The Billionaire's Childhood Love

My dear Zuni,

The day after tomorrow, I am getting married again. And I miss you.

I don’t want to get married—not now, not ever—but I am helpless. Everyone keeps telling me to “settle down.” They want to see me married, to have children, to lead a life they deem “normal.” And to make them happy, I have to do this. I have to get married.

Sometimes, I think of being selfish for once, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I wish you were here to scold me—like you always used to—for being so self-sacrificing, so willing to bend myself to others’ expectations.

But you’re not here. And without you, there’s no one left to stop me. No one to tell me to stand my ground, to be true to my heart.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to love Zarmina the way I love you. But I will try to be a good husband to her. I’ll do my duty. I’ll play the role everyone expects of me.

Yet, deep down, my heart aches with the truth: no one will ever take your place.

Sometimes, I want to cry out to Allah, to ask why He separated us—why He took you from me. But then, I stop. Maybe He has a reason, a purpose I cannot comprehend. Maybe He plans to reunite us in the Hereafter, in a place where there are no separations, no grief, no goodbyes.

I don’t know when that time will come, but I’ll wait for it. However long it takes, I will wait.

Living without you—it’s unbearable. But I must endure it. This is my test, and my reward is you.

And, if Allah wills, soon—sooner than I dare hope—we will meet again.

Ashar placed the pen down and sighed deeply. Rising from his desk, he walked to the window. The cool night breeze brushed his face as he looked up at the stars.

“Ya Ar-Rahman,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Make her grave a garden of comfort for her.”

-------

Meanwhile, in a quiet room...

Amena stood by the window, gazing at the moon. Its silver light spilled across her face, catching the faint melancholy in her expression. She didn’t notice her mother, Nabila, enter the room.

“What’s wrong, Amena? Are you feeling okay?” Nabila’s voice was soft, but her concern was unmistakable.

Amena turned, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I’m fine, Amma. Just... looking at the moon. It’s so beautiful tonight.”

But Nabila wasn’t convinced. She approached her daughter and placed a hand on her shoulder. “When you’re quiet like this, it worries me. I feel like something’s troubling you.”

Amena leaned into her mother’s embrace, wrapping her arms around her. “Amma, you overthink too much,” she said, trying to reassure her.

“Hmm...” Nabila’s tone softened, though her eyes were still searching her daughter’s face. “Nasira wants to take us shopping tomorrow—for your wedding.”

“If that’s what you all want,” Amena replied, her tone distant.

Nabila’s brows furrowed slightly. She placed Amena’s head in her lap and gently stroked her hair. “Amena, are you happy with this marriage?”

For a moment, Amena’s composure faltered. She hesitated, her fingers twisting a loose thread on her sleeve. “Yes, Amma, but... I don’t know. Sometimes, I feel strange. It’s hard to explain. It’s like something in my heart is... unsettled. Like I’m making a mistake.”

Nabila smiled, though there was a flicker of worry in her eyes. “Every girl feels like this before her wedding. Once you get married, you’ll adjust. And Sobhan is a good man. Inshallah, he will keep you happy.”

Amena nodded, forcing a smile. But as she leaned back against her mother, a fleeting image flashed in her mind—a smile. Faint, blurry, but familiar. Her heart skipped a beat, and a sudden sadness tugged at her.

-------

In Sylhet...

“Tomorrow is your wedding, and today you’re here in Sylhet? You’re unbelievable,” Rashid teased, his voice light but laced with disbelief.

Ashar shrugged, his lips curving into a small, humorless smile. “It was an emergency,” he said quietly.

He had come to Sylhet with his father-in-law, Samiur, to handle some urgent property dealings. The matter had even brought them to the police station.

Samiur chuckled and shook his head. “I told him the same thing, Rashid. But he wouldn’t listen. He insisted on coming. Though, Alhamdulillah, because of him, everything went smoothly. I’m lucky to have him as my son-in-law.”

Ashar simply smiled in response.

“You have to come to my wedding,” Ashar said, turning to Rashid.

“I wish I could,” Rashid replied regretfully. “But you know how it is. Duty calls, and I can’t get leave.”

“I won’t take no for an answer,” Ashar insisted.

Rashid laughed. “I really wish I could, Ashar. But don’t worry. After your wedding, come back to Sylhet with your wife, and we’ll catch up then.”

“We’ll see,” Ashar said with a faint smile.

The three men sat sipping tea in the police station, the atmosphere relaxed. When they finished, they said their goodbyes. As Ashar and Samiur were leaving, a constable rushed past them, accidentally bumping into Ashar and dropping a file.

Ashar bent down to help him pick up the scattered papers. His eyes fell on a photograph. His heart stopped.

The image—a face—triggered something deep within him.

Ashar stiffened, his breath caught in his throat. Without saying a word, he handed the papers back to the constable and followed Samiur out of the station. But as they reached the car, Ashar abruptly froze.

His hand clutched the car door, and his face turned pale. His eyes were wide, his mind racing.

“Ashar, what’s wrong?” Samiur asked, confused by his sudden change in demeanor.

A chill ran down Ashar’s spine as he rushed back into the police station, his footsteps echoing in the dim corridor. His face was pale, his breath shallow, and his mind raced with questions he couldn’t yet articulate.

“Rashid!” he called out, urgency sharpening his tone.

Rashid looked up from his desk, startled by his friend’s sudden return.

“That photo,” Ashar began, his voice tight, “the one the constable dropped earlier. I need to see it again.”

Rashid frowned but pulled the photograph from the file and handed it over.

Ashar took it, his hands trembling slightly. His eyes locked onto the image as though it held the key to everything he had ever lost. It was a picture of an old man with a small, white beard and a distinct mole on his upper lip.

Rashid, observing Ashar’s reaction, knit his brows together. “What’s going on, Ashar? Do you... know this man?”

Ashar’s lips parted, but no words came. Instead, he turned and handed the photograph to Samiur, who had just caught up to him.

“Uncle, do you recognize him?” Ashar asked, his voice unsteady.

Samiur took the photo with trembling hands. The moment his eyes fell on it, his expression froze. His forehead creased with deep lines, his wrinkles more pronounced as his face contorted in disbelief.

“It’s him,” Samiur whispered, his voice breaking. “Even with the beard... even after all these years. It’s him.”

Rashid, still confused, asked, “Who is this man? What did he do?”

Samiur didn’t answer immediately. He stared at the photograph, as though the image had ripped open an old wound. “How is this possible?” he murmured, mostly to himself. “We saw them fall off the cliff with our own eyes...”

He turned to Ashar, his eyes shimmering with a flicker of desperate hope. “Does this mean... does this mean my daughter is alive too?”

Ashar’s throat tightened. He wanted to believe it, to cling to that fragile hope. But he knew the pain of shattered hope too well. He couldn’t let Samiur endure that agony again.

“Don’t get your hopes up, Uncle,” Ashar said softly, though his own heart betrayed him with a faint flicker of belief.

Samiur’s shoulders slumped, the hope in his eyes dimming. But he still held the photo, staring at it as though willing it to offer answers.

Rashid, who had been silently observing the exchange, finally spoke up. “Who is this man, Ashar? What’s your connection to him?”

Ashar’s voice hardened. “I’ll explain everything, Rashid. But first, I need to meet this man. At any cost.”

Rashid nodded, sensing the gravity of the situation. “The police are already searching for him,” he said. “But I’ll help you. What else do you need?”

“Give me the details of the hospital where he was treated,” Ashar said, his voice sharp with urgency.

Rashid complied without hesitation, handing over the hospital’s information.

At the hospital, Ashar’s suspicions proved correct.

A nurse, her arm bandaged from an injury, recounted the incident. “I saw him rummaging in the storeroom,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “When I confronted him, he panicked. He attacked me, and before I could stop him, he ran away.”

Ashar’s expression hardened. He turned to the manager. “We need to see the patient records from the day he was admitted. Specifically, for a girl—14 or 15 years old, severely injured.”

The manager hesitated but, seeing the urgency in Ashar’s eyes, complied. As he searched through the records, Ashar’s heart pounded in his chest.

“Here it is,” the manager finally said. “A young girl was admitted that day. She was badly injured—multiple fractures, head trauma. But she survived.”

Ashar exhaled sharply, his knees nearly giving out. “Alhamdulillah,” he whispered, closing his eyes in gratitude.

Samiur sank into a nearby chair, his hands shaking. Tears welled in his eyes. “A miracle,” he murmured.

“What happened to her?” Ashar asked, his voice tight with anticipation.

The manager frowned as he continued reading. “No one ever came to claim her. One of our nurses grew attached to her and took her in.”

Ashar’s chest tightened. “Where is that nurse now? We need to meet her.”

“She doesn’t work here anymore,” the manager said. “But I can give you her address.”

Ashar nodded, his heart pounding again.