The hum of the plane's engine was the only thing keeping me grounded. I'd spent the two-hour flight from Islamabad to Karachi staring at the same page of a merger report, my mind refusing to process a single statistic.
Usually, I loved the descent into Karachi—the way the city sprawled like a chaotic, living organism against the Arabian Sea. But today, the sight of the coastline just felt like a tightening noose.
"Welcome home, Sir," the driver murmured as I stepped out of the terminal.
Home. It was a generous word for a place I'd spent five years trying to outrun.
As the car navigated the familiar, crumbling madness of the Karachi streets, I watched the scenery change. The sleek skyscrapers gave way to the older, more dignified estates of our neighborhood. Huge banyan trees arched over the roads, their roots digging deep into the soil, much like the families who lived here.
My father's house stood exactly as I remembered—grand, white-washed, and imposing. But it was the house next door that drew my gaze like a magnet. The Siddiqui estate.
I caught a glimpse of the second-story balcony—the one where Alayna used to hang her wet canvases to dry. It was empty now, but the memory hit me with the force of a physical blow.
"Zayn! You're actually here!"
The car hadn't even fully stopped before the door was wrenched open. Rayan was standing there, grinning like an idiot, his sleeves rolled up and his hair a mess. He looked exactly like the boy I'd grown up with, while I felt like a stranger in my own skin.
"Careful, Rayan. You'll wrinkle the suit," I said, my voice dry as I stepped out.
"The suit? Forget the suit! You look like you've been living in a freezer, man," Rayan laughed, pulling me into a rough hug that smelled like engine oil and expensive cologne. "Islamabad has made you stiff. We need to get some Karachi spice back into your system."
I managed a tight smile, looking past him toward my front door. My sisters, Iqra and Nawal, were already sprinting down the steps. Behind them, my parents stood on the porch, their faces glowing with a relief that made me feel an instant, sharp pang of guilt.
"Zayn!" Nawal shrieked, throwing herself at me. "You didn't bring any work, did you? If I see a laptop, I'm throwing it in the pool!"
"Nice to see you too, Nawal," I muttered, patting her shoulder.
"Zayn!"
My mother's voice cut through the noise before I could even set my suitcase down. She didn't wait for me to approach; she crossed the marble floor in three strides and pulled me into a hug that felt like being enveloped in a cloud of jasmine and concern.
"Look at you," she whispered, pulling back to inspect my face, her thumb brushing the crease between my brows. "You look tired. Too much work, not enough sleep."
"I'm fine, Mom," I said, offering her a faint, practiced smile. It was the same one I used in boardrooms—polite, distant, and impenetrable.
"He's not fine,," Nawal chimed in, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. "Look at him, Mom. He probably counted his calories on the flight."
I ignored her, my eyes moving toward the living room where my father sat, reading a newspaper. He looked up, his expression unreadable, though there was a flicker of something—pride, perhaps, or maybe just expectation—in his eyes.
"Islamabad treating you well, son?" he asked, his voice steady.
"It's efficient," I replied, walking over to shake his hand. His grip was as firm as ever.
"Efficiency isn't everything," he muttered, gesturing to the chair opposite him. "Sometimes you need to slow down to see what's right in front of you."
I felt a sudden, sharp prick of irritation. He knew. He always knew exactly where to aim to hit the nerves I was trying to protect.
"I'm here for the month," I said, keeping my tone neutral. "That should be slow enough."
"Zayn, beta," a voice croaked from the corner.
My heart did a slow, heavy somersault. Grandfather Junaid. He was sitting in his favorite armchair, the one draped in dark green velvet, looking smaller than I remembered. But his eyes—those sharp, observant eyes that had built this entire empire from nothing—were as piercing as ever.
I crossed the room and dropped to one knee beside him, taking his hand. His skin felt like parchment, dry and cool.
"Grandfather," I said, the "CEO" mask finally slipping. "You should be resting."
"Resting is for the dead, Zayn," Junaid joked, his fingers tightening around mine with surprising strength. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "You've brought your work with you, haven't you? Even in your eyes. You're still looking for a place to hide."
I looked down at the floor, unable to meet his gaze. "I'm not hiding, Grandfather.where is grandma ?"
"she is resting in her room ,but You're in Karachi know ,let your self enjoy the warmth od ramzan and eid," Junaid said, his voice soft but insistent.
He squeezed my hand, then let go, his gaze shifting toward the large bay window that looked out over the back garden—the window that directly overlooked the Siddiqui estate.
"Waqas is coming over for tea tonight," Junaid added, his tone deceptively casual. "He told me he hasn't seen you in years. It would be a shame if his granddaughter had to remind you of your manners."
I felt the air leave my lungs. Tea. The trap wasn't just set; it was locked.
"I'll be there," I said, my voice sounding hollow even to my own ears.
I stood up, bowing slightly to my parents and retreating toward the stairs. I needed a shower, I needed to change, and more than anything, I needed to figure out how to survive a tea party with the two men who held the keys to my future—and the girl who held the keys to the past I was trying to bury.