Ava sighed, her fingers nervously playing with the edge of her sleeve, "I'll answer but only if you promise to answer my next questions honestly."
"Ava… I was the one who helped you when no one else did. You can trust me."
"I'm… thinking about divorce. But..... it's not easy to—"
"Who said it's not easy?" His face had grown serious—intense, even—as if something far more important had just entered the conversation. "If you're thinking about lawyers then I'll tell you what you can do. You can sue him. For domestic violence."
Ava's eyes widened. "What?!" She wasn't even sure she heard him right. "You're asking me to falsely accuse Ibrahim of domestic violence?"
Prof. Usama simply leaned back in his chair, adjusting his glasses as if he were explaining a university policy, not something this serious.
"Yes," he said. "File a case. Ask for a divorce. Once you do that, the government will assign you a lawyer—free of cost. They'll even provide protection if you say you feel unsafe. It's the easiest legal route out of a marriage like yours. If everything goes right, you could also ask for a substantial alimony. You were forced into that marriage. You were isolated. Emotionally distressed. You left the country in fear."
"I'm not doing that," she said with trembling voice, "I'm not going to lie. I won't falsely accuse him, no matter what happened between us. And I won't take a single penny from him after the divorce. If we separate, I'll walk out with my name, not his money."
"You're emotional right now. That's okay. But I want you to listen logically. This is how the system works. In Malaysia, most domestic abuse cases rely heavily on the victim's statement. Because most couples don't live in joint families here. Most couples live privately—just the two of them. Most don't have domestic helpers around all the time because of privacy. So there are no witnesses."
He tapped the table gently. "In domestic violence trials, the judge often weighs the woman's words heavily. Especially when she's the victim and the only witness. Because in homes like these, abuse happens without outsiders ever knowing. That's how the law is built—to protect the quiet sufferers. The law was created to protect real victims—but it can also be used by those smart enough to understand it. You just need a few photographs. Like some bruises. A scratch. A twisted ankle. A cut on your forehead from a fall down the stairs. Keep the photos dated. Don't share them with anyone yet. Build a quiet pile And when it's time, say Ibrahim did it. That's it."
She blinked—once, slowly. Her heart was racing.
He added, "In most cases, especially if the accused is male and the woman has visual injuries, the burden of proof shifts to him. He will have to prove he didn't do it. And if he reacts with anger—which I'm sure he will—it will only strengthen your case. You don't even imagine what this will look like once it hits the news. A woman escaping from a man like Ibrahim Rahman. Filing for divorce. Claiming abuse. You'll be flooded with support."
He paused, smiling like he was reading headlines only he could see. "Just the allegation is enough to trigger his downfall. One FIR… and the damage begins. His reputation will crack. His family name dragged into the spotlight. Sponsors, investors—they don't want bad press. Contracts will break. His mother will drown in media questions. No one will wait for a conviction. You won't even need to lift a finger after that. The world will take care of him for you."
For a second, the room was dead silent.
Then Ava stood—her chair scraping back with a sharp screech. "Thanks for nothing, sir. Because everything you just said? That's not help. That's not concern."
Her hands shook at her sides, but her voice didn't.
"You're not trying to protect me, sir. You're trying to use me. Trying to weaponize me against Ibrahim. You're just dressing your revenge up in legal terms and asking me to pull the trigger. Take your revenge the way you want. But don't pull me into your plan and pretend you care. I've already been torn apart once. I won't be anyone's puppet—not again."
Usama opened his mouth to explain, hands slightly raised, but Ava had already turned. She didn't want to hear it. She didn't want to stay in that room another second.
But just as she was about to step out, something caught her eye—a tiny glint. Like the soft reflection of sunlight bouncing off glass.
Her eyes darted toward the far bookshelf for only half a second. It was subtle—barely noticeable. Probably just the sun hitting some book cover or glass frame.
Still… it made her pause. But she didn't turn around. Not after everything she had just said. So she walked out—quickly.
And behind her, that quiet room returned to silence.
....
Ava returned to the cafeteria with a visible storm on her face. Elara and Farah were still seated, mid-conversation, but both paused when they saw her expression.
The absence letter was still clutched in Ava's hand.
Elara frowned. "Didn't submit it? What happened?"
Ava sat down heavily, shaking her head. "Ma'am wasn't there. Cabin was locked."
Her tone was not rude, but definitely not her usual. She turned toward Farah, "You staying for the rest of the classes?"
"Uh… yeah. There's one more class."
Ava gave a tight nod. "I'm not attending. I'm going home."
That made Elara speak up again. "You just came back after weeks. And now you're leaving again without attending rest of the class."
"Just not in mood to do anything, Elara."
Farah wordlessly signaled him to take Ava home and talk to her there. Elara understood and left with Ava, taking her home. While Farah stayed behind to attend the last class.
When they reached the apartment, Elara changed into his usual home clothes and leaned casually against the doorframe of Ava's room, watching her in silence.
She had just come out of the shower and was brushing her damp hair, her back to him.
Elara crossed his arms. "So… how long are you planning to stay in that murder-eyes mood?"
But after a few seconds, she slammed the brush down on the dressing table with a loud thud.
"He told me to sue Ibrahim," she snapped.
Elara straightened slightly. "Who?"
"Prof. Syed," she said sharply. "He said I should accuse Ibrahim of domestic violence… and take it to court."
"So? What did you say to him?"
"What could I say?" Ava finally turned from the mirror to face him, "I told him I won't lie. I won't blame Ibrahim for something he didn't do."
Elara's tone sharpened a bit, "So you're saying he never hurt you? Not even once? Physically?"
"Y-yeah… he didn't."
His eyes narrowed, "Right. So you're gonna say when Ibrahim found you in Thailand, he treated you so nicely, huh? So nicely that you've got a bruise on your knee now?"
Ava's eyes widened. She instinctively tugged her skirt lower, trying to cover the faint scab on her knee. The same wound from the night she tried to escape from Ibrahim and fell off the bed.
"I-I tripped… I got hurt accidentally."
"Right. Accidentally. From now on, everything's gonna be 'accidental' with you. You'll fall, you'll bruise, maybe even bleed—and every time, you'll say it just happened, like the floor attacked you or the wall pushed you."
He wasn't yelling, but the disappointment in his voice made her chest tighten.
Ava turned away again, pressing her palm to her forehead, wishing the conversation would just vanish into silence, "I'll fix everything in a month, Elara. Before I leave for London… I'll be done with him. I-I'll make sure I'm separated from him before that flight takes off. I just need a little time. One month is enough."
Elara scoffed bitterly, "You still think all of this can be handled cleanly? Ava, if you hadn't fallen for that monster in the first place, I swear—
I would've killed him myself and spent the rest of my life behind bars without a second thought."
"Why do you two always talk like this? You, him... it's like both of you are obsessed with destroying each other. The more I try to settle things peacefully, the messier everything becomes."
"I don't know what the future holds, Ava. But ... one day, I will kill him. And it won't be fast. It'll be slow—so slow that even hell would feel like mercy in comparison."
Ava stood up and walked over to him. Without a word, she took his palm in hers. She looked up at her brother, "Elara, please," she said gently. "Listen to me. Don't talk like this. Don't let him turn us into something we're not. If we start thinking like him, acting like him—then what's the difference between us and a man like Ibrahim? We're our parents' children. We were raised with values. I'll fight him, Elara—but I'll do it the right way. Legally. With dignity. I won't let him win by dragging me down to his level."
"You're still so innocent, Ava," he said quietly, his voice laced with a sadness he didn't bother to hide. "It doesn't even surprise me anymore… how easily he's able to twist your mind. Manipulate you. Make you believe he's not as dangerous as he really is. Sometimes I look at you and feel like a failure, Ava. I've locked up the worst kind of men. But I still couldn't protect the one person I love most in this world. All I want is to shake you awake. To scream until you finally see what he's doing to you. But I can't, can I? You keep choosing peace over pain, even when the peace is fake."
Ava sighed, her fingers slipping away from Elara's palm. What was she even thinking yesterday? She had given in—for what? Her lips trembled with shame. Was her loneliness so desperate that even pain felt like love?