhta hoon."

(Once Inayah gets married, then I'll take care of Sifna.)

Mrs. Khan placed a hand on his, her voice smooth with reassurance.

"Aap fikar mat kariye. Mai apni beti ke dil mein apne liye mithas la kar rahungi."

(Don't worry. I will make my daughter soften towards us.)

They thought they had control.

They had no idea how wrong they were.

A little while later, Inayah walked out of the kitchen, setting a tray of breakfast on the table.

Her voice was clipped, but her words hit like a knife.

"Aap logon ka bhi nashta bana diya hai. Koi majboori nahi thi, lekin mere Sifna ko bura lagega isliye bana diya. Aor haa guest list choti hi rakhna mujhe shor sharaba nahi chahiye"

(I've made breakfast for you too. Not out of obligation, but because Sifna would feel bad if I didn't and keep the guest list short i dont want any noise or very much hustle bustle  )

She turned away, leaving them behind.

They thought they were the puppet masters.

But soon, they would realize-

Inayah wasn't a puppet.

She was the storm coming to destroy them.

The air in the grand living room had barely settled after Inayah's scathing words, but her parents? They didn't waver. If anything, a slow, smug satisfaction curled in the corners of their expressions-as if they had already won a game she didn't even know she was a part of.

Mrs. Khan picked up her teacup with delicate grace, taking a slow sip, unfazed. Then, placing it back onto the saucer with an elegant clink, she exhaled dramatically.

"Aise kaise guest list choti rakhu?"

(How can I possibly keep the guest list small?)

Her voice dripped with exaggerated emotion, an air of wounded pride wrapping around her words.

"Ekloti beti hai meri. Mai koi kami nahi rehne dungi!"

(She's my only daughter. I won't let anything fall short!)

She turned to her husband, her tone firm yet indulgent, as if she were discussing a grand festival rather than her daughter's fate.

"Aap iski baat pe dhyaan mat dijiye aur chaliye, guest list banate hain."

(Don't pay attention to her words. Come, let's finalize the guest list.)

Mr. Khan chuckled darkly, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his expensive chair. He leaned back, exuding the authority of a man who believed he had absolute control over everything.

"Aap chinta mat kariye. Jaisa aap chahti hain, shaadi waise hi hogi."

(Don't worry. The wedding will be exactly how you want it.)

And then, with a sly smirk, his voice dipped into something more sinister.

"Aur Inayah ki shaadi ke baad jo Arsalan bhaisahab ke saath deal hogi business ki, toh humein toh faida hi hoga."

(And after Inayah's wedding, the business deal with Arsalan Bhaisahab will go through, which will be a huge profit for us.)

His words hung in the air like poisonous smoke, filling the room with an unspoken truth-Inayah's marriage wasn't about her. It was a transaction. A means to secure wealth, power, and status.

Mrs. Khan's face lit up with approval, her greed barely concealed behind her polished demeanor.

"Toh sabse pehle guest list bana lete hain."

(Then, let's finalize the guest list first.)

Her fingers trailed across the edge of the table as if she were already envisioning the grandeur of the occasion.

"Inayah ke Mama, Mami aur cousins ko sabse pehle invitation bhejna hai-personally."

(First, we'll send personal invitations to Inayah's maternal uncle, aunt, and cousins.)

Her husband nodded, his eyes glinting with cold calculation.

"Aur uski dono Khalaon aur unke bachon ko bhi."

(And both of her maternal aunts and their children too.)

Mrs. Khan's voice turned sweeter, yet sharper, her excitement growing.

"Uske baad aapke business partners... Inayah ke doston ko bhi bulana hai. Woh politicians bhi jo humare connections ko mazboot kar sakein."

(Then your business partners... Inayah's friends too. And those politicians who can strengthen our connections.)

She paused for a moment, a slow smirk forming.

"Lagna chahiye ki Khan's ki beti ki shaadi hai."

(It should look like the daughter of the Khans is getting married.)

Her fingers tightened slightly around the paper in her hand, her voice dripping with satisfaction.

"Paise, rutbe kisi mein kami nahi honi chahiye."

(There should be no shortage of wealth or status.)

Mr. Khan gave a short, approving nod.

Their daughter's future was already decided.

She would be adorned in gold, diamonds, and the weight of her parents' ambitions-and whether she liked it or not, she would serve their purpose.

Or so they thought.

What they failed to realize was-

Inayah wasn't the kind of girl who allowed herself to be sold.

On the other side

Mexico City – Midnight

The neon lights outside flickered against the misty streets, casting an eerie glow over the luxurious club tucked into the heart of the city. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of aged whiskey, Cuban cigars, and the faint perfume of fear. The dim lighting barely illuminated the velvet-upholstered furniture, the golden chandeliers overhead reflecting a subdued opulence.

In the farthest corner of the club, where only whispers dared to travel, a man sat like a king on his throne. A dark force of nature, shrouded in tailored black. His presence demanded absolute silence, his aura suffocating, consuming.

Emiliano Valdez.

A legend. A nightmare. A god in his own right.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers lazily wrapped around a glass of añejo tequila (aged tequila)—untouched, though the ice had already begun to melt. His jawline was sharp, adorned with the stubble of a man too occupied with power to care for trivial vanities. A single ring glinted on his finger, the crest of the Valdez bloodline—an empire built on bones and betrayal.

Before him, on his knees, a man trembled. Beads of sweat dripped down his face, pooling at the collar of his disheveled shirt. His hands shook violently as he pressed them together in a pitiful attempt at pleading.

"Señor Valdez... por favor..." (Mr. Valdez... please...) his voice cracked, eyes darting toward the guards flanking Emiliano.

The Mexican mafia king exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible yet drowning out the soft jazz humming in the background. His dark eyes held no mercy—only calculation.

"Por favor?" (Please?) Emiliano finally spoke, voice smooth, dangerously calm. "Tell me, Carlos, when did I ever grant favors?"

Carlos swallowed hard. His entire body was trembling now, his breath coming in short gasps.

"I—I didn’t mean to, Señor—” (Sir—)

A sharp sound cut through the air—shing.

The blade was unsheathed so effortlessly that Carlos didn’t even register its presence until he felt the cold steel kiss his throat.

Emiliano pressed the knife lightly, tilting his head. "¿No quisiste?" (Didn’t mean to?) he echoed, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Do you think I built my empire on accidents?"

Carlos whimpered, the blade pressing just enough to draw a thin line of crimson. The scent of blood mingled with the rich cologne that clung to Emiliano’s skin—a contrast of refinement and brutality.

For a moment, silence stretched between them. The kind that thickens the air, suffocates the weak.

Then—Emiliano chuckled. A dark, humorless sound.

He withdrew the blade and leaned back, fingers wiping off the nonexistent stain with a pristine silk handkerchief.

"Eres afortunado." (You’re lucky.) His voice was light, almost amused. "Estoy de buen humor esta noche." (I'm in a good mood tonight.)

Carlos exhaled shakily, relief flooding his face.

But luck never lasted in Emiliano Valdez’s world.

The moment the words left his lips—BANG.

The shot rang out, muffled only by the heavy carpet beneath Carlos’s body. Blood pooled instantly, a deep red staining the mahogany floor.

The guard who fired the gun wordlessly holstered it, stepping back. The other men in the room barely reacted—this was routine, an offering at the altar of power.

Emiliano Valdez set his knife down, finally lifting his tequila glass to his lips. The burn of the alcohol was nothing compared to the fire that lived inside him.

"Now," he drawled, gaze sharp, dangerous, "Dime sobre Hamad Malik." (Tell me about Hamad Malik.)

The air shifted. A new storm was brewing.

A man stepped forward—a high-ranking informant, trembling under Emiliano’s gaze.

"Señor," he began cautiously, "Hamad Malik... él no es como los demás." (Hamad Malik... he's not like the others.)

Emiliano smirked, swirling the tequila in his glass. "¿No?" (No?)

The man hesitated before continuing, his voice lower, reverent. "Él no se inclina, no se rompe. Frío. Despiadado. Él gobierna el inframundo de Dubái." (He doesn’t bow, doesn’t break. Cold. Ruthless. He owns Dubai’s underworld.)

The smirk on Emiliano’s lips deepened, but his eyes darkened, calculating.

"¿Un rey, dices?" (A king, you say?)

A dangerous gleam flickered in his gaze.

"Entonces veamos qué pasa cuando se hace arrodillar a un rey." (Then let’s see what happens when a king is made to kneel.)

On the other side

Author pov

The Malik Mansion, a fortress of power and legacy, was alive with the hum of preparation. Though two weeks remained, the air was already thick with urgency. Servants rushed across the grand marble-floored hallways, decorators adjusted the gold-threaded silk drapes, and the mansion's usual cold and imposing presence softened under the anticipation of an event that would be remembered for decades.

The massive chandeliers hanging from the intricately carved ceilings cast a warm glow over the mansion, illuminating the luxurious Persian rugs, gold-accented furniture, and fresh floral arrangements placed at every corner. The scent of oudh, saffron, and fresh roses lingered in the air, mixing with the occasional waft of spices from the kitchen.

Inside the elegantly furnished sitting room, Sabrina Malik sat on a plush ivory settee, her posture relaxed yet graceful. She was dressed in a deep maroon Kashmiri shawl, embroidered delicately with golden threads, her presence exuding warmth rather than dominance.

Before her, the wedding planners stood attentively, waiting for her suggestions rather than commands.

She smiled, her voice gentle yet firm. "Sab kuch khubsurat hona chahiye, magar zaroorat se zyada nahi. Mujhe yeh nahi lagna chahiye ki hum sirf apni daulat dikhane ki koshish kar rahe hain." (Everything should be beautiful, but not excessive. It should never feel like we are trying to showcase our wealth.)

The head planner nodded, taking notes. "Mam, we've arranged for handwritten invitations on traditional parchment, with golden wax seals. They will be delivered personally to the esteemed guests."

Sabrina’s eyes softened with approval. "Bahut accha. Sab mehmaan ek jitne zaroori hain. Chahe woh duniya ke sabse ameer shakhs ho ya ek mazdoor—izzat sabko milni chahiye." (Very good. Every guest is equally important. Whether it is the richest person in the world or a worker—everyone should be treated with respect.)

She glanced at another list and turned to one of the house staff standing nearby. "Aur jo hamare ghar ke helpers  hain, unka bhi khayal rakhna hai. Koi chhoti si yaadgaar deni hai har kisi ko. Yeh sirf hamari shaadi nahi hai, yeh unka bhi tyohar hai." (And we must take care of our household staff as well. We should give each of them a small, meaningful gift. This is not just our wedding; it’s their celebration too.)

The servant’s eyes gleamed with gratitude. "Ji, mam."

Sabrina’s smile was warm as she looked out the window, watching the preparations. There was no chaos, no fear, only harmony—the way she had always wished her home to be.

The courtyard of the Malik Mansion was a sight to behold—not ostentatious, but breathtakingly elegant.

Moroccan lanterns hung from ivory canopies, casting a soft golden glow over the handwoven Persian carpets laid beneath. A team of artisans delicately arranged floral garlands of fresh white lilies and red roses, their skilled hands working with patience rather than urgency.

Despite the sheer scale of the event, there was no stress, no harsh voices commanding the workers—only a shared effort to create something beautiful.

On the first-floor balcony, Abeeha leaned against the intricate marble railing, watching everything unfold with quiet admiration.

"Kitna khubsurat lag raha hai na?" (Isn’t it all so beautiful?) she murmured to herself, pulling out her phone to capture the moment—not for social media, but as a personal memory.

She wasn’t impressed by the wealth of it all—she had grown up with luxury. What made her heart swell was the warmth—the way the Maliks, despite their status, treated every person as family.

The Malik Mansion’s grand kitchen was alive with rich aromas and the sounds of tradition.

The head chef, an elderly man who had been with the family for decades, stirred a massive copper pot of saffron-infused biryani, its fragrance filling the room. Beside him, his assistants plated Shahi Tukda, ensuring each piece was soaked to perfection in rosewater and creamy milk, garnished with slivers of almonds and 24K edible gold leaf—not for extravagance, but because this was how tradition was honored.

A young worker entered hesitantly, offering a tray of freshly brewed Kashmiri chai. The head chef took a cup, his wrinkled hands steady as he smiled.

"Baba, shaadi ki tayyari dekhne aaye?" (Baba, have you come to see the wedding preparations?) one of the younger chefs teased.

The old man chuckled. "Bête, Malik khandan ki shaadiyan sirf shaadiyan nahi hoti, yeh ek misaal hoti hain." (Son, the Malik family's weddings are not just weddings, they are an example.)

An example—not of wealth, but of grace, of honor, of a family that, despite having the world at their feet, never forgot their values.And outside, under the illuminated sky, the Malik Mansion stood—a symbol of wealth, but more than that, a home filled with kindness, tradition, and love.

Sifna’s pov

The soft creak of the door made me look up from my book. Inayah Aapi stepped inside, carrying a silver tray with a delicate china teapot, two cups, and a plate of warm parathas with butter melting over them. The soft clinking of the cups against the tray filled the quiet room, mingling with the faint chirping of birds outside.

"Padhai ho gayi ya abhi bhi baki hai?" (Are you done studying, or is there still more left?) she asked, setting the tray down on the small wooden table beside my bed.

I stretched my arms and sighed, rubbing my eyes. "Thodi si aur baaki hai, Aapi." (A little more is left, Aapi.)

She smiled, a soft, knowing smile, before sitting down beside me on the bed. "Chal, ab break le le. Dimaag kaam nahi karega agar kuch khaayegi nahi." (Come on, take a break now. Your mind won’t work if you don’t eat something.)

I hesitated, glancing at my open book, but the scent of the freshly brewed chai and warm parathas was too tempting to resist. With a small nod, I closed the book and shifted closer to her.

She poured the steaming tea into two delicate cups, the golden-brown liquid swirling as it settled. The fragrance of cardamom and cinnamon wrapped around us like a comforting embrace.

As I took my first sip, the warmth spread through my chest, making me sigh in contentment. The morning sunlight filtered in through the lace curtains, casting soft golden patterns on the white marble floor. Everything felt peaceful.

Aapi tore a small piece of paratha, dipping it into her tea, just like she always did. It was a habit of hers—one that I found oddly comforting.

For a while, we ate in silence. But I could feel something off—something that made Aapi’s presence feel heavier than usual.

"Aapi…" I started hesitantly.

She hummed in response, her gaze fixed on the swirls in her cup.

"Aap khush hain na?" (Are you happy?)

She stilled for a second before taking a small sip of tea. "Tumhe kya lagta hai, Sifna?" (What do you think, Sifna?)

I frowned, setting my cup down on the tray. "Mujhe lagta hai ki aap kuch chhupa rahi hain." (I think you’re hiding something.)

Aapi chuckled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

"Tum bohot masoom ho, Sifna. Har cheez sach samajh leti ho." (You’re too innocent, Sifna. You believe everything as the truth.)

I lowered my gaze. I knew she was hiding something. The slight tremble in her fingers, the way her smile never quite reached her eyes, the way she avoided my questions—it was all there.

"Lekin aap mujhse jhoot nahi bol sakti." (But you can’t lie to me.) I whispered.

For a fleeting second, something flickered in her gaze—something deep, something that looked a lot like pain.

She sighed, placing her cup back on the tray. "Bas dua karo, Sifna… ki sab theek ho jaaye." (Just pray, Sifna… that everything turns out fine.)

A lump formed in my throat. I didn’t know what she meant, but I knew one thing—something was weighing on her heart.

And that scared me.

Hamad's POV

The underground basement of the

Russian safe house was a world of its

own-one drenched in the scent of

blood, metal, and damp stone. The air

was thick, heavy, and suffocating

wrapping around the room like a

second skin.

A single dim, flickering bulb swung

from the cracked ceiling, casting long,

eerie shadows against the stained

concrete walls. The faint hum of a

ventilation system was the only sound

that accompanied the slow, labored

breathing of a man tied to a steel chair

in the center of the room.

Hamad Malik stood before him, his

shadow stretching across the floor like

a phantom of death.

The man-one of Emiliano Valdez's

soldiers-was barely clinging to life. His

face was unrecognizable, swollen and

disfigured, covered in a grotesque mix

of dried and fresh blood. His shirt had

been discarded long ago, exposing his

bruised chest, where deep gashes

marred his skin, evidence of the

ruthless interrogation he had endured

And yet, despite it all, the man

remained silent

Hamad exhaled slowly, the air in the

room chilling as his gloved fingers

tightened around the armrest of the

chair. He had seen many men like this

before-loyal dogs willing to die for

their master

But Hamad had a reputation

No one left his basement alive.

Stepping forward, he crouched before

the man, his obsidian eyes unreadable

-cold, void of emotion. Then, in a voice

as smooth as silk yet laced with venom

he spoke:

"i;Sabes quién soy?" (Do you know who I am?)

The man's bloodied lips curled into a

weak smirk, his chest rising and falling

raggedly. Despite his condition, there

was no fear in his gaze.

"El diablo en carne y hueso." (The devil

in flesh and bone.)

Hamad let out a dark chuckle, the

sound devoid of warmth. "Muy

bien." (Very good.)

He straightened, pulling out a

silver-plated knife, its sharp edge

gleaming under the dim light. Slowly,

deliberately, he ran the cold steel

across the man's already bruised

knuckles, pressing just enough to draw

blood.

"Y dime... ;Dónde está Emiliano

Valdez?" (And tell me... where is

Emiliano Valdez?)

The man's dark eyes burned with

defiance. He spat blood onto the floor

his lips still curled in amusement.

"Ni muerto te lo diré." (Not even in

death will I tell you.)

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of

Hamad's lips, but there was no humor

in it-only something dark, dangerous,

and lethal.

"Eso pensé." ( thought so.)

Without warning, he drove the knife

deep into the man's thigh, twisting it

cruelly. A strangled groan tore from the

captive's throat, his body jerking

against the restraints as pure agony

shot through him

Hamad leaned in, his voice a mere

whisper against the man's ear.

"Todos los hombres hablan al

final." (All men talk in the end.)

The man gritted his teeth, his breath

hitching, but still, he said nothing

Ibrahim, who had been leaning casually

against the wall, arms crossed, let out a

low, humorless chuckle. "These

Mexican bastards are tough," he

muttered in Urdu, shaking his head

Hamad sighed, puling the knife out in one swift motion, blood pouring down

the captive's leg like a crimson river.

The man's body trembled, his knuckles

turning white as he clenched his fists

against the pain.

"i Sigues siendo leal?" (Are you still

loyal?) Hamad asked, his voice eerily

calm.

The captive lifted his bloodied head, a

slow, agonizing breath escaping his lips

before he rasped out:

"Hasta la tumba."" (Until the grave.)

Hamad watched him for a moment, his

expression unreadable. Then, with a

swift flick of his wrist, he slashed the

man's throat open, stepping back as

blood gushed from the deep wound

The captive gurgled, his body

convulsing before finally going still.

Ibrahim let out a low whistle. "And there

goes another one," he mused, pushing

off the wall.

Hamad wiped his knife clean on the

dead man's shirt before turning to

Ibrahim.

'Emiliano Valdez will know soon what happens when he will cross path with hamad malik ,"

he said, his voice calm, calculated, and

deadly. "And when he does, he'll know

that his kingdom is next."

Ibrahim smirked, cracking his knuckles

"Let the war begin."

Tell me in comments my dear stars

If you could give Sifna one piece of advice, what would it be?

What do you think Haniya is planning for Sifna after Inayah’s wedding?

What are your thoughts on Haniya’s mindset? Do you think she will succeed in turning Inayah against Sifna?

Do you think Inayah’s parents will ever regret their treatment of Sifna? Why or why not

What emotions did you feel when Inayah confronted her parents?

If you were in Inayah’s place, how would you have handled the situation with her parents?

Do you think Emiliano underestimates Hamad, or does he know exactly what he’s dealing with?

What kind of rivalry do you think will unfold between Emiliano and Hamad? A battle of power, intelligence, or pure violence?

First impressions matter—what are your thoughts on Emiliano Valdez as a rival to Hamad? Do you think he will be a bigger threat than expected?

What do you think will happen next—will Hamad strike first, or is Emiliano already planning something bigger?

My Dear Readers, My Family,

I don’t even know where to begin. My heart is overflowing with emotions—gratitude, love, and a little sadness too, because I’ll be away for some time. But before I go, I want to pour my heart out to all of you.

First, I want to say I’m sorry for the late updates. I know I’ve kept you all waiting, and trust me, it hurts me just as much as it hurts you. But these exams… they’ve taken over my life. It’s exhausting, stressful, and overwhelming, but I keep pushing forward, knowing that once it’s over, I will be back with you all—just like before, like always.

I see your messages, your comments, your excitement—"Author ji, when will the wedding happen?"—and every time, I smile. It makes me realize how much you all love this story, how deeply you feel for these characters. But my dear ones, this is my first story, my first baby, and I want it to be perfect. I don’t want to rush a single moment just for the sake of updates. Every scene I write, I write with love—for you, for the story, for the emotions I want you to feel. Just a little more patience, and I promise, I will give you the best.

And then… 200K reads.

I don’t know how to put my feelings into words. Alhamdulillah. I never imagined this. I never imagined that in just one year, my life would change so much. In 2024, I had nothing—I was just another person with dreams in my heart and emptiness in my hands. And now, in 2025, I have you. I have a family—a family that I built with words, a family that stood by me, supported me, loved me. Do you know what that means to me? Do you know how many nights I have spent looking at your messages with tears in my eyes, wondering, Do I really deserve this much love?

But… can I be honest? The last chapter, I didn’t set a vote target, and so many of you didn’t like, comment, or vote. It hurt a little. I won’t lie—every word I write, I write with my heart, and when I don’t see your love in return, it makes me feel like something is missing. Your comments, your votes—they mean everything to me. They give me the motivation to keep going, to keep making this story better for you all. So please, vote, comment, and share your thoughts. Even a small word from you means the world to me. It makes me feel connected to you all, and I need that connection more than anything.

And I have one more request. I have been working hard on my Instagram reels—please support me there too, the way you have supported me here. Like, comment, and share—your love there would mean just as much as it does here. Also, don’t forget to check out my Instagram stories to stay updated! Let’s grow together, let’s shine together.

You all are not just readers to me. You are my home. My safe space. My people. When I say that I love you, I mean it. When I say that I care, I mean it. And when I say that I am always here for you, I mean that too. I am not just your author—I am your sister, your friend, your well-wisher. If you ever need someone to talk to, someone to listen, someone to remind you that you are not alone—I am here. My DMs on Instagram are open, not just for book talks but for anything your heart wants to share. Please never feel alone, because as long as I am here, you have someone who will always listen.

For my fellow reader who are students and have exams—I pray for your success. I know how hard it is, I know how stressful it feels, but we will get through this. Together. Just like I need your prayers, I am sending mine for you. May Allah bless us all with success and ease our paths.

Also, we have a readers’ group chat on Instagram! If you want to be a part of our little family there, just message me, and I will add you.

I will be away until 28th February, but please, don’t forget me. I will come back, I promise. Stronger, better, and ready to give you all the updates you deserve.

Until then, take care of yourselves. Stay happy, stay strong. And remember, you are never alone—because I am always with you, in my words, in my prayers, in my heart.

With endless love,

Your Little Author, Naini