Chapter 1
The moon cast a haunting glow over the remnants of what once was Rabeya’s haven. The echoes of the raid still reverberated through the walls, mingling with the faint sobs of women who had once found solace under her roof. Rabeya stood in the center of the courtyard, her heart a shattered mosaic of dreams and trust, each piece cutting deeper into her soul.
Her eyes, once filled with warmth and hope, now brimmed with tears as she remembered the brutal raid. The police had stormed in, tearing through her home with no regard for the sanctity it held. The accusations of running a brothel were like venom, poisoning the air with their cruelty. The men who worked in her palace, loyal and innocent, had been beaten mercilessly. And she, a niqabi, had faced the ultimate violation when an officer tried to attack her, his intentions clear in his vile eyes.
But then her husband had arrived. He had stopped the assault, and for a fleeting moment, relief had washed over her. But it was immediately replaced by a cold dread as the police officers addressed him with respect, calling him “sir.” The realization had struck her like lightning: the man she had come to love and trust was a deception, a mirage.
Her hands trembled, clutching the fabric of her dupatta as if it could anchor her to reality. She sought out Aban, her voice steady but laced with anguish. “What is all this? Why did you do this? Why did you marry me?” she asked each word a dagger to her own heart.
Aban’s face was a cold, impassive mask, his eyes void of any warmth. “I did it only to catch your brother. I married you to win his trust. Otherwise, I would have never married you,” he said, his words cutting through her like a knife.
Rabeya’s vision blurred with tears, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. “You used me. You made me dream and trust, all for your deceit,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
Aban’s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing with disdain. “You are nothing to me but a criminal’s sister,” he spat, his words dripping with contempt.
The pain in Rabeya’s chest was unbearable, each heartbeat a reminder of her shattered dreams. Yet, she held her head high. “If that’s how you see it, then so be it,” she said, her voice a fragile whisper.
Her Uncle burst into the room, his fury palpable. He pointed a trembling finger at Aban, his voice shaking with rage. “You are no man! Involving an innocent woman in your schemes-shame on you!”
But Rabeya, her heart breaking, raised a hand to silence him. “Uncle , This is my naseeb, my fate,” she said with dignity. Her voice was soft, the weight of her words heavy with resignation.
She turned to leave, her steps faltering under the weight of betrayal. Her Mama supported her, his curses directed at Aban, but Rabeya remained silent. Her dignity, though battered, remained intact.
As they reached the threshold, she paused, her tears flowing freely now. She could feel Aban’s gaze burning into her back, but she didn’t turn. The man she had once loved, the man who had become her world, had destroyed it with his lies.
Aban stood unmoved, his face a mask of cold indifference. The woman he had deceived, the woman he had used as a pawn in his ruthless game, was walking away. And he felt nothing but the hollow satisfaction of a mission accomplished.
Who was the Actual Criminal? Using someone for their own selfish interest, exploiting their emotions, and breaking their trust should also be considered a heinous crime. But, these criminals roam free.
The door closed behind her with a finality that echoed through the empty halls. Rabeya walked into the night, her heart shattered but her spirit unbroken. She had faced the ultimate betrayal, but she would survive. She always had.
Aban watched her leave, his fists clenched, his heart as cold and unyielding as ever. He had lost her, but to him, she had only ever been a means to an end. The truth of his feelings, if there were any, buried under layers of duty and deceit, meant nothing to him now.
He turned away, his mind already calculating his next move, as Biya disappeared into the darkness, carrying with her the remnants of a life destroyed by his callous ambition.
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Rabeya stared out the window, her heart heavy with an indescribable sadness. The girls around her were busy fixing the house, trying to restore some semblance of normalcy, but Rabeya’s mind was elsewhere. Her( uncle) mama, was speaking to her, his voice filled with concern and urgency about what they should do next. But his words were lost on her. She could only think of the betrayal and the fire that had consumed her dreams.
“I don’t know, Mama,” she murmured absently, not even realizing she had spoken.
Her mama’s (uncle) voice faded into the background as she turned and walked towards her bedroom. The familiar surroundings that once brought her comfort now felt suffocating. She needed space to breathe, to process the chaos that had upended her life.
Outside, an army of masked men was stealthily approaching the house, their intentions sinister. Just as they prepared to burst inside, a deafening explosion rocked the ground. The mansion was instantly engulfed in flames, the fierce heat and roaring fire overwhelming the night.
The masked men were thrown into disarray, shocked and disoriented. “What just happened?” one of them shouted, his voice filled with panic.
Quickly regaining their composure, they called someone, their hands trembling.
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Aban was at a party, surrounded by congratulatory voices and the clinking of glasses. His victory was being celebrated, but his mind was elsewhere, preoccupied with thoughts of Rabeya.
His father’s voice cut through the noise, cold and calculated. “I’ve sent some men to Rabeya’s house. We can’t risk this scandal ruining our reputation.”
Aban’s blood ran cold. Without a word, he bolted from the party, his heart pounding in his chest. Rahul and Abbas, sensing the urgency, followed closely behind. They raced through the streets, fear gnawing at their hearts.
When they arrived, the scene before them was a nightmare. The mansion was a blazing inferno, the flames reaching high into the sky. Aban’s legs gave way, and he fell to his knees, the shock and devastation overwhelming him.
“No... Rabeya...” he whispered, his voice choked with tears. Memories of her laughter, her gentle touch, and the dreams they had shared flooded his mind, each one a dagger to his heart.
“Abdullah, we should cherish every moment after all, we don’t know how long we’ll live.”Her voice echoed in his ears, a haunting reminder of the love he had destroyed.
The flames roared louder, but all Aban could hear was her voice.“If you don’t be grateful to the Niyama Allah Ta’ala gives you, then later you’ll regret when you lose the Niyama.”
“Rabeya...” he sobbed, his fists clenching in the dirt. He had lost her, and with her, he had lost himself. The mansion, once a symbol of their shared dreams, was now a burning testament to his failure and betrayal.
His friends tried to pull him away, but he couldn’t move. The pain was too intense, the guilt too crushing.“Abdullah, we’ll go to some mountains and start our life afresh, free from this filth.”
The words were ashes now, much like the ruins before him. He had played his part well, but the cost was too high. As he stared into the flames, the weight of his actions pressed down on him, suffocating him.
Rahul’s voice was a distant murmur, barely cutting through the haze of his grief. “Aban, we need to go.”
With a final, broken sob, Aban allowed himself to be pulled away. The flames behind him continued to burn, but the fire within him had been extinguished. His heart was hollow, his soul shattered. He had betrayed the one person who had believed in him, and now she was gone.
“Naseeban...” he whispered into the night, the word a bitter reminder of what he had lost. The celebration of his victory felt like a cruel joke. There was no victory, only profound, soul-crushing loss.
As the memories of Rabeya’s warmth and love faded into the smoke-filled sky, Aban was left with nothing but the echo of her voice, the shadow of his regret and the burden of his guilt.
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The mansion doors scraped against marble as they opened. Rahul’s grip tightened on Aban’s left arm when his knees buckled. Abbas caught the other side.
Aban’s shirt hung loose on his frame. His hair was disheveled. His vague, rimmed eyes made it clear he wasn’t in the moment. In reality, he wasn’t. In his mind’s eye, he was still watching her.
Rabeya.
His Rabeya. Smiling. Kind. Brighter than the sun, as always.
His eyes brimmed with tears, but he was smiling.
Her words were still ringing in his ears.
Abdullah, I will be waiting for you. So please, come back soon.
Then his own words echoed in his ear:
You’re nothing to me—just a criminal’s daughter.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
But then his father’s voice cut through the foyer.
“Where were you?” he asked as he walked in, his steps breaking the eerie silence of the night.
“The Malik Industries board was asking about you. I told them you had urgent military business.” His father’s fingers drummed against his thigh. “Do you understand what that looked like?”
Aban’s head remained lowered. His chest rose and fell in short bursts.
“Aban?” his father—Mr. Azhar—asked. “What happened out there?”
The chandelier above them cast shadows that danced across Aban’s face. He blinked slowly, as if waking from a dream he couldn’t escape.
“Why did you do this?”
The words came out flat. Emotionless.
His father’s eyebrows pulled together. “What are you talking about?”
“Why did you do this?” Aban’s voice cracked on the last word.
The room went silent. Somewhere, a glass clinked against a table.
“I gave you Shahmir!” Aban’s hands clenched into fists. “I walked away from everything. I left her standing there, even though—” His throat worked, swallowing the words that wouldn’t come.
Guests backed toward the walls.
“Even though I wanted to marry her.”
His father’s face went white.
“So why did you kill her?”
The question hung in the air like smoke.
“I didn’t—” his father started.
“Stop.” Aban’s voice cut through the room like a blade. “I heard the phone call. I heard everything, Baba.”
His father’s hands went still at his sides.
“You gave the order,” Aban said, stepping forward. His shoes echoed on the marble. “You made the call. I went there to save her, but I was late.” His lips trembled. Tears kept falling.
Another step.
“You knew what she meant to me.”
His lips trembled. Jaw clenched.
His father’s mouth opened, then closed. No sound came out.
“I did it to protect you.”
The words came out barely above a whisper.
Aban’s head tilted slightly. “From what?”
“The newspapers. The scandal,” his father’s voice gained strength. “Do you know what they would have written? ‘War Hero Used Terrorist’s Sister.’ Your career would have been over. The uniform, the medals, everything we built— The general mass would have started sympathizing with that woman.”
“That woman is Rabeya Ansari. Your son’s wife. Your daughter-in-law.”
“She was a terrorist’s sister, Aban,” he said, as if it justified his actions.
“So what are you?”
“Aban...”
“She was innocent, Baba. She had nothing to do with any of this. She was just unlucky. She didn’t choose her brother. But she choseme. And I left her to burn for it.”
Aban’s laugh started low in his chest. It grew louder, harsher, until it filled the room.
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “You burned her alive to save our reputation.”
“Aban, please—”
“Who’s the criminal, Baba? Who’s the terrorist?”
He asked.
Rahul and Abbas stared at the floor. It was heartbreaking for them to see their friend like this.
Suddenly, Aban stopped.
“I have nothing left.” His voice turned quiet again. Dangerous. “No name. No future. No reason to wake up tomorrow.”
He stepped backward, away from them all.
“Aban Azhar died tonight.”
His knees gave out. He caught himself against the wall, fingers scraping expensive wallpaper.
“She burned. And so did I.”
He straightened, looked around the room at the stunned faces.
“ABAN AZHAR IS DEAD!”
The scream tore from his throat—raw and animal. Several guests rushed toward the exit.
Footsteps on the staircase. His mother appeared at the top. Her eyes were wide, a hand pressed to her mouth. Shocked, she was.
“Ma...” His voice broke completely.
She descended the stairs, her bare feet silent on the marble. “Aban, what happened?”
“He killed her,” Aban’s chest heaved. “Your daughter-in-law. My Rabeya. He had her burned alive. What am I supposed to do now?”
She reached him and pulled his head to her shoulder. He collapsed into her—this decorated officer, this man who’d prepared soldiers for battle. His body shook against hers.
Her fingers combed through his hair, just as they did when he was seven and afraid of thunderstorms.
“Allah sees everything, son,” she whispered. ” He will fix everything. Everything will be alright.”
He stopped. Then, staring at his mother, he spoke like a scared boy.
“Allah won’t forgive me, Ma,” he whispered, voice splintering. “I... I broke her trust. I betrayed her.”
He blinked rapidly, as though trying to erase the memory burned into his mind.
“She was innocent. But I—” His breath hitched. “I told her she meant nothing. That she was only a criminal’s sister.”
His shoulders caved inward, the guilt crushing.
“She died with those words. She died thinking I didn’t love her. I lied to her, Ma.”
Then suddenly, his voice turned frantic. Searching. Wild.
“But now I can’t tell her—I can’t undo it. No, let me go. Let me go and tell her now!”
“No, stop it, Aban,” his mother pleaded. “Aban, come to your senses. She’s no more.”
“Ma, I have to tell her the truth. I need to tell her I love her. ”
Mr. Azhar looked at his son’s devastated self; then, sighing, he told himself, “it’s just a phase.” He would get over it soon.
But Aban just sobbed. The sound echoed through the marble hall, bouncing off chandeliers and the portraits of distinguished ancestors who’d built this empire of lies.
The officer was gone. The son was gone.
What remained was a man with nothing left to lose.
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Dehradun, Five Years Later
The sun hadn’t cleared the mountains when the whistle cut through the morning air. Sharp. Final.
“I can’t—I can’t breathe,” Harsh doubled over, his hands on his knees. Spit hung from his mouth. His legs shook.
Rakesh grabbed his friend’s shirt and yanked him upright. “He’s watching. Move.”
Across the field, Coach Abdullah stood motionless. His arms hung at his sides, not crossed like other coaches. Just hanging. Empty. His eyes tracked every stumbling step, every gasping breath, but his face showed nothing.
The students whispered about him in the dormitories. How he never raised his voice but somehow everyone obeyed. How he ate alone in the staff room, always the same meal—two pieces of bread, black tea. How he’d been there five years and no one knew where he came from.
“Sir, please—” Harsh started when they reached the finish line.
Abdullah looked at his watch. The seconds ticked by. Harsh’s chest heaved.
“Again.”
Not angry. Not disappointed. Just empty.
As the boys trudged back to the starting line, two men approached the fence. They wore jeans and polo shirts, but they moved like soldiers. Shoulders back. Eyes scanning.
“Excuse me,” the older one called to a passing student. “We’re looking for someone named Aban Azhar.”
The boy shook his head quickly. “No sir. No one here by that name.”
“What about Abdullah? Coach Abdullah?”
The boy pointed across the field. “That’s him. Our PT teacher.”
The two men followed his finger. The coach stood exactly where he’d been ten minutes ago. Hadn’t moved. Hadn’t shifted weight. Just stood there like a gravestone.
Both Rahul and Abbas smiled.
After a whole 5 years, they were watching their friend.
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Staff Room
The plastic chair creaked under Aban’s weight as he sat down. He placed two cups on the table between them, the tea so weak it was barely brown. His movements were mechanical. Pour. Set down. Sit.
Rahul studied his face. The man across from him had lost twenty pounds. Maybe thirty. His uniform hung loose on his frame. His eyes had sunk deeper into his skull, creating shadows that never seemed to go away.
“You vanished,” Rahul said. “Completely. We searched for two years.”
Aban stirred his tea. The spoon clinked against the cup in a steady rhythm. Clink. Clink. Clink.
“We need your help,” Abbas said.
“No.” The stirring didn’t stop.
“You don’t know what we’re asking—”
“I said no.” Clink. Clink. Clink.
Abbas leaned forward. “It’s about Rabeya.”
The spoon stopped. Aban’s hand froze halfway to the cup.
“Don’t.” His voice came out hoarse, like he hadn’t used it in days.
“Your dad didn’t do it. ”
Aban paused and looked at him .
″ I mean, he wanted to but..″
Aban’s fingers tightened around the spoon handle. His knuckles went white.
“We found new evidence,” Rahul continued. “Bomb traces don’t match. Too clean. Like it was planned by someone who knew what they were doing.”
“Stop.” Aban set the spoon down carefully. Too carefully.
“Someone who wanted both Shahmir and Rabeya dead. Someone with military training. Someone who—”
“I said stop!” Aban’s fist slammed onto the table. The cups jumped. Tea sloshed onto the plastic surface.
Both men went silent.
Aban stared at the spreading puddle of tea. His chest rose and fell in short bursts. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper.
“She’s dead. That’s all that matters.”
“But she might not have been the target,” Abbas said gently. “She might have just been—”
“In the wrong place.” Aban’s laugh came out broken. “Wrong time. Wrong man to love.” He looked up at them, and for the first time they saw something other than emptiness in his eyes. Something raw. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
Rahul reached into his jacket. Slowly. Like approaching a wounded animal.
He placed a small evidence bag on the table. Inside was a silver locket, blackened around the edges.
“We found this when we went back to the ruins. But before we could give it to you, you left everthing and disappeared.”
Aban went completely still. His breathing stopped.
“There’s an ‘R’ engraved on the front,” Abbas said quietly. “We thought you should—”
Aban’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood up. Fast. Too fast. He walked to the window, his back to them.
“Get out.”
“Aban—”
“Get out of my school. Get out of my life.” His shoulders were rigid. “I died five years ago. Let me stay dead.”
Rahul stood but left the evidence bag on the table. “If you change your mind—”
“I won’t.”
They walked to the door. Abbas paused, his hand on the handle.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “she wouldn’t want you living like this.”
The door clicked shut.
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Aban stood at the window for a long time. Outside, students ran laps on the track. Their shouts echoed off the mountains. Normal sounds. Living sounds.
Finally, he turned back to the table.
The evidence bag sat where Rahul had left it. The locket inside caught the light from the window.
He sat down. Stared at it. His hands lay flat on the table, palms down, fingers spread.
Ten minutes passed. Maybe twenty.
Then he picked up the bag. His hands trembled as he opened it and pulled out the locket.
The ‘R’ was barely visible under the soot. He rubbed it with his thumb until the letter showed clearly.
Rabeya.
The locket opened with a tiny click.
Empty. No picture. Nothing.
Just like everything else in his life.
He closed it. Opened it again. Closed it.
The repetitive motion seemed to calm him. Click. Click. Click.
Like the spoon against the teacup.
Like his footsteps during dormitory rounds.
Like the whistle that sliced through morning drills.
Sounds to fill the silence where her voice used to be.
He closed his eyes. And for a fleeting second, she was there again.
The memory hurt, but he welcomed it.
Even though it pierced his heart a thousand times over,
he would relive it. Again and again.
Because she lived inside it.
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Hello Amazing Readers 😍,
Thank you so much for reading this chapter. I hope it touched your heart in some way.
This story holds a very special place in my heart, and I want to dedicate it to Kittu for her unwavering patience, constant encouragement, and genuine love for this story 😌. She repeatedly reminded me on Instagram to start writing it, and without her push, I might have let it stay just another unwritten idea 😓.
I’ll be honest. I can’t promise regular updates.
Life is quite busy, and time often slips through my fingers. I started writing this because I knew that if I didn’t, it would get buried beneath the weight of countless unfinished thoughts. But I promise you this: I will keep going. Slowly, perhaps, but with sincerity, passion, and heart 😊.
Please keep me in your duas, and if this story made you feel something, I’d love to hear from you. Your feedback means more than I can ever express 😍❤️✨
With gratitude,
Farzana
