Almara stared at the glowing screen of her phone, the words of the message blurring into the frantic rhythm of her heart. Surprise washed over her like a cold wave, yet deep down, a strange sense of inevitability flickered. She had to meet him. Even after all this time, those piercing black eyes remained etched into her soul, a haunting memory she could neither embrace nor escape.
Driven by an unconscious impulse, she stood up and walked toward the wardrobe. Her fingers traced the fabric until they settled on a deep, midnight-black suit. As she pulled it out, a vivid memory flashed before her eyes—the scent of damp earth, the sudden chill of the wind, and the moment her dupatta had slipped, remaining trapped in his firm grip. It felt as if that black suit was a silent tribute to that unfinished moment.
She dressed quickly, her movements precise yet hurried. Stepping out into the hallways, she moved like a shadow. Jibran was in the garden, his silhouette farmed by the morning mist. Sozein was occupied, sitting with the wives of Jibran's brothers, their voices a distant hum of domesticity. Granny was tucked away in her room, and the rest of the haveli—Daim, Shehriyar, Rehan, Ahmad, Zara and Anabiya—were still lost in the deep embrace of sleep. The house was a fortress of silence, and she was the only one planning a breach.
Returning to her room for one final check, Almara paused in front of the full-length mirror. For the first time in a long while, she actually looked at herself. She saw the cascade of her long, dark hair, the natural rose-pink of her lips, and her tall, graceful stature. The black silk of the suit clung to her in all the right places, contrasting sharply with her fair skin. She wasn't just beautiful; she looked ethereal, like a character stepping out of a tragic poem. With a swift motion, she released her hair from the claw clip. The tresses fell across her back with a soft thud, a silken curtain of midnight. She draped her dupatta over her head, the heavy fabric farming her face, and turned away from her reflection.
She knew she had to be back before the haveli stirred to life. Slipping through the back exit, the heavy wooden door creaked ever so slightly, a sound that felt like thunder in her ears. But she didn't stop.
From a distance, the sight was breathtaking. A long girl, clad in black, navigating through the emerald-green fields under the pale, golden hue of the rising sun. She looked like a masterpiece, of art, a fleeting vision that one would wish to capture and keep forever. The air was crisp, and the dew on the grass kissed the hem of her trousers as she hurried toward her destination.
Soon, she stood before the towering walls of the other haveli. A fleeting thought crossed her mind—how would she get over? Last time, Daim had been the bridge if her and Zara. But as her eyes scanned the perimeter, she stopped. There pilled neatly against the wall, were several blocks.
A soft, involuntary smile touched her lips. He knew. He knew she would come.
She climbed the blocks, her heart hammering against her ribs. As she jumped down onto the other side, her heavy dupatta drifted to her shoulder, and a few stray strands of hair danced across her face. Her eyes sparkled with a mix of adrenaline and anticipation. Leaning against the cold wall, she tried to steady her breathing, but hur lungs seemed to forgetton their rythm.
Because there he was.
Emerging from the shadows of the porch, he walked toward her with an agonizingly slow, elegant gait. Every step he took seemed to command the very air around them. Even in the morning light, he wore the mask, but he did nothing to hide the intensity radiating from him. As he drew closer, the distance between them shrinking to a mere few feet, Almara realized she wasn't afraid. The fair had been replaced by a deafening thrum in her veins. Her heart wasn't just beating; it was reacting to him, a frantic response to the man who was a mystery wrapped in a shadow.
The piercing black eyes locked onto hers, and for a moment, the world beyond these walls ceased to exit.