The drawing room of the Siddiqui house was suffocating.
The scent of jasmine and expensive tea hovered in the air, but all I could smell was the antiseptic lingering on Grandfather Waqas. He was sitting in the high-backed wing chair, looking frail but remarkably determined. My father, Hassan, sat beside him, his expression a mix of relief and a heavy, quiet gravity that made the hair on my arms stand up.
I sat on the edge of the sofa, my cup of tea untouched. Across from me, Alayna was a study in stillness. She hadn't looked at me once since we arrived. She was tucked into a corner of the loveseat, her fingers tracing the embroidery on her cushion.
"It's good to have everyone together," Grandfather Junaid said, breaking the silence. He looked at Waqas. "Especially after the scare we had. It makes a man realize how little time we actually have to see our legacies secured."
I felt a cold drop of sweat slide down my spine. I knew that tone. That was the "negotiation" tone.
"Exactly," Waqas replied, his voice raspy but firm. He looked at me, then at Alayna. "This library project... it has shown us something. It has shown us that the Malik and Siddiqui names are stronger when they are one. Why wait for 'someday' when we are all here now?"
My father cleared his throat, looking at me with a look that said stay quiet.
"We've discussed it," my father said, his voice dropping into that formal, patriarchal register. "The engagement has lasted long enough. The families are in agreement. We want the Nikkah to take place right after Eid. Simple, elegant, and final."
The silence that followed was deafening.
I felt the walls of the room closing in. Right after Eid? That was less than three weeks away. I looked at Alayna. Her face had gone completely white. Her hand, which had been tracing the cushion, was now clenched so hard her knuckles were straining against the fabric.
"Grandfather," I started, my "CEO" voice failing me. It came out as a hollow croak. "The project... it's at a critical stage. A wedding now would be a massive distraction. Surely we can discuss a timeline for the end of the year—"
"The project is exactly why we are doing this, Zayn," Waqas interrupted, his eyes narrowing. "It's a joint venture. It should be managed by a husband and wife, not two strangers living in separate houses. Do you disagree with your grandfather's wish while he is still recovering?"
It was a trap. A perfect, emotional cage. If I said no, I was the heartless grandson who didn't care about a dying man's peace. If I said yes, I was surrendering the last five years of my independence.
I looked at Alayna, silently pleading for her to say something—anything. To be the "rebel" she usually was.
She finally looked up. Her eyes weren't fiery or defiant. They were hollow. She looked at her grandfather, then at the floor.
"If that is what you wish, Dada," she whispered. Her voice was so small I barely recognized it. It wasn't a "yes"; it was a surrender.
"Zayn?" my father prompted, his gaze heavy with expectation.
I looked around the room. My mother was smiling through tears. My grandmother was nodding in approval. They had already built the stage; they were just waiting for me to take my place.
"Whatever the family decides," I said, the words feeling like lead in my mouth.
"Excellent," Junaid said, clapping his hands once. "Then it's settled. We begin the preparations tomorrow."
The rest of the evening was a blur of forced smiles and "Mubarak." I felt like a man watching his own execution being planned in high-definition. When the families finally began to stand, moving toward the foyer to say their goodbyes, I saw Alayna slip toward the door. She looked like she was trying to vanish into the shadows of her own home.
I didn't let her.
As the parents were occupied with a long-winded discussion about the guest list, I stepped into her path. She stopped, her eyes lifting to mine. They were flat, devoid of the spark I'd seen at the library. She looked like she had already accepted the cage.
"The park," I said, my voice barely a whisper, pitched only for her. "Ten minutes. The bench by the old banyan tree."
Alayna flinched, her brow furrowing. "Zayn, there's nothing left to—"
"Ten minutes, Alayna," I interrupted, my voice harder than I intended. "Unless you're actually okay with letting them decide the rest of our lives for us."
I didn't wait for her to agree. I turned and followed my father out the door, the humid air hitting me like a physical weight.
Ten minutes later, I was sitting on the weathered wooden bench. The park was silent, the swings swaying slightly in the breeze, the neighborhood quiet as people settled in after the post-Iftar rush.
I heard the crunch of gravel behind me. I didn't turn around. I knew the rhythm of her walk.
"You're late," I said, the words a hollow echo of our meeting at the library.
Alayna walked around the bench, staying a calculated distance away. She didn't sit. She stood with her arms crossed, her silhouette sharp against the streetlights.
"I didn't have to come at all," she said, her voice brittle. "What do you want, Zayn? Are you here to tell me how 'unprofessional' this wedding is going to be? Or are you here to blame me for my grandfather's heart wanting a Nikkah?"
I finally looked at her. The moonlight made the tears she was trying to hide shimmer in her eyes.
"I'm not here to blame you," I said, and for the first time in five years, I meant it. "I'm here because I realized that back in that room, I didn't say anything. And neither did you."
"What was there to say?" she whispered, her voice finally breaking. "He's sick, Zayn. They're all so happy. If I say no, I break his heart. If you say no, you're the villain. We're trapped."
I stood up, the space between us feeling like a canyon I didn't know how to cross.
"I spent five years running away so I wouldn't have to deal with this," I said, taking a step toward her. "And now I'm back, and the only thing I've managed to do is hurt you and trap myself. If we're doing this—if this 'contract' is happening—I need to know one thing."
Alayna looked up, her jaw tightening. "What?"
"Are you marrying the 'CEO'?" I asked, my voice low. "Or are you marrying the boy who used to jump your fence? Because if it's the CEO, Alayna... we aren't going to make it to Eid."
...to be continued