8| She Won't Last

S H E W O N' T L A S T

Btw the update is for those awesome readers who made me so happy with their comments in the previous chapter, I couldn't help but publish one more chapter before time♥

Thankyou for making my day with your comments and likes♥️

Ps: It's a long chapter

W O R D C O U N T: 4204

Anaabiya sat curled up in the corner of her massive room, her arms wrapped around her knees, her body trembling with the force of her sobs.

What had she done?

What had she gotten herself into?

The walls of this grand, luxurious house seemed to close in around her, suffocating her with their cold perfection. It was beautiful—too beautiful, too pristine, too untouched. A golden cage meant to keep her locked inside.

A sob tore from her throat as she buried her face into her hands, the reality of her situation crushing her from all sides. She had no control. No freedom. No escape.

The thought was unbearable.

A sudden, desperate urge took hold of her. She needed air. She needed space. She needed to feel something real.

Without thinking, she pushed herself up and rushed out of the room, down the long hallways, ignoring the curious glances of the staff. She didn't stop until she was outside, the fresh air hitting her like a wave.

She barely noticed the guards standing at the perimeter, their eyes subtly tracking her every movement, their hands clasped behind their backs in stiff discipline. They didn't move to stop her, didn't say a word.

She ignored them.

Instead, she stepped forward onto the massive, well-manicured lawn beyond the patio, the grass a vibrant shade of green beneath the golden sunlight. It looked impossibly soft, almost unreal.

Without hesitation, she slipped off her shoes, letting her bare feet sink into the cool earth.

She closed her eyes, tilting her head back toward the sky. The sun was warm against her skin, a reminder that she was still here. Still breathing.

I am not a prisoner, she told herself. I am free.

Liar.

The voice in her head was sharp, cruel, relentless.

You are anything but free.

She repeated the words again and again, clinging to the illusion as tightly as she could. But her body betrayed her, her knees buckling beneath her as she collapsed onto the grass, her sobs returning with renewed force.

She hated this.

She hated him.

Humza.

The arrogant, controlling, insufferable man who had put her in this situation.

How could she make sense of any of this? How could she live like this?

She pressed her palms against her chest, trying to steady her breathing, to calm the erratic pounding of her heart. But the moment she felt herself slipping back into reality, she heard it.

A presence behind her.

She spun around so fast she almost lost her balance, her breath hitching in alarm.

A tall figure stood a few feet away, hands casually tucked into his pockets. Huzaifa.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice calm, almost hesitant. "I didn't mean to startle you."

He extended a hand to help her up.

Anaabiya's eyes flicked to him for the first time—he was dressed in dark jeans and a fitted black turtleneck, his expression unreadable, his gaze sharp but not unkind.

She didn't take his hand.

Instead, she wiped her tear-streaked face with the back of her sleeve and pushed herself up on her own, ignoring how unsteady she felt.

She must have looked like a complete mess.

Huzaifa watched her carefully, hands still tucked into his pockets, his stance relaxed but observant. He waited for her to steady herself before speaking again.

"We've met before," he said. "If you remember me from the party."

Anaabiya brushed the last of her tears away, schooling her features into an expression of indifference. "I remember."

She did.

And now, staring at him, the realization struck her—he was Humza's friend. Had he told him? Had he mentioned what she'd done that day with the children, mocking Humza in their little game?

"I hope you've settled well," he said, his voice light, but she wasn't in the mood for small talk. She wasn't in the mood to maintain any cordial relationships—not with him, not with anyone in this house other than Bibijaan and Maliha.

So instead, she asked what was really on her mind.

"Did you tell him?" Her voice was quiet, but the accusation was clear. "Is that why he's punishing me?"

Her voice cracked at the end, betraying her exhaustion, her frustration.

Huzaifa's expression faltered, his posture stiffening just slightly. He hesitated. And that hesitation was enough of an answer.

Anaabiya let out a short, humorless laugh. "You did."

He looked a little embarrassed now, as if he hadn't realized the full weight of what he'd done. "I—I'm sorry but I don't think it was the cause behind everything. Humza has his reasons for the.. decision. What happened that night wasn't meant to be serious. I know."

Anaabiya shook her head, feeling a fresh wave of exhaustion wash over her. Of course, Humza wouldn't take a joke as a joke.

"You don't know him very well, do you?" she said bitterly.

Huzaifa exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I do, actually. I just didn't expect him to react like... this and that's not even the reason why he married you in the first place."

She looked away, staring at the grass beneath her bare feet, trying to will away the ache in her chest. "Doesn't matter. It's done."

A silence settled between them, neither knowing what else to say.

Huzaifa shifted his weight, watching her cautiously. "For what it's worth... I really am sorry, Anaabiya."

She didn't reply.

She didn't want to talk anymore.

Without another word, she turned away from him and walked back toward the house, feeling too drained to continue this conversation any longer.

Anaabiya returned to her room, her heart still heavy, but as she laid out her prayer mat and stood for Dhuhr Salah, something within her shifted. With every verse she recited, every prostration she made, she felt a newfound strength settle inside her. It didn't matter what Humza did, what this house represented, or how trapped she felt—she had Allah by her side. And that was enough.

When she finished, she sat on the prayer mat for a few extra moments, inhaling deeply. I can do this. No matter how suffocating this place felt, no matter how much she despised Humza's control, she would endure it. She wasn't alone—not truly.

By the time she went downstairs for lunch, she felt steadier, more composed. She found Bibijaan setting the table, her movements quiet and practiced, and Maliha helping her.

Bibijaan was about to move away after serving her food, but Anaabiya stopped her.

"Sit with me," she said.

Bibijaan blinked, surprised. "What?"

"You and Maliha," Anaabiya clarified, looking between them. "Sit with me and eat."

Maliha hesitated, exchanging a glance with Bibijaan. "That's not how it works..."

Anaabiya frowned. "Why not? I don't want to eat alone. Please."

Bibijaan still looked uncertain, but after a moment, she gave a small nod, and both she and Maliha took hesitant seats at the table.

The three of them ate together, and Anaabiya found herself relaxing a little. They had warm lentil soup, freshly baked naan, and a side of spicy chicken curry. Simple but comforting.

"You don't have to, but I appreciate it," Bibijaan said after a while, smiling.

"You treat us so nicely," Maliha added, her eyes lighting up. "We're not used to that in this house."

Anaabiya raised a brow, but before she could ask what that meant, Maliha spoke again.

"Sir Humza doesn't usually come home during the day," she said, stirring her soup absentmindedly. "Most days, he comes back really late. Sometimes, he doesn't come back for days."

Anaabiya stiffened. "I didn't ask."

Maliha smirked. "You didn't. But I figured you'd want to know anyway."

"I don't," Anaabiya said flatly.

Bibijaan chuckled but said nothing.

Just then, the sharp click of heels echoed in the hall. Both Bibijaan and Maliha hurriedly stood up leaving the table.

Anaabiya looked up, startled, as a woman descended from the staircase. She was tall, poised, and undeniably beautiful—almost like a model. Her fitted designer dress clung to her frame, and she carried an expensive purse on her shoulder, her movements effortless, as if she owned the place.

Anaabiya's first thought was that she must be Humza's sister.

But then she noticed the way the woman looked at her—disdainful, as if she were nothing more than an unwelcome guest in her home.

The woman didn't acknowledge Anaabiya at all as she stopped at the table, her gaze landing on Bibijaan.

"Maid," she said in a clipped tone, "make dinner for six tonight. My friends are coming over."

Anaabiya's grip on her spoon tightened.

Bibijaan, unfazed, simply nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

Anaabiya, on the other hand, was fuming.

The way she addressed Bibijaan so rudely, as if she were nothing but a servant—no, worse, as if she were beneath her—it made Anaabiya's blood boil.

The woman didn't spare her a single glance. She simply turned and walked out of the hall, her heels clicking against the marble floor, her expensive perfume lingering in the air.

Anaabiya watched her go, her irritation mounting.

So, he doesn't stop other women in his family from going out because of 'security reasons.'

She scoffed internally.

It was obvious now—Humza had done what he did to her just to exert control over her, just to drive her crazy.

When the girl finally disappeared, Bibijaan and Maliha sat back on their respective seats. Anaabiya exhaled sharply, trying to shake off her irritation. But curiosity got the best of her.

"I didn't know Humza has a sister," she muttered.

Maliha, who had just taken a sip of water, suddenly choked, coughing violently before bursting into laughter.

"Malika?" Maliha gasped between laughs. "Sister?"

Anaabiya frowned. "Why are you laughing?"

Maliha continued to giggle, shaking her head, while Bibijaan gave a small, knowing smile.

"She's not his sister," Bibijaan finally said.

Anaabiya's frown deepened. "Then who is she?"

At that, the laughter died down.

The air shifted, and both Bibijaan and Maliha exchanged a look.

"Just... someone who lives here," Maliha said vaguely.

Anaabiya narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean? She must be a relative or a cousin or something."

Maliha hesitated. "We don't know. She's been here for many years now, but no one has the guts to ask her or Sir Humza what their relationship is."

Anaabiya's stomach twisted. "What are you saying?"

Bibijaan sighed. "All we know is that she has him wrapped around her finger," she said carefully. "Whatever she asks for, he does it."

Anaabiya didn't know why, but hearing that made her feel... weird.

Unsettled.

Like a nagging feeling at the back of her mind that she couldn't quite shake off.

And then, suddenly, the memory of Malika's gaze flashed in her mind. The way she had looked at her—sharp, cold, filled with something close to hatred.

Anaabiya had thought it was mere disdain, the arrogance of a woman who didn't care for strangers in her space.

But now, as she pieced things together, she realized—

That wasn't just disinterest.

It was enmity.

A warning, unspoken but loud enough.

She should have realized it then. Malika's gaze hadn't just been dismissive.

It had been the gaze of a woman who saw her as a threat.

Anaabiya frowned, her grip tightening around her spoon. "If she has him wrapped around her finger, why didn't I see her at the wedding?"

Maliha and Bibijaan exchanged a quick glance.

"She wasn't invited," Bibijaan said carefully, wiping her hands on the edge of her dupatta.

Maliha scoffed. "More like he didn't let her come. Maybe he thought she'd cause a scene."

Anaabiya's brows knit together. "A scene?"

Maliha shrugged. "I mean, you saw the way she looked at you. She's never liked any woman around Humza."

Anaabiya felt her stomach turn. "Why?"

Bibijaan hesitated before answering. "Malika has been in this house for years. Longer than you can imagine."

"She acts like she owns it," Maliha muttered. "And maybe in a way, she does."

Anaabiya's appetite was gone. She placed her spoon down, staring at the now unappealing food on her plate. Not that she envied her but it surely made her look like a fool for marrying a man who was already in love with another.

"Are they..." She paused, unsure if she even wanted the answer. "Together?"

Bibijaan exhaled, as if she had been expecting the question. "That's something only Humza can answer."

Maliha, however, had no such restraint. "She certainly acts like she's more than just a guest."

Anaabiya felt a strange irritation crawl under her skin. She wasn't sure why. It wasn't like she cared about who Humza did or didn't have in his life. But something about Malika's open hostility, the way she carried herself in this house like she belonged, while Anaabiya was treated like an outsider, made her uneasy.

"She looked at me like she hated me," Anaabiya murmured, more to herself than them.

Maliha let out a humorless chuckle. "That's because she does."

Anaabiya blinked.

"You should've seen her face when she found out about your marriage," Maliha continued. "She was furious. Locked herself in her room for hours. Threw a whole fit. If she could've burned this house down, she would have."

Bibijaan shot Maliha a warning look, but it was too late. The words had already settled in Anaabiya's mind like an uncomfortable truth she wasn't sure she wanted to acknowledge.

So Malika had hated her even before she had met her.

Anaabiya swallowed the lump in her throat. Great. Just great.

She had one more enemy in this house.

And this time, it wasn't Humza.

Later that night Anaabiya had no intention of going downstairs during Malika's dinner party. But the longer she stayed in her room, the more suffocated she felt.

The idea of Malika sitting there, acting like she owned the place, like she was the one who belonged here—it gnawed at her.

Even though every cell in her body was screaming to mind her own business, she just couldn't.

So, before she could second-guess herself, she stepped out and made her way downstairs.

The dining space, usually quiet, was alive with conversation and laughter. The table was grand, set with polished silverware and delicate glassware, the chandelier casting a golden glow over everything.

At the center of it all sat Malika.

Dressed in a sleek black dress, her long hair cascading in effortless waves, she exuded elegance. But more than that, she looked comfortable—like this house was hers.

Anaabiya hesitated at the entrance, unnoticed for a moment.

Then Malika's eyes flicked toward her, a slow smirk curling at her lips.

She didn't say anything.

But she didn't have to.

One of the women—a brunette with sharp cheekbones and a haughty air—followed Malika's gaze, then let out a soft, knowing chuckle. "Oh," she said, amusement dancing in her tone, "so that's her?"

Anaabiya's grip tightened at her sides.

Malika didn't respond, just took a leisurely sip of her drink, as if the conversation didn't interest her in the slightest.

Another woman, this one with perfectly manicured nails and an expensive-looking bracelet, leaned forward, lowering her voice just enough for it to be heard. "Is she the wife?" The way she said it, dragging out the word, made it sound like an insult.

Still, Malika said nothing.

It was one of the men at the table who chuckled, his fingers tapping against his glass. "I just want to know," he mused, voice laced with mock curiosity, "how exactly she managed to trap him into this?"

Anaabiya exhaled slowly, refusing to let their words shake her.

Instead, she lifted her chin and responded coolly, "You should ask him that. Since he's the one who insisted."

A fleeting flicker of irritation crossed Malika's face, gone before anyone else could notice.

She took another slow sip of her drink.

Anaabiya didn't wait for them to humiliate her more. She walked back to her room.

As she stepped out of the hall, she heard the quiet murmur of Malika's voice—soft, but sharp enough to cut.

"She won't last."

Laughter followed.

Anaabiya didn't stop.

She wouldn't let them see that their words had affected her.

But deep inside, she felt it—that heavy weight in her chest.

Like she had unknowingly walked into a battlefield she hadn't even realized existed.

Anaabiya had lost her appetite by the time she reached her room, but the emptiness in her stomach was a cruel reminder that she hadn't eaten.

She had thought about going downstairs again once Malika and her friends were gone, but the mere thought of stepping into that space after what had happened made her stomach churn. She wasn't about to give them another chance to humiliate her.

So she resigned herself to hunger, convincing herself she wasn't even that hungry.

But just when she had settled onto her bed, there was a soft knock on the door.

She hesitated before opening it, and there stood Bibijaan, holding a tray of food.

"I thought you might be hungry," she said, her voice gentle, her eyes knowing.

Anaabiya's throat tightened.

For a moment, she just stood there, staring at the older woman, at the kindness in her face. After everything tonight, after the silent mockery, the taunts disguised as conversation, this small act of care was enough to make her chest ache.

"I—" She swallowed, stepping aside. "Come in."

Bibijaan entered, placing the tray on the small table in the corner. The scent of warm food filled the room—freshly made chapati, a simple curry, and a small bowl of yogurt. Nothing extravagant, but comforting in a way Anaabiya hadn't expected.

"I would have come sooner, but I didn't want to disturb you incase you slept," Bibijaan admitted, adjusting the tray. "Eat before it gets cold."

Anaabiya lowered her gaze. "You didn't have to do this."

Bibijaan smiled, shaking her head. "You're young, child. You'll learn that sometimes, we women have to look out for each other in ways no one else will."

Something about the way she said it made Anaabiya's chest tighten.

She didn't say anything, just nodded before sitting down.

Bibijaan didn't stay, just gave her a final glance before leaving the room.

Anaabiya stared at the food for a long moment before finally picking up the chapati.

With every bite, it felt like she was slowly regaining a bit of herself.

Anaabiya had been asleep, drifting in and out of a light slumber, when she was jolted awake by hurried footsteps and muffled voices echoing from downstairs. The noise seemed unusual—urgent, frantic even. Frowning, she sat up in bed, heart pounding a little faster than usual.

With cautious steps, she made her way out of her room, wrapping her shawl tightly around her shoulders. She could hear the commotion more clearly now, a group of people murmuring just out of view.

Her mind raced with confusion, but curiosity propelled her forward. She descended the stairs slowly, every step quiet, trying not to make a sound.

When she stepped into the hallway, the sight before her stopped her in her tracks.

Humza stood there, his hand pressed against his side. The blood soaking through his shirt was unmistakable. His face was tight with pain, though he seemed to be trying to keep his composure. His jaw was clenched, eyes narrowed, as if he refused to show any vulnerability.

Bibijaan and the staff moved quickly around him, their calmness in sharp contrast to the situation. They were preparing cloths and first aid materials as if they'd done this before, their movements practiced and efficient.

"Humza..." Anaabiya whispered, unable to help herself.

But before she could get closer, Huzaifa spoke, his voice cold and composed, "You'll need stitches," he said, glancing at Humza with a slight frown. "Ask Asad to come back right now. It is dangerous out there." Humza said with authority. Huzaifa at once pulled out his phone and started dialling.

Anaabiya's heart skipped a beat, her eyes locked on Humza's pale face. Even though she disliked him, this wasn't what she wanted. She didn't want this for anybody, even the people who had been unkind to her all her life. She took a hesitant step forward, but then she saw Malika.

Malika glided into the scene, her presence almost suffocating as she took Humza's hand in hers with ease, guiding him toward the couch. She was dressed in a soft, silky robe that clung to her curves in a way that only highlighted her beauty.

She started unbuttoning his shirt with practiced ease as if she had done it many times before. As Malika carefully unbuttoned his shirt, the fabric fell open, revealing a deep gash along his side, the edges jagged and raw.

Blood had soaked through, staining the skin around it a dark red, while a thin trail of crimson dripped from the wound, threatening to spread. The cut was long, a reminder of something violent, the sight of it making the room feel unbearably heavy.

Her voice, laced with concern, sounded almost too rehearsed. "Is it hurting a lot?" Malika asked, her eyes looking directly into Humza's as she stroked his hand. She leaned closer to him, as though trying to make herself the center of his attention.

Anaabiya's breath caught.

She watched them, trying to ignore the odd flutter of discomfort in her chest. Why was she feeling this way? It didn't make sense. Humza had hurt her more times than she could count, and yet, seeing him in pain like this or seeing him with her... it twisted something inside her. She couldn't deny it.

The sight of Malika being so close to him, holding his hand as if she were the only one allowed to tend to him, sparked something even deeper in Anaabiya. Her gaze dropped to their joined hands, and something inside her snapped.

Was this how they were supposed to put up a show for the world?

She forced herself to look away, but it was as if her feet were stuck to the floor. She wanted to retreat, to escape the scene and the emotions it was stirring inside her. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't move.

She tried ta take a few steps when Humza's gaze suddenly snapped to hers. For a split second, their gazes locked, and she saw something flicker in his eyes—was it pain? Regret? But before she could make sense of it, Malika shifted, her grip tightening on his hand as she continued to fuss over him.

Humza remained silent, his face stoic, but Anaabiya could see the slight tightening of his jaw, the subtle shift in his expression that betrayed the pain he was trying to mask. As one of the staff members carefully stitched the wound, he didn't flinch, only letting out an occasional hiss of discomfort. Yet, his eyes stayed locked on her, never wavering, as if her presence alone was more important than the injury but Anaabiya knew better, knew what she meant to him.

Absolutely nothing.

She swallowed hard, standing still, torn between the confusing emotions she was battling inside. She wasn't sure why seeing him like this affected her so much, but it did. Maybe it was because she had never been okay watching other people in pain.

"I think it's best if the room were less crowded," Malika said, her voice calm yet pointed. Almost immediately, several staff members quietly left the hall. Anaabiya couldn't help but feel that the statement was directed at her. She stood frozen for a moment, unsure whether to stay or leave.

And then, just as she thought she might implode from the tension, she noticed something. Humza's hand—still held in Malika's—was slowly starting to loosen. His fingers began to release from hers, inch by inch, until he was no longer gripping her hand with the same tightness.

His eyes didn't leave Anaabiya as his fingers gradually withdrew. The moment was brief, but it was enough. Malika's scowl was unmissable.

Anaabiya's heart raced, her mind spinning. She couldn't explain it, that foreign feeling.

It scared her.

Before she could process what it all meant, she turned away, the weight of the scene pressing on her chest. She didn't want to stay. She didn't want to be a part of whatever this was anymore.

Without a word, she started to walk back up the stairs, the soft sound of her footsteps echoing in the quiet hallway as she retreated into the solitude of her room.

That night she couldn't help but pray for his recovery before she dosed off to sleep.

Who wants to know what goes on in Humza's mind?

V and C guys 😘

E D I T E D on 12.2.2025