Until It Was Real

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐲-𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧

I was curled into him, his arm draped around my waist, our breaths in rhythm. The room was hushed, the kind of silence that feels alive. I blinked awake when my throat burned with thirst.

The clock on the wall glowed a faint 3:00 a.m. I turned my head and my eyes softened. He was sleeping so peacefully, almost childlike.

Carefully, I slipped out from under his arm, peeling myself away inch by inch so I wouldn't wake him. My fingers brushed the jug on the side table, but it was empty. A sigh left my lips, low and frustrated. That meant going downstairs.

Something in my chest resisted, a whisper telling me not to move into the dark, but thirst made reason useless. I pulled a shawl over my nightdress, clutching it tight around me, and stepped into the hallway.

The house felt different. Strange. The air was colder here.

The shadows seemed too thick, too heavy.

I froze, feeling the weight of eyes on me.

My skin prickled, my heart thrummed like a trapped bird.

I turned sharply, my shawl swaying with me, but the hallway was empty.

Just silence, and the distant groan of wood settling.

I swallowed hard, my mouth dry in more ways than one. "Who is there?" My whisper cracked against the walls. No answer.

I hugged the shawl tighter and forced my legs to move. Each step down the staircase creaked louder than it should have, echoing into the stillness. Halfway down, on the broad landing step, that sensation returned, sharper, colder, someone behind me, breathing into my skin.

I stopped dead. My pulse hammered in my ears. I wanted to turn, but dread anchored me in place. My lips trembled. "Is...someone there?" My voice barely made it out, thinner than air.

The silence that followed was heavier than a scream.

Zoya barely made it to the kitchen, her legs trembling beneath her as that unsettling sensation crawled up her spine again. The sense of being watched gnawed at her. She snatched the jug with hurried hands, filled her glass, and gulped the water down, hoping the chill would calm her racing heart.

But the feeling only grew heavier. She froze when she sensed a presence behind her. Turning sharply, her breath hitched.

A dark silhouette stood in the corner, unmoving. The shadows slipped away, revealing Mahveen's face twisted into something cruel, something alien. Her lips curled into a sinister smile that made Zoya's stomach lurch.

Before she could react, Zoya screamed with all her strength. "Zaigham!"

But the cry was cut short. Cold steel pressed to her throat, Mahveen's hand clutching a huge knife as she dragged Zoya back against the refrigerator. The jug slipped from Zoya's hand and shattered on the tiles, the echo of breaking glass cutting through the silence of the house.

Doors flung open one after another. Footsteps thundered down the hall. In seconds, the kitchen lights came alive, flooding the nightmare in brightness.

Then came the silence.

Every face froze, horror painted across their expressions.

Zoya's mother clutched the doorframe, her voice cracking. "Z–Zoya?" She looked seconds away from collapsing.

Her father went pale, his jaw trembling. His protective stance faltered at the sight of his daughter's blood-pricked skin under the knife.

Zaigham's mother gasped audibly, her hand flying to her chest. Her knees weakened as the reality hit her: her own niece, Mahveen, standing like a predator with a blade to her daughter-in-law's throat. She never knew that she will stoop this low.

Nouran and Rumman and the rest of the girls huddled near the doorway, unable to believe their eyes.

Laiba pressed her trembling hands to her mouth, muffling a sob.

Ayyan held her back instinctively as her body shook.

Zaviyaar cursed under his breath. Zayyan and Rayyan stood frozen, shock and anger flashing in his eyes.

Zaigham appeared.

He stumbled as he rushed, the panic in his usually composed face enough to rip the air from everyone's lungs.

"Zoyaa!!" His roar tore through the room.

He made to move forward, but Mahveen's shriek stopped him cold. "Don't you dare! If anyone comes near, I will slit her throat right here!"

Zaigham froze, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles whitened. His breath was ragged, his eyes locked on the knife pressing into his wife's soft skin. For once, the controlled steel in his demeanor was gone, replaced with sheer, naked terror.

His voice broke into a snarl. "What do you want, Mahveen?!"

She threw her head back and laughed, a sound so fractured it sent shivers down spines. "What do I want? Oh, Zaimi... you are asking me that?" The childhood nickname dripped off her tongue like venom. It made every stomach in the room twist.

Her laughter dissolved into a trembling sob. "I wanted you. I always wanted you." Her voice cracked, but her grip on the knife didn't waver. "And this—" she shook Zoya violently, making her stumble in her hold "—this witch stole you from me!"

Gasps filled the room. Zoya winced in pain, fear clouding her eyes, but she kept them on Zaigham. He was her anchor.

Mahveen's face contorted again, flipping between grief and madness. "I loved you, Zaigham. Since we were children. I loved you, and you chose her!" Her voice rose to a shrill scream. "Why her? Tell me why!"

She turned her face toward Zoya then, smiling with a chilling sweetness that made her words sting sharper.

"What did you think, Zoya? That you saved me yesterday? How foolish you are." Her laughter echoed, empty and cruel. "You didn't save me. You trapped yourself. You chained yourself to your death."

The knife pressed harder against Zoya's throat. A thin line of red appeared, and a collective gasp broke out. Zoya's mother screamed. Her father staggered forward before someone held him back.

Zaigham's jaw was clenched so tight a vein pulsed at his temple. His voice dropped lower, sharp as a blade. "If you hurt her, Mahveen, I swear—"

"Swear?" she cut him off with a manic smile. "What will you swear, Zaimi? That you will kill me? That you will hate me? You already chose her. I lost you long ago. But if I can't have you," her gaze slid downward, her voice turning ice cold, "then no one will."

Zoya's knees buckled slightly in her grip, and the knife glittered under the harsh light.

The kitchen was thick with dread. The family stood frozen between shock, grief, and helplessness, but all eyes were on Zaigham. On how he would act. On how he would save her.

"Mahveen, lower the knife. We can talk calmly," Zaigham said, each word measured as he stepped forward.

Mahveen yanked Zoya closer, the blade glinting at her throat. "No! Do not come near. I swear I will kill her!"

Zoya's breath came in shallow bursts. Her hand instinctively pressed against her belly.

Mahveen's eyes gleamed with rage as she looked at Zoya. "I did everything to separate you from Zaigham. But you were too stubborn, Zoya."

Zoya swallowed hard, her body trembling.

"I even worked with your cousin," Mahveen spat, voice rising. "Yes, I helped him in that stalker plan. He wanted you and I wanted Zaimi."

A collective gasp tore through the family.

Zaigham's jaw clenched, his eyes sharp, calculating. Without moving, he glanced at Zayyan, a silent message flashing between them.

Mahveen's voice trembled with manic triumph. "Then I swapped that pendrive to tarnish Zaimi's reputation so he would leave you, but nothing happened! I even planned your kidnapping with your cousin, but he came and saved you!" She thrust a finger at Zaigham, the knife shaking.

"And now... now I made this plan to reach you through you, Zoya. I have waited for this moment for so long! I would have killed you long ago if your clever husband hadn't hired an entire team of guards for your safety."

Zoya looked at Zaigham through her panic, her chest heaving. His eyes were ice-cold, unreadable, yet brimming with fire.

"And now," Mahveen hissed, "the time has come to make you disappear forever. If Zaigham cannot be mine, then I will not let him belong to anyone!"

Her scream echoed off the walls as she pressed the blade harder.

Then, in one swift motion, Zayyan lunged from behind, wrenching Mahveen's arm away. Zoya staggered forward, stumbling across the broken glass, and Zaigham caught her in his arms, pulling her to safety.

Mahveen thrashed violently. The knife slashed across Zayyan's bicep, opening a deep wound.

Blood spread quickly across his pale shirt. "Ugh—!" he groaned, staggering back.

"Zayyan!" voices cried in unison.

Ayyan's control snapped into brutal efficiency. He surged forward, caught Mahveen's wrist, and twisted it until the knife clattered to the floor with a metallic crash.

Mahveen looked at him, her eyes wild.

Ayyan's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, his grip iron. "You chose this, Mahveen. Whatever you wanted, you will not take from my sister. You will not take from my family."

His words cut sharper than the knife ever could.

Mahveen's fury crumbled into sobbing. She lunged again, but Laiba and Rumman grabbed her arms, holding her back. Nouran rushed to Zoya, wrapping her trembling frame in her arms.

Zayyan clutched his wounded arm, blood soaking through the towel someone pressed against it.

She was thrashing violently in their grip looking like a possessed woman.

"ENOUGH!" Zaigham shouted. The single word cracked through the chaos like a pistol shot. He moved before anyone could stop him, closing the distance with a speed.

He clasped his hand around Mahveen's throat, fingers like iron. Fury burned in his eyes so hot it scorched the air between them.

"How dare you hurt my wife and my baby?!" he snarled, voice low and terrible.

Mahveen's wild gaze flicked to him, panic raw and sudden. Her bravado unspooled in a frightened whisper. "I will kill you, you witch!" he spat, she tried to twist free, her face turning blue.

"Stop!" Zaigham's father and his chachu were on him in an instant, hands on Zaigham's arms, hauling him back as Zaigham's body strained against their restraint.

"No, beta. Leave her," his father said, voice sharp with the authority of age.

"She will rot in jail. Do not do anything that will dirty your hands. "

Zaigham breathed out like a man who had been holding water under his chest for too long.

With one hard motion he shoved Mahveen against the refrigerator, the impact sending a spray of shattered glass glittering across the tile, she coughed violently.

"Let go of me!" Mahveen screamed, clawing at the hands that held her. Blood from Zayyan's arm had already smeared on her sleeve. She spat, "You will not keep him. You will not keep what I wanted!"

Zaigham's mother moved before any of them could process what she was doing. She had always been composed, the matriarch who smoothed everything with a curt nod.

Now she pushed herself to her feet, eyes wild with a mixture of shame and fury, and stepped forward until she stood nose to nose with Mahveen.

"You have brought shame into my house," she hissed, and then she struck her. The slap landed with a sound like a dry clap. Mahveen's head snapped to the side, the expression on her face collapsing into stunned hurt.

Zaigham's mother did not wait for explanations. "How dare you hurt my daughter?" she said, each word an accusation and a verdict. "You will answer for this. You will pay for your deeds." Her voice held no pleading. It held an old, sharp justice.

Laiba pushed through the crowd and pressed herself against Zoya, as if proximity could buffer the shock. Nouran held Zoya's hand until both of their fingers went numb.

Mahveen tried to speak, to reclaim some scrap of power. "You think you can ruin me with a slap?" she hissed at Zaigham's mother, eyes glassy with rage and tears. "You think I will be afraid of you?"

"You will be afraid of your consequences after what you have done," Zaigham's father answered quietly, and in that quiet was the weight of a threat.

The police dragged Mahveen out of the house, her protests echoing faintly down the corridor until the sound of the front door slamming shut cut her off completely. Silence fell over the house like a shroud.

Now, everyone was gathered in the living room. The air was heavy with shock, faces pale, eyes wide and restless as if none of them had yet accepted what had unfolded in their kitchen.

Zoya sat on the couch, trembling still, her mother cradling her face with both hands. She kept asking over and over, voice breaking each time.

"Beta, are you hurt? Tell me, you're okay? Nothing happened, right?"

Zoya gave a tiny shake of her head and tried to muster a small smile. "I am fine, Mama." Her voice cracked despite the effort.

On her other side, Zaigham's mother leaned forward, her hand resting on Zoya's shoulder with rare tenderness.

Zoya, blinking away the tears that threatened to fall. "I am okay."

Her mother sighed deeply, kissing her forehead, while her father sat nearby, too stricken to speak, his face buried in his hands. Nouran sat clutching Laiba's hand tightly, as if she needed proof that her sister-in-law was really alive and breathing.

The sound of footsteps drew every head. Zaigham entered from the main gate, his presence filling the room with controlled authority. Beside him walked Zayyan, his sleeve rolled up and blood dark across his bicep.

"Bhai," Zayyan said firmly, looking at Zaigham, "don't worry. I will personally make sure her case is strong enough. She will bear the consequences of what she's done."

Zaigham gave a curt nod. His gaze dropped to Zayyan's arm, and his jaw tightened at the sight of the soaked fabric. "Get that treated," he said. "It will get infected if you leave it."

Zayyan nodded with pursed lips, but before he could move away, Zaigham's voice softened. "And... thank you." He exhaled, the weight of those words heavy. "For moving on time. For saving her."

Zayyan blinked, then rolled his eyes lightly, trying to dissolve the intensity of the moment. "Bhai, what are you saying? She's my sister. I'd do it a hundred times. Stop thanking me like it's some favor."

A faint flicker of a smile touched Zaigham's lips. He reached out, patted Zayyan's shoulder firmly, and met his eyes. "Still. I won't forget it."

Zayyan smirked faintly but said nothing more, adjusting the cloth around his arm.

They entered the living room, the atmosphere thick with unease.

Zaigham's eyes immediately sought Zoya, his steps purposeful as he crossed the room to her side.

His hand brushed lightly over her wrist, but then his gaze froze.

A thin red line marred the delicate skin of her neck, shallow, but visible, a cruel reminder of how close the knife had been.

Zoya instinctively raised her hand to cover it, whispering, "It's nothing... just a scratch."

Zaigham's jaw clenched.

Zoya shook her head gently, whispering, "I am fine." But her eyes betrayed her calm, darting restlessly until they landed on Zayyan. The sight of his blood-soaked sleeve made her breath catch.

"Zayyan bhai... your arm—"

He cut her off before the panic could spread further, forcing a small smile to his lips though the strain showed in his eyes. "It is alright. I will take care of it. Do not worry about me. Are you okay?"

Zoya nodded silently, her throat too tight to speak.

Zaigham's mother leaned forward then, her brows knitting as she studied the wound. "Beta, the cut is not too deep, is it?"

Zayyan shook his head quickly. "No, Ma. I am alright." He sighed, pressing his hand briefly against his arm to steady the sting. "I will treat it myself. Do not worry."

"Make sure you do it properly," she said firmly, her voice sharper than her expression. "Promise me you will not ignore it."

"Yes, I will. I promise," Zayyan replied with a nod. He turned then, heading toward the staircase, his steps slow, shoulders heavy from the adrenaline wearing off.

No one noticed at first, but one pair of eyes lingered on him. Concern traced every line of her face, following the way his hand pressed to his wound, watching the tension ripple through his frame.

Her gaze trailed after him long after he had left the room, unsettled, worried in a way she could not quite put into words.

Zayyan padded into his room, his steps uneven.

The numbness in his arm was spreading, a dull ache that made his jaw lock.

His once-white shirt lay discarded in a bloodied heap on the floor.

Now bare-chested, he stood at the dresser, fumbling with a cloth, trying to clean the gash running across his bicep.

Each movement sent a sharp sting up his arm, but he ground his teeth and carried on.

A knock at the door made him hiss under his breath. "Come in," he muttered, irritation lacing his tone.

The door creaked open. Yusra stepped inside, hesitant, her fingers trembling slightly around a glass of turmeric milk. She closed the door quietly behind her. Her eyes flickered briefly to his bare torso before darting away, heat rising to her cheeks.

His head whipped around, his dark eyes narrowing at her. "What are you doing here?" The sharpness in his tone made her falter, but she forced herself forward.

"I... brought you this." She raised the glass a little. "Turmeric Milk. It helps with healing."

He let out a scoff, returning to his wound. "I don't need your help. You can go."

But she didn't move. Instead, she crossed the room, placed the glass neatly on the coffee table, and straightened. His gaze followed her deliberately, sharp and questioning.

"Prof.," she said, her tone edged with sarcasm as she eyed his clumsy attempt at cleaning the wound, "I can clearly see how much you don't need it."

He clenched his jaw, his eyes flashing. "I said I don't need your help. Leave."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her patience thinning. "Where is the first aid box?"

His glare locked with hers, hard enough to cut. She didn't flinch.

"Please?" she added softly, her voice tugging against his resolve.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, then jerked his chin toward the bed. "Bottom drawer. Right side."

She pulled it out quickly, then looked back at him with an expression that was all quiet determination. "Sit."

He raised his brows. "Excuse me?"

"Sit down, prof.," she repeated, firmer this time. Then, quieter but no less commanding, "Please."

A muscle ticked in his jaw. With a click of his tongue, he finally lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving hers.

Yusra crouched before him, dipping the cloth into the water bowl he had prepared earlier. When her fingers touched it, she froze, staring at him in disbelief.

"Seriously, prof?" she asked, voice dripping with irritation. "Cold water? Who even cleans a wound with cold water?"

He raised a brow, his gaze pinned to her face as if daring her to continue.

Shaking her head, she muttered, "Unbelievable," and strode to the bathroom. When she returned, she carried a bowl with faint wisps of steam rising. She soaked the cloth and pressed it to his skin with more care than she intended.

He hissed, but this time his eyes softened, lingering on her face. His stare was heavy, tracing her features as though memorising them. She focused hard on the wound, ignoring the burn of his gaze and the heat radiating off his half-bare body.

"The cut isn't deep," she murmured, concentrating. "No stitches needed. Just a proper dressing."

Her fingers worked quickly, wrapping the bandage around his firm bicep. He watched silently, the corner of his mouth tugging almost imperceptibly.

"And done," she whispered, tying the last knot. When she finally glanced up, her breath stuttered.

He was staring at her, his eyes dark and unyielding, his face close enough that she could feel his breath. For a suspended moment, neither of them moved. His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before snapping back to her eyes.

Her throat went dry. She forced herself to pull back, her pulse thundering in her ears.

Zayyan cleared his throat, dragging his stare away with effort. "Never knew you were a nurse in disguise, Miss Malik," he muttered, sarcasm coating his words, though the roughness beneath betrayed him.

Yusra ignored the jab, rising quickly to wash her hands. She picked up the glass and placed it firmly on the table before him. "Please drink this too, prof. It will help."

She walked out without another word, her steps quick, as if escape was the only way to steady her racing heart.

Left behind, Zayyan sat in silence, his jaw tight, as he watched her retreating figure.

Zoya sat quietly on the bed, her dupatta drawn up against her neck as though it could hide the cut. Her fingers twisted in her lap, betraying the tremor she was trying to suppress.

Zaigham crossed the room with the first aid box, his steps calm, his gaze never leaving her. When he reached her, his voice was low and careful. "Let me see."

She hesitated, biting her lip, but when his fingers brushed hers and gently moved the fabric aside, there was no force, only patience.

The thin slash on her skin made his jaw tighten for the briefest second, but when his eyes lifted back to hers, they were full of warmth. "It's nothing serious. I'll take care of it," he murmured.

The moment the antiseptic touched her wound, she flinched, a small whimper slipping out. At once, his free hand cradled her cheek, steady and protective. "Easy... it's alright. Just a second. I've got you."

Her lashes fluttered, her breath uneven, not from the sting but from the way he was looking at her, like she was fragile and priceless.

"Good girl," he coaxed softly when she stilled, his thumb tracing slow circles against her cheek.

"See? Already better."

When he finished dressing the cut, he leaned down and pressed the gentlest kiss to the bandage, letting his lips linger. "Does it hurt here?" he whispered, kissing just beside it. Before she could answer, another kiss followed, feather-light. "And here? Not anymore, I think."

Her breath caught, eyes wide and glassy, tears pooling though she tried to blink them away.

He caught them first, brushing her tears with his thumb. "Don't cry," he murmured, his voice hushed with affection. "You're safe."

When the wound was dressed and kissed, Zaigham set the first aid box aside and washed his hands. He slid onto the bed beside her and gently pulled her into his chest.

Zoya resisted for a heartbeat, as though afraid her trembling would burden him, but the moment his arms wrapped around her, she gave in. Her face pressed against the solid warmth of his shirt, and her fists clutched the fabric as if anchoring herself.

"Shhh..." he whispered, his lips brushing the crown of her head. His hand began to move in slow, soothing circles over her back. "It's over. You're safe with me."

Her breathing was uneven, broken between tiny sobs, and each one stabbed at him like a blade. He rocked her ever so slightly, a steady rhythm meant to calm her frayed nerves. "I've got you, Zoya."

His fingers threaded into her hair, stroking it gently, untangling strands with deliberate care. Every so often he tilted his head down to kiss her temple, her hairline, her damp lashes. Each kiss was a silent vow.

Her sobs eased into quiet sniffles, and gradually her body relaxed against him, her ear pressed to the steady beat of his heart. He smiled faintly, whispering into her hair, "That's it... breathe with me."

Minutes passed, the silence broken only by the soft sound of his voice and her quiet breaths. He pulled the blanket up around her shoulders, tucking her in against his chest as though shielding her from the world itself.

When he finally looked down, her lashes were fluttering shut, exhaustion pulling her into sleep. A single tear clung to her cheek, and he brushed it away tenderly with the pad of his thumb.

Zaigham pressed one last kiss to her forehead, lingering there as he whispered, "My baby." The words were barely audible, a confession meant only for her sleeping form.

The sky outside was already shifting, pale light creeping through the curtains.

Morning had come without him noticing. He carefully adjusted the blanket over her, tucking her in as though she were the most fragile thing in the world.

She stirred slightly, sighing into his shirt, and his lips curved in the faintest smile.

"Rest," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I'm here."

Slowly, he eased himself away, letting her settle back into the pillows. For a moment, he stood there watching her, the rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers were still curled where they had clutched him.

He picked up his phone from the nightstand, his voice low but firm when the call was answered. "Cancel today's meetings. I won't be coming in."

There was no room for argument in his tone. Without another word, he ended the call and set the phone aside. His gaze returned instantly to Zoya, softening as though no one else in the world existed.

It had been two months since that horrible night, and life had slowly returned to peace. I was now in my eighth month, my baby bump unmistakable and heavier than before.

Walking even a few steps felt like climbing a mountain, but honestly, I didn't care. The house was alive with laughter and movement because today was Rumman api's engagement.

The entire family was in full swing, decorating, arranging, gossiping.

Who would have thought Rumman api, quiet, practical, and always so focused, had been hiding a love story?

At first everyone had been shocked, but now she was glowing, and we teased her endlessly about how easily she had fooled us.

The guy is her business partner who proposed to her a month ago.

Her to-be fiancé and his family had just arrived an hour ago, and yes, he was undeniably handsome. Tall, broad shoulders, with sharp features that gave him a commanding presence.

His deep brown eyes softened whenever they landed on her, and the way he carried himself screamed both confidence and warmth. No wonder api had fallen for him, he looked every bit like the perfect match for her.

I sat in front of the mirror, carefully adjusting the delicate jhumkas through my hijab. My outfit was a soft beige with hints of gold, perfectly matching the pastel theme of the evening.

The bump under my dress was prominent, and when I shifted to fix the pleats, I felt the baby kick. I smiled instinctively, resting a hand over my belly. "You're excited too, hmm?" I whispered.

Just then, the door opened. My heart instantly knew who it was before I even turned.

Zaigham walked in, dressed in a beige kurta with intricate embroidery, the sleeves rolled slightly at his wrists.

The color matched mine, but on him it looked far too good.

His presence filled the room as always, tall, controlled, and impossibly handsome.

My breath caught for a second, and then his eyes landed on me, softening at once.

"You look..." he paused deliberately, his gaze traveling from my face down to the curve of my belly, "...stunning."

I rolled my eyes, trying to suppress a blush. "You're only saying that because we're matching."

He stepped closer, a half-smirk tugging at his lips. "No, I'm saying that because it's the truth. But I must admit, I chose well. Look at us, we might just outshine the bride and groom today."

I gasped playfully.

His chuckle rumbled low as he leaned over me, his fingers adjusting the jhumka I had been struggling with. "Careful. You'll hurt yourself," he murmured, brushing his knuckles against my cheek.

I swallowed, suddenly aware of how close he was, well... I can never get used to it. "You're not supposed to distract me. I was trying to get ready."

"And I'm not supposed to let you tire yourself," he countered smoothly, sliding a hand under my chin to tilt my face toward him. "Eight months, Zoya. You should be sitting, resting but no, you do exactly opposite."

His protectiveness made me smile despite myself. "Everyone is already fussing over me, now you too? If I sit too long, I'll turn into a piece of furniture."

Zaigham laughed softly, bending close enough that his breath fanned against my ear. "A very beautiful piece of furniture then."

I smacked his chest lightly, embarrassed. "Zaigham!"

He caught my hand before I could pull it away, pressing a slow kiss against my knuckles. His eyes held mine in the mirror as he whispered, "Careful, or I'll forget there's an engagement happening downstairs."

Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I quickly turned back to my reflection, trying to look anywhere but at him. "You're impossible."

"And you're glowing," he murmured, resting a hand over mine where it covered my bump. His thumb stroked softly over the fabric. "Both of you."

I rested back in the chair, adjusting my dupatta over my shoulders. For a moment, silence stretched between us, broken only by the muffled voices from the hallway. Then, before I could stop myself, the words slipped out.

"You know," I said, biting my lip, "I've gained so much weight these past months. I'm not the same as before... you probably don't even find me attractive anymore."

The moment the confession left my mouth, my chest tightened. I avoided his eyes, pretending to fuss with the edge of my sleeve.

Zaigham stilled. Then, slowly, he crouched down in front of me so that our eyes were level. His gaze was steady, unwavering, as if he couldn't believe what I had just said.

"Zoya," he said softly, his voice firm with conviction, "look at me."

Reluctantly, I raised my eyes. What I found there made my throat close. His expression was fierce, almost offended that I would think so little of myself.

"You think extra weight could change the way I see you?

" he asked, his hand sliding gently over my bump.

His palm lingered there, protective, reverent.

"Every change in you is because of our child.

Every curve, every softness, do you know what it tells me?

That you're carrying my future, my family.

That you're stronger than anyone I know. "

His thumb stroked across the back of my hand, his voice lowering. "You are more beautiful to me now than you have ever been. Not despite this," he pressed a kiss gently on her belly through the fabric, "but because of it."

My breath caught, tears prickling behind my eyes.

He smiled faintly, as though reading my thoughts. "And as for attraction," his eyes darkened just slightly, "you will never have to question that. Not today, not ever."

I laughed wetly, blinking back tears. "You always know exactly what to say, don't you?"

Zaigham chuckled softly, leaning closer until his forehead brushed mine. "No. I just know exactly what you mean to me."

I smiled, leaning into him.

To be Continued.....