Raneya sat frozen in front of the vanity, the chandelier's golden light casting an almost mocking glow on her. The mirror reflected an image she barely recognized—a girl dolled up in silk and sorrow, looking like she was ready for a fairytale, while silently living a nightmare.
Her bottle green dress, heavy with intricate zari work, seemed to cling to her not out of elegance but out of obligation. Each pleat whispered, "Smile. Nod. Obey."
Her Kohl-lined eyes—once bright with stubborn dreams—were now red-rimmed, swollen, tired. The eyes that screamed she hadn't slept in days, the kind of sadness that even a highlighter couldn't hide. They told a story of broken dreams and silent battles.
Leaning casually against the doorframe, she crossed her arms, her dupatta hanging fashionably loose like everything in life came easy. "Are you done with your tragic heroine act?" she said, tone dripping with sarcasm. "Because if this is your audition for 'Banno Ki Aayegi Baraat', you've nailed the look. Mood? Not so much."
Raneya didn't reply. Not because she didn't have words—but because she had too many, all fighting to escape at once. Instead, she reached for her jhumkay, fastening them slowly, as if each click of the clasp might anchor her.
Aanya rolled her eyes and stepped inside. "Look, I'm not the villain here, okay? But sitting here sulking won't change the fact that everyone is downstairs planning your future like it's a Sunday brunch menu."
Raneya's lips twitched. A bitter smile. "You've learned to play the game well."
Aanya smirked. "Better to learn the rules than be checkmated like you, api."
That stung. But Raneya knew better than to cry again. She wiped the corner of her eye before it smudged her eyeliner—if she was going to be forced into a performance, she might as well look flawless doing it.
She stood slowly, adjusting her dupatta over her head, the fabric slipping like a burden rather than a veil. Her bangles jingled, mocking her silence.
Downstairs, the air changed.
The idle chatter fell like a dropped tray, replaced by an unspoken admiration, as Raneya descended. Even the fan slowed down, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
Fazeela smiled tightly, hands clenched in her lap. Qureshi Sahab cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses like he wasn't sure if this was his daughter or a dream walking.
And Zaryab—Zaryab forgot to blink.
He had been expecting beauty, but this? She was ethereal. There was a melancholy in her gaze that only added to her charm, as if she were a painting with brushstrokes of sorrow and grace intertwined.
Saniya nudged Rukhsana and whispered, "She's giving 'princess held hostage in a palace' vibes."
Rukhsana, dabbing her forehead like this was her rishta, muttered, "Such grace. Such presence. And those eyes… tragic but beautiful. Like a heroine from an old Urdu novel. I hope she knows how to cook daal properly though."
The silence broke with the clinking of tea cups.
Fazeela cleared her throat. "Now that we're all gathered, let's talk about the wedding."
She said it casually. Like this wasn't a girl's life being decided, but a family trip to Murree.
Qureshi Sahab nodded. "Yes, better to get through before Ramadan starts. Less stress."
Zaryab smiled, polite and prepared. "Of course. Whatever suits both families."
Words like dowry, date setting, gold sets, and mehndi arrangements flew across the room like balloons at a party—except Raneya felt none of the joy.
The alliance was cemented with polite smiles and affirming nods while Raneya sat with her hands clasped in her lap, nails digging into her palms beneath the fabric. Her heart thudded in her ears. Her vision blurred—not from tears, but rage.
This was it. The moment. Speak now or stay silent forever.
She inhaled.
And then, without warning, her voice cut through the air.
"I don't want this marriage."
Silence.
Fazeela blinked. Twice. Like she hadn't heard it correctly.
Qureshi Sahab's mouth opened slightly, but words refused to come.
Zaryab sat straighter. Confused. Shocked. Intrigued.
Rukhsana gasped so loudly, it echoed. "Aray haye! Drama in real life! And just when I skipped my BP medicine!"
Saniya looked at her brother, then back at Raneya. A thousand thoughts swirled in her eyes.
Aanya just stared at Raneya like she'd lost her mind. Or found it.
Then, of course, Rukhsana Khala mode activated. She could never let a scene unfold without her theatrical presence so she let out an exaggerated sigh.
"Oh my sweet child," she said, clutching her chest like she was auditioning for a heart attack. "What is this filmi dialogue? Don't worry! We'll do everything according to your wishes. Pink roses instead of red? Done! Chicken roast AND mutton korma? Done! But no need to throw a tantrum!"
That was never the point.
Raneya's jaw tightened. "This isn't about the menu, Khala."
Fazeela spoke next, voice cold and careful. "A good daughter always respects the decisions made for her. This is your family's honor we are talking about."
And that was it. The final chain. Honor. Reputation. Duty. Words that had caged generations of women before her. Words that now wrapped around her like invisible chains. Her throat tightened. She could argue, she could scream, but what good would it do? The decision had already been made—her fate sealed within the confines of tradition.
Raneya lowered her gaze, her voice barely above a whisper. "Then fine. Do as you wish."
The tension melted into relief. The grown-ups smiled again. Wedding talks resumed like nothing had happened.
She sat quietly, nodding at the right moments, smiling when expected. But inside…
There was something brewing in her silence—something fierce, like the calm before a monsoon.