Wednesday – 9:41 p.m. Big Bazaar, Lahore
Zain's gang were in Big Bazaar for his friend's sisters' wedding ceremony. They had to purchase some items.
Laiba, her sister, and 2 of her closest cousins were also at Big Bazaar, they were at a beauty parlour to get a facial done, and also get their brows shaped.
They sat together. Although Laiba seemed like a calm and soft spoken person, she was a really joyful girl around her family members. A lively person, and this is what attracted Zeeshaan towards her. She knew her bounderies.
Zeeshaan, Sana and Laiba sat on the first bike, the night turning beautiful as the light wind hit thier faces. Both the girls had their heads covered, no makeup as they had to take it off anyway. On the other bike, Anam and Fakhir.
As their bike slowly drove through a random, dark street, a group of guys, all in black turned the other way. Zain, however, felt a stitch in his stomach. He turned around, in time to just catch a glimpse of her side profile.
His heart knew it was her, and he tapped his friend Bashir. They group turned, noticing Zain's intense gaze towards the bike that just passed by. Bashir understood his brother's intense desire to see her again.
He leaded them, Zain's heart beating fast. He saw them stop beside a beauty parlour, both ladies getting off the bike. Zain's palm curled into a fist, his expression had darkened, she was standing behind him. Although Sana was between them, his blood still boiled. His eyes shut close when her hands lightly touched his shoulder as she got off the bike. It was as if seeing the sight for longer would cause danger.
The ladies went inside, in the masking and waxing section. There was another section for the males to wait, if they wanted to. Zeeshaan and Fakhir went elsewhere to buy some jutti's for tomorrow's event.
As Zain and his gang entered, the scent of rose water and lemongrass floated through the tiled hall, mingling with the faint hum of air conditioning. A laminated sign read "Ladies Section – No Entry," but beside it, separated by a floral partition and glass wall, was the Men's Waiting Area—a modest lounge with five cushioned chairs and one perfect view.
Zain stepped in slowly, his presence pressing against the air like heat in June.
His gang trailed behind him, taking their seats casually. Bashir, as usual, chose the corner where shadows clung; Adil and Shaan began to fake-check their phones. But Zain?
Zain stood. His eyes moved beyond the partition. She was there.
Laiba had just settled into one of the reclining facial chairs. Her dupatta was folded beside her bag. Her face, bare of makeup, looked softer somehow—more delicate. She held her skin tight with both her hands as the worker worked on her full brows.
He didn't need filters. He saw her like no one else did.
Her cousins laughed beside her, chatting freely as the beauticians prepared trays—cotton pads, steaming bowls, honey masks.
"Madam ji," said one of the workers as she wiped Laiba's face gently, "aapke features toh bohat royal hain. Aisi sharp cheekbones aur natural glow toh kisi bride ka sapna hoti hai."
Laiba smiled politely.
"Thank You," she murmured, trying not to look toward the transparent glass wall she'd noticed earlier.
She didn't need confirmation. She knew he was there. Somehow, her heartbeat had changed the moment she stepped inside. Now, she didn't dare glance up.
But Sana didn't know that.
She turned toward Laiba with a mischievous grin. "Waise, walima ke din tum apne husband ko kis look mein dekhna chahti ho?"
Laiba chuckled, pretending casualness.
"Hmm..." she wiped her damp palms against the linen cloth and leaned back slightly as the worker began applying a golden turmeric layer across her jawline.
"Mujhe pasand hai—built men," she said slowly, the words slipping out like petals. "Sharp jawline, long styled hair... not unkempt, just... thoda wild. Jinko main subha uth kar theek kar sakun"
Sana grinned. "Color preference?"
Laiba nodded. "Black. Black sherwani. Black petticoat beneath. Thoda silver embroidery—not flashy. And his hair pushed back... lekin kuch strands naturally gir rahe hon."
Sana burst into laughter. "Okay, romantic heroine! Mujhe nahi pata tha tum itni romantic ho? Aur expression mein kya hona chahiye?"
Laiba paused, and for a second—a heartbeat only—her eyes drifted upward.
Her gaze collided with his. He stood frozen behind the glass, invisible to everyone except her.
Her words dropped lower, almost like a confession. "Aise ankhen jo... bas mujhe dekhein... aur kho jayen"
Zain didn't blink. Couldn't.
He stood still as her cousins teased her, the chatter softening into background noise. As she talked, her head tilted slightly
That single tilt. That arch of her neck.
The curve of her brow.
Zain's fists clenched gently, not in rage—but restraint. Everything in him wanted to walk through that partition. But he didn't. Not here. Not while she was bathed in candlelight and calmness.
Bashir leaned toward him quietly.
"Bhai. Ab chalen?" Zain didn't reply.
He just kept watching her, memorizing her every movement. His mission tonight was done.
And it had nothing to do with juttis. She had indirectly confessed that she found him hot. Just before he stood up to leave, he heard her cousin's voice again. "Tumhe mardon par colours konse pasand hain?", Sana asked her.
"Hmm. Black, dark blue, aur white....uske upar agar coat ho toh aur bhi zyada h--hot legega", she blurt out. Zain's face broke into a small smirk. He bit his bottom lip, and then left with his gang.
"Main Zeeshaan bhai ko bataungi", Sana informed her, and reality hit her. She was engaged. Her eyes close shut, guilty that she just communicated with him (Zain) with her eyes, meant all this for him, forgetting she was committed to a man.
Even if she didn't love him.
Thursday – 7:02 p.m. Sheesh Mahal Banquet Hall, Lahore
The air smelled of roses, roasted almonds, and anticipation. Chandeliers shimmered above the velvet-draped tables. Gold cutlery gleamed against ivory plates. Strings of jasmine wound around the columns like a promise.
It was her cousin's nikkah tonight.
And Laiba, excited, had dressed for it. Her cousins around the room, some fixing their hair, others thier makeup. And her cousin Sana (Zeeshaan's sister) still deciding what jewllery to wear. She hadn't even started her makeup.
"Sana, kya kar rahi ho, thodi der main nikalna hai", Anam said, finally finishing her makeup. She was always the first one to start getting ready and the last to finish.
Laiba's makeup was done with such simplicity. Her brows shaded in lightly, her eyes coated with some golden shimmer.
Her gharara was the color of moonlight—golden with hints of blush pink, embroidered heavily at the cuffs. Her dupatta lay softly over her arm, pinned neatly across the shoulder. She wore some minimal golden hoops in her ears.
She looked radiant. But the glow didn't reach her expression. Not quite.
Her mother had insisted she wore more jewelry. So she did—added a delicate choker, a matching teeka on her forehead. But most distracting of all was the diamond ring.
Every time she moved, it caught the light. It wasn't heavy. Just visible enough. She hated it.
The family was buzzing around her. Khala called her for a photo. A cousin pulled her aside to fix her teeka. Another handed her a gift box. The noise grew louder. Laughter echoed across the hall.
But none of it registered. Because in her heart, she could feel something else. She felt him.
7:29 p.m. Outside the Banquet Hall
"Bhai," Adil murmured beside him, head slightly bowed. "Woh andar hai. Uski cousin ka nikkah chal raha hai andar."
Zain adjusted his cuff slowly.
The gang hadn't dressed like they usually did. Tonight, under Zain's instruction, they wore sherwanis. Simple. Sleek. Enough to blend in, not intimidate.
He wasn't here for business. He was here for her.
His gaze locked onto the entrance doors—glass, glinting with gold patterns. A steady stream of guests moved in and out, all in pastel silks and embroidered shalwar suits.
One glimpse had been enough.
The moment his men spotted her from the hall's entrance, he had turned the car around. Sat still for a moment. Then walked in.
7:45 p.m. Banquet Hall Interior
Laiba stood near the stage, watching the groom sign the nikkah papers. Her cousin was radiant beside him, hands trembling slightly with excitement. The Qari's voice rang out, solemn and sacred.
"Laiba beta, ek picture le lo idhar," her Khala said.
She stepped forward, posed briefly beside the bride. Her smile was polite, the kind reserved for people she barely knew.
But then—something shifted. A hush moved through the crowd. Unseen by many, but she felt it.
She looked up. He had entered. Zain Shah.
No one reacted with alarm. He wasn't dressed like the mafia tonight. He looked sharp—black sherwani, silver buttons, and those piercing eyes scanning the hall with calculated slowness.
He didn't speak. He didn't smile. But his gaze found hers across the crowd like it always did.
Held it. Burned through it.
Laiba's breath faltered. Her cousin nudged her. "Woh kaun hai?" she whispered.
Laiba didn't answer. She couldn't.
7:56 p.m. Near the Juice Stand
Zain stood still. Guests passed him, greeting each other, sipping drinks. But he didn't flinch. His eyes were stuck on her.
She had moved to the side of the hall now—away from the bridal stage—holding a glass of lemon soda, her fingers trembling slightly.
When she looked up again, their gazes met. No words. No movement.
Just silence, thick and unrelenting. And then, her cousin—Shanze—approached her with her phone.
"Laiba dekho, Zeeshaan ka text aaya hai. Keh raha hai tum bohot acchi lag rahi ho. Pictures bhej do."
Her smile didn't reach her eyes. She took the phone. "Waqt nahi mila," she said quietly. But Zain had heard it.
He had heard Zeeshaan. And it sliced through something raw.
8:04 p.m. Back Garden of the Banquet
Laiba stepped into the back lawn for a moment of air, clutching her purse. Stars blinked above the wedding marquee. Fairy lights hung low over the hedge.
She didn't expect him to follow. But he did.
She turned slightly. Didn't speak. Just looked at him. And this time... he didn't look away.
The wind tugged at her dupatta again. She lifted her hand to fix it. That one rebellious strand of hair fell over her cheek.
He watched—mesmerized. Every movement felt loaded. Every blink, every breath.
"Laiba," he said, voice low. She didn't answer.
Her eyes said enough.
Tumhe yahan nahi hona chahiye.
But he stepped closer anyway. Slowly. Her silence gave him the answer. He took one more step. "Tum is shadi se khush ho?" he asked.
She looked down. Didn't deny it. But didn't accpet either. Then lifted her gaze again. Eyes sharp now. His jaw tightened as he claimed the next sentence.
"Tum uske messages ka jawab mat dena. Usko dekhna mat", his voice calm, as though he already knew she loved him. Her breath hitched.
She wasn't happy about his intervening in her life, but....wasn't mad about it either.
Ya Allah, ye kaisy azmaish hai?
"Kyun?", she asked him, her eyes still facing the floor. He headed closer, arms resting behind his back, posture firm, straight.
"Kyunki main nahi chahta meri Laiba kisi aur ko dekhe", he calmy claimed, and then....disappeared.
TO BE CONTINUED...