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It had been clearly stated in the contract—that Noor wouldn’t be sharing a room with Dawood. But tonight, neither Dilan nor Rubab had the courage to bring that up.

Not tonight, not after everything.

Because tonight was their first night.

And even if the nikah had been born from duty and silence, even if their hearts were carrying the weight of unspoken fears, something had shifted. Desires—quiet, human, inevitable—had begun to stir beneath the surface.

They were just thankful the nikah had happened peacefully, without drawing Neymat’s sharp questions or Bakhtiyar’s suspicions. Involving Danish or Taniya at this stage would only complicate what little fragile peace they had managed to build. They couldn’t afford that—not when everything still hung by threads.

So no one said it aloud.

Not the clause.

Not the warning.

And not the ache blooming quietly in two young hearts sealed together in a bond neither of them truly understood yet.

The moonlight slipped in through the thin curtains, silvering the edges of the quiet room. The air was heavy—like it was holding back a scream. Noor stood at the door, her red joda now replaced with a soft cotton kurta. Her dupatta hung loosely over her head, her hands clutched a glass of warm milk Not because he needed it—she just didn’t know what else to do.

Dawood sat on the edge of the bed, bare feet brushing the floor, thumb in his mouth. He looked up when she stepped in.

His wide, watery eyes locked with hers—confused, searching. But something flickered. Panic.

“Noor… this my room,” he whispered, thumb sliding out of his mouth.

She nodded softly, approaching like she was trying not to scare a wounded animal.

“Yes, Dawood. It’s okay. I’m just sitting here… We’re… married now, remember?”

He blinked. Then again. His breath hitched.

And something inside him broke.

“No… no no NO!”

He sprang to his feet. Fists clenched. His body trembled.

“You go! You go! Noor not in room! Baba said no girl sleep here!”

His voice cracked—confusion rising into terror.

“Dawood,” Noor whispered, stepping back, her heart lurching. “I’m not here to hurt you. It’s me… It’s Noor…”

But he didn’t see her anymore.

Memories slammed into him—dark rooms, cold hands, forced touches, betrayal. Her venomous voice and mock.

“Noor BAD! Noor trick like her ! Touch me! Lock me!”

He screamed, arms flailing wildly—panicked, lost.

In one wild swing, his elbow smashed into the glass in her hand—shattering it.

A sharp edge caught her skin—cutting just above her temple.

Blood slipped down her face in a thin red line.

“Dawood!” she gasped, stepping back, not from the pain—but from heartbreak.

“I’m not like them. Look at me. It’s Noor. It’s me…”

But he was gone.

His body convulsed suddenly.

He dropped.

A guttural sound escaped him as he collapsed to the floor.

His limbs jerked, heels hammering against the wood. Foam spilled from his mouth.

“No—Ya Allah!” Noor screamed, falling to her knees, hands trembling as she cupped his head away from the glass shards.

“Dawood! Baby—please! You're safe! I’m here—I’m here…”

Her own voice cracked, desperate.

A door burst open.

Dilan was the first to rush in, her robe flaring as she screamed, “Move!”

Bakhtiyar followed, barefoot and breathless, eyes wide in horror as he took in the scene—Dawood convulsing, Noor bleeding, kneeling on the floor in stunned terror.

“Noor, move away—he’ll hurt himself more!” Bakhtiyar barked gently, pushing the glass aside and easing Dawood into recovery position.

Dawood’s seizure began to slow. His limbs twitched one last time before falling limp, breath shallow, eyes fluttering. Bakht put him in bed,

Noor collapsed beside him, her dupatta soaked in blood and tears.

Bakhtiyar turned to her, heart pounding.

“You’re bleeding!” he said, kneeling beside her, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket.

Her eyes—those haunting purple eyes—looked up at him, stunned and silent.

He gently pressed the cloth to her wound, trying to slow the bleeding.

His hands trembled—but his touch was tender.

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice cracking with concern.

She didn’t speak. Only nodded once.

Behind him, Dilan froze. Rubab entered moments later—her face pale, lips tightly sealed.

Bakhtiyar looked up at them both, frowning.

“What the hell happened here?”

Dilan stepped forward, but Rubab caught her wrist—firm.

“Later,” Rubab said tightly.

Now was not the time.

Not the time to tell him Noor wasn’t just a caretaker anymore.

That she was in his brother’s nikah.

That she was now—legally, intimately, irrevocably—part of his world.

Because admitting it in front of Bakhtiyar…  meant admitting it to the world. To Danish to Taniya to everyone.

And none of them were ready for Danish’s reaction.

Bakhtiyar touched Noor’s wrist gently as he finished bandaging her forehead.

His voice softened.

“Don’t be scared. He didn’t mean to hurt you… he gets like this sometimes.”

Noor didn’t correct him.

She didn’t have the strength.

Because this wasn’t just a night.

It was a mirror of the life she’d stepped into—

Not a marriage of love.

Not yet.

But a beginning of healing someone else’s war.

And tonight… that war broke loose.

--

She sat on the edge of the bed, the silence of the room broken only by the ticking of the  wall clock and her own uneven breaths. Her fingers trembled as they touched the side of her head—where it throbbed, warm and bruised from the blow. Not from rage. Not from hate. But from panic.

From Dawood’s fear.

Her wedding night.

Not the way books wrote it, not the way girls dreamed it.

There was no jasmine in her hair.

Only blood in her scalp, and tears caught in the hollow of her throat.

The ache in her chest cracked wide open when her mind flashed back to her aunt’s voice—

bitter, venom-laced, unforgettable.

"You think beauty will protect you? That your purple eyes will bring you love? He’s not a man—he’s a broken doll! He won’t love you, Noor. You’ll be discarded like garbage once the contract ends. That’s your fate."

She had swallowed those curses, stood unmoved that day. But tonight… tonight they echoed louder than any vow she had made beneath the imam’s eyes.

She wrapped her arms around herself tightly, rocking slightly, like a child trying to keep herself from shattering.

Why?

Why did her wedding night end like this—tears down her cheeks, a cut on her head, a seizure on the floor, and the boy she had married curled up in a ball, whispering broken, terrified apologies in a voice that didn’t belong to a grown man.

He didn’t even know what he had done.

Didn’t even understand what a wedding night was.

And yet… he had screamed when he saw her there.

Screamed like he was being punished.

Noor closed her eyes, grief and guilt folding over her like a crashing wave.

She had known this wasn’t a marriage of love.

It was responsibility.

It was protection.

It was sacrifice.

But even responsibility hadn’t prepared her for the moment Dawood bit down on his own hand in fear. For the way his eyes—those beautiful, empty, haunted eyes—looked at her like she was a stranger from his nightmares.

And still, beneath all the pain, she felt something unspeakable:

Compassion.

A wild, unrelenting tenderness.

“I’m not angry,” she whispered into the silence, her tears now falling freely. “I just… I didn’t know it would hurt this much.”

Not the bruise.

But the truth.

That she had walked into a marriage with her eyes open—and still wasn’t ready for the way it would break her open in one night.

---

The morning sun slipped gently through the curtains, casting golden bars across the bed. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and dried sweat. Dawood stirred, his lashes fluttering open slowly, confusion painting his face before memory slammed into his chest like a stone.

His head hurt.

His tongue felt thick. His arms ached. His shirt was damp. But most of all—

He remembered Noor.

He remembered her blood.

His eyes darted around. The bed. The broken glass now gone. And then—her.

Noor sat curled up on the armchair near the window, forehead bandaged, dupatta loosely around her shoulders. Her fingers were wrapped around a cup of chai that had long gone cold. She looked pale. Exhausted. But her eyes—those strange, soft violet eyes—watched him not with anger… but something worse.

Pity.

He whimpered.

“Noor…” he whispered, voice raw, broken. “I… did I… hurt you?”

She nodded slowly, and then shook her head. “Not you. Your fear.”

Tears rose in his eyes, fat and childlike. “I bad boy… I told you go… I called you bad… I hurt my Noor…” His voice cracked. “They said… they said if girl touch, I go mad… I didn’t want you to go. But I was scared…”

She got up slowly, walking toward him with bare feet and calm steps. Her eyes didn’t flinch when she sat beside him. Not even when he pulled away, curling into himself like a scolded boy.

“I’m not angry,” she whispered, stroking his hair lightly, even when he stiffened at her touch. “But I’m not leaving either.”

He sniffled. “Why not?”

“Because now I’m your biwi,” she said, forcing a faint smile. “And that means I’ll be here even when you're scared.”

“But I broke you,” he whispered, eyes stuck on the bandage.

“You didn’t,” she replied, pressing his palm to her chest. “I’m still here. See? I didn’t break.”

Silence. Then his lips trembled.

“I’m sorry, Noor. I’m sorry for being sick. Sorry for the thumb, the fear, the shaking, the memory… I wanted to be a good man… but I scared you.”

She didn’t lie.

Yes, he had scared her. The seizure. The screaming. The glass. The blood.

But underneath all of it was a boy who didn’t choose his brokenness.

And she? She didn’t choose love.

But maybe she could choose loyal

ty. And in time… healing.

Noor leaned forward and kissed the side of his forehead.

“Dawood… from now on, we’ll teach fear to fear us.”

---

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