Chapter 6: Tortured Souls
Hurma woke from her drugged sleep feeling hollow. The temporary peace the doctor's injection had given her was gone, replaced by a gnawing, desperate craving. Her body felt like it was on fire from the inside. She stumbled out of bed and began searching her room frantically.
"Where is it? Where did he hide it?" she muttered, pulling open drawers, checking under cushions, her hands shaking violently.
She remembered Jasim had found her stash. He had confiscated everything. The ice that had been her only escape from the torment of her existence was gone. Her eyes landed on her phone on the bedside table. With trembling fingers, she scrolled through messages until she saw one from her step-sister, Yateema.
"Did you hear? Jasim Bhai has married again. The Nikah happened during Jumma time. Did he ask your permission for this second marriage?"
The words burned into Hurma's retinas. *Second marriage.* While she was locked away in this farmhouse, drowning in her addiction, her husband—the man tied to her in a marriage of pity—had taken another wife.
Not just any wife. The enemy. Bushra Afridi.
A scream of pure rage tore from her throat. She threw the phone against the wall, watching it shatter. "That bastard! He took all my ice and now he's sleeping with that witch! How dare he!"
She paced like a caged animal, her mind racing with violent thoughts. She would make him pay. She would make them all pay. The Afridis who had stolen her husband. The Karanis who kept her hidden like a shameful secret. Jasim who pretended to care while destroying her.
Grabbing the landline phone, she dialed Jasim's number with shaking fingers. It rang once, twice...
"Hello?" His voice was calm, infuriatingly so.
"You got married without telling me?" she shrieked, her voice raw with betrayal. "You took my ice and went off to play husband with that Afridi whore? I'll burn down that haveli with both of you in it!"
Jasim's voice remained disturbingly steady. "Hurma, calm down. This isn't a real marriage. It's a blood debt settlement. I'm a prisoner there, not a husband."
"Don't lie to me! I know what men are like! You'll enjoy having a proper wife instead of a junkie like me! Well, guess what? I'm coming to Islamabad. I'll show that Bushra exactly what kind of man she married!"
"Hurma, listen to me—"
But she'd already slammed the phone down. Breathing heavily, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hair matted. She looked like what she was: a broken, addicted woman discarded by her family.
But she still had one weapon left: the truth about her mother's death. The truth about why she was the way she was. If Jasim thought he could replace her so easily, she would make sure everyone knew the Karanis' dirty secrets.
***
Meanwhile, at the Afridi haveli, Bushra was dealing with her own demons. She sat in her office at "The Guardian," staring at a file her assistant Zohra had compiled. It was about Khadija Sahiba, the woman who ran old age homes and had apparently expressed interest in Bushra's unusual marriage.
But Bushra couldn't focus. The words swam before her eyes. All she could see was Imran's face, his blood on the ground, and Jasim's defiant eyes across the dinner table.
"Zohra," she said, her voice tired. "Read me the highlights."
Zohra sat opposite her and began summarizing. "Khadija Sahiba runs several successful old age homes. She's known for innovative therapies for the elderly. She's expressed... curiosity about your marriage arrangement. She wants an interview."
"Tell her no interviews," Bushra said flatly. "But monitor her. Something about this feels... convenient."
As Zohra left, Bushra leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. The weight of everything pressed down on her. Imran was dead. She had forced his killer's brother into a sham marriage. Her family was divided. And somewhere out there, Zaron Karani was hiding, perhaps laughing at how easily he'd destroyed two families.
A soft knock at the door startled her. It was Gul, looking hesitant.
"Begum Sahiba... there's something I need to tell you."
Bushra waved her in. "What is it?"
Gul stood before her, wringing her hands. "It's about... Imran Sahib. The night before he died..."
***
At the same moment, in his gilded prison room, Jasim was making a phone call of his own. He dialed a number from memory, one he hadn't used in months.
"Ohab Sikandar," he said when the call connected. "I need your help."
The voice on the other end was deep, cultured. "Jasim. I heard what happened. I'm sorry about Imran. He was... a good kid."
"He was more than that," Jasim said, his throat tight. "And I think his death wasn't what it seems. I need you to look into something for me. The 'Islamabad supply.' Imran was involved with something before he died."
There was a long pause. "That's dangerous territory, my friend."
"I know. But I'm already in dangerous territory. I'm living in the Afridi haveli as Bushra Afridi's blood debt husband. If I'm going to survive this, I need to know what really happened."
Ohab sighed. "I'll make some discreet inquiries. But Jasim... be careful. If Imran was tangled up in the supply business, there are powerful people involved. People who don't like loose ends."
"I'm already a loose end," Jasim said grimly. "Just find out what you can."
He hung up and looked out the window. Dusk was falling, painting the haveli in shades of orange and purple. Somewhere in this vast house, Bushra was plotting her next move. Somewhere in the city, Hurma was spiraling. And somewhere in the shadows, the real truth about Imran's death was waiting to be uncovered.
Three tortured souls, bound together by blood and vengeance, each searching for their own version of justice. And none of them prepared for what they were about to find.