Her Prayer,His pieces

One crisp morning, a man of 26 commands the sleek office of Luna Luxe, his sharp gaze fixed on a cascade of spreadsheets. Izhar, the enigmatic CEO of this glittering empire, works with relentless precision, his fingers dancing across the keyboard without a whisper of a break. The city skyline glimmers beyond his floor-to-ceiling windows, but he loses himself in a storm of numbers and deadlines, his mind a battlefield of fractured thoughts. Dark circles shadow his intense eyes—whispers of a restless night haunted by forces he can’t control. Yet, beneath his icy composure, a flicker of vulnerability hints at the man beneath the title, a soul pieced together by duty and shattered by a past he buries deep. The office hums with quiet efficiency, but for Izhar, it serves as a fortress where he reigns—until an unexpected call threatens to unravel his carefully guarded world.

The silence of Izhar’s office shatters as his phone buzzes, the name “Malik” flashing on the screen. With a reluctant swipe, he presses it to his ear, his deep voice cutting through the tension. “Hello.”

On the other end, Malik’s voice crackles with a teasing edge. “Hello, loser! Mama says bring something to eat from outside—don’t forget, or you know what’s coming!” The words carry a familiar sting, a brotherly jab laced with unspoken pressure.

Izhar’s eyes darken, a flicker of aggression sparking in their depths, but he reins it in with iron will. His jaw tightens, the air around him growing colder as he exhales a sharp, controlled sigh. “Okay,” he replies, the word clipped, betraying none of the storm brewing beneath his polished facade. He hangs up, staring at the city lights, the weight of family duty clashing with the empire he builds—unaware that this simple errand might unravel secrets he buries deep.

Across the city, a radiant figure in a sleek black office suit and matching scarf commands the chic office of Bloom Hive. Yasmin, 24 and its poised CEO, works with a smile that lights the room, her fingers gliding over reports with effortless grace. A soft knock interrupts her flow, and she calls out warmly, “Come in!”

The door swings open, revealing her younger brother Arsalan, 15, strutting in his school uniform, his face twisted in an exaggerated pout. Yasmin chuckles, her eyes sparkling. “What’s wrong, champ?”

Arsalan’s pout deepens as he groans, “Api, I get so pissed—O-level math is a nightmare!”

Yasmin bursts into a melodic laugh. “How will you survive A-levels if O-level math scares you?” she teases, her voice a blend of sisterly love and mischief.

Arsalan whines, slumping dramatically. “Let’s go, I’m tired!”

With a nod, Yasmin gathers her belongings, her smile softening. One soul burns with icy resolve, the other dances with angelic sweetness—what destiny does Allah write for them? Only time unveils the threads binding Izhar and Yasmin.

Yasmin and Arsalan step into the grand Rajput mansion, their footsteps soft on the polished floors. Spotting their elder brother Arham lounging ahead, Yasmin signals Arsalan to stay quiet with a playful wink. With stealthy tiptoes, they creep behind him and—BOO!

Arham jolts, a piercing “AAAAAAAAAAAA MAMAAAAAAAAAAA!” erupting from him as he spins around. The sound of laughter fills the air as he glares at his mischievous younger siblings, their giggles echoing off the ornate walls.

Grabbing his slipper with mock fury, Arham charges, while Yasmin and Arsalan dart away, their feet pattering through the sprawling halls. They weave around marble pillars and ornate rugs, their laughs lighting up the mansion like a burst of sunshine. Arham’s mock threats mix with their shrieks of delight, turning the stately home into a playground of sibling joy—unaware that fate prepares to intertwine their world with Izhar’s icy one.

On the other side, Izhar steps into the chaos of home, only to meet a jarring punch to the face. Blood trickles from his nose as his gaze lands on his second brother, Zaid, standing with a smirk. Those once-cold eyes ignite with raw fury—not Izhar, but Hamza, his protective alter, now in command. Yes, Izhar harbors dissociative identity disorder, a secret unleashed.

Hamza roars, his voice a thunderclap, “What is this, HUH?” His presence looms like a monster, muscles tensing, eyes blazing with a guardian’s rage. Zaid freezes, expecting Izhar to rein it in, unaware that Hamza guards Izhar more fiercely than the other alters.

Inside his mind, Izhar pleads silently, begging Hamza to relinquish control, to spare their family. “Family, family—it’s my call!” he cries within, but to Hamza and the alters, this place feels no less than hell—a battleground of tension and pain. The air thickens as Hamza’s fury clashes with Izhar’s desperate inner struggle

Zaid stumbles back, terror seizing him as he shouts, “Mama! Dad!” His voice cracks, echoing through the tense air.

Hamza smirks, his lips curling with dark amusement. “Do you think they’ll save you from me?” he scoffs, his tone dripping with disdain. His towering presence looms, eyes glinting with a predator’s glee, the blood still trickling from Izhar’s nose a stark reminder of his unleashed fury. Inside, Izhar’s pleas grow frantic, begging Hamza to halt, but the alter’s grip tightens, reveling in the power. The room pulses with fear, the family hellscape intensifying as Zaid’s cries fade against Hamza’s cold resolve.

Blood pools beneath Izhar’s nose as Hamza, the towering alter, stands menacingly before a trembling Zaid. The air is thick with rage—electrified, untouchable.

Footsteps thunder down the hall.

Mr. and Mrs. Nawab burst into the room, horror gripping their faces.

Mrs. Nawab gasps, grabbing her husband’s arm. Her voice drops to a frantic whisper.

“Nawab—it’s Hamza. He’s the dangerous one. Do something! He’ll kill my child! I told you—we should’ve sent him away. He doesn’t belong in this house anymore.”

Mr. Nawab hesitates, swallowing hard. His hand clenches into a fist before stepping forward, forcing a mask of composure over his panic.

“What’s going on here?” he demands.

Hamza’s eyes snap to him—wild, sharp, lethal.

That single glare is enough to make Mr. Nawab falter a step, his bravado cracking. But Mrs. Nawab steadies him with a sharp look. He straightens, though his voice trembles ever so slightly.

“I’m your father,” he says. “Give control back to Izhar.”

Hamza’s lips curl into a vicious grin, teeth clenched, rage simmering just beneath.

“Oh, so you get to command now? After everything you did to him?”

He steps forward slowly, voice low and venomous.

“You hurt him. Again. And again. And you think I’ll just let him out so you can break him more?”

He laughs—a cold, hollow sound.

“Nah. You don’t get to touch him. Not while I’m here.”

A tense beat. Then, outside, the Maghrib Azaan breaks the silence—its haunting call echoing like a divine intervention through the windows.

Hamza freezes.

A slow exhale escapes him, rage cooling slightly—but not gone. His expression softens, just a fraction.

“Consider yourselves lucky,” he mutters.

“Izhar’s asleep. He doesn’t know what happened. And you’d better make sure he never does.”

His gaze sharpens.

“If you tell him… I swear, next time, I won’t just bleed.”

With that, he turns and walks away—calm, controlled, terrifying. The blood on his face still fresh. He heads upstairs, disappearing into the shadows.

The family stands frozen in his wake—silent, shaken, and drowning in the realization that the boy they once raised is now a war they can no longer win.

As promised, after Izhar finishes his namaz, he gently gives control to Anas.

Anas immediately rushes to the toy room—his special little haven, the one Izhar always keeps locked just for him. It’s his world. He plays there for hours, completely lost in joy, before eventually curling up and falling asleep.

For many, Dissociative Identity Disorder might feel like a curse. But not for Izhar.

For him, it’s home.

Hamza, Anas, Ali—they’re more than just alters. They’re his family. His protectors. His joy. His softness.

And because he loves them so deeply, he never sought therapy to “fix” himself.

He didn’t need fixing.

He already felt whole.

Author’s Note

Hey lovely reader,

First off, thank you for picking up this story. It’s not just another tale—it’s a part of my heart.

This story touches on some heavy, real-world themes like violence, child abuse, and Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID). I’ve done my best to handle these subjects with care, respect, and sensitivity, because behind every diagnosis or traumatic event, there are real people with real emotions and real stories. This is fiction, but for many, it reflects reality.

You’ll meet Izhar—he’s not broken, he’s brave. He doesn’t view his alters as something to be “cured.” They’re his strength. His family. His survival. His love for Anas, Ali, Hamza, and the others is something pure, something deep... something that goes beyond what most people will ever understand.

This isn’t a story about being saved. It’s a story about acceptance, resilience, and choosing love—even when the world gives you a million reasons not to.

Please take care while reading. If at any point it feels too heavy, it’s okay to take a break. Your mental health matters.

With love,

Author 🌸