The drive back at dawn felt less like a commute and more like a retreat from a war zone. The sun was just beginning to bleed over the Karachi skyline, turning the haze of the city into a soft, bruised purple.
I looked at the rearview mirror. Zayn was driving, his hands relaxed on the wheel. He wasn't wearing his tie. He'd left it in the hotel room, and the top button of his shirt was undone. He looked like the man I'd sketched in that garden years ago, only heavier, deeper.
We pulled into the Malik estate just as the caterers were setting up. The transformation was jarring. The yard I'd left in a quiet, moody silence was now a maze of white tents, floral arches, and people shouting instructions.
"We're going to get an earful," Rayan said from the back, though his voice lacked any real alarm. He sounded like he was bracing for a joke rather than a confrontation.
Zayn didn't answer. He parked the car and killed the engine. The silence that followed was absolute.
"You don't have to walk in there with me," I said, looking at him.
Zayn looked toward the house then toward the inevitable swarm of mothers, aunts, and wedding coordinators who were undoubtedly waiting to tear us apart for our "irresponsible" disappearance. He turned back to me, and there was a calm in his expression that I hadn't seen in years. It wasn't the CEO's calculation; it was the quiet confidence of someone who had decided what mattered.
"I'm not going in there to be a guest, Alayna," he said, opening his door. "I'm going in there to make sure no one asks you to do anything else you don't want to do."
We walked toward the front entrance together. I wasn't clutching my sketchbook anymore. My hands were empty, and for the first time, I didn't feel the need to hide behind anything.
The moment we stepped into the foyer, the house erupted.
My mother appeared, followed by Auntie Warda and a frantic-looking wedding planner clutching a clipboard. They stopped dead when they saw us covered in road dust, our clothes rumpled, looking like we'd just crawled out of a storm.
"Zayn! Alayna!" my mother's voice rose, vibrating with a mix of relief and fury. "Where have you been? Do you have any idea the chaos...the flowers! The guests from Lahore! Look at you! You look like... like you've been living in the streets!"
The wedding planner began flipping through pages, her voice an anxious flutter. "Mr. Malik, we have the final seating chart, but we need your signature on the venue insurance, and the caterers need to know if you want the appetizers to be passed or stationed...."
It was the noise I'd been dreading for weeks. But before the wave could pull me under, Zayn stepped forward.
He didn't yell. He didn't use the 'CEO' voice to berate anyone. He just stood there, a physical barrier between the chaos and me.
"We're going to take a shower," he said, his voice quiet but impossible to ignore. "And then we're going to get some coffee. The seating chart can wait until noon. And the appetizers? Whatever Alayna prefers is what we're going with."
He turned to the wedding planner, his expression perfectly neutral. "If you need an answer before noon, the answer is 'whatever works best for the flow of the room.' You don't need my signature on anything else today."
The foyer went silent. My mother stared at him, bewildered, as if she were seeing a stranger.
"But....the guests...." my mother started.
"The guests will be fine," I added, stepping up to stand beside him. I felt the heat of his arm against mine, a grounding, solid weight. "Mom, we've been working for three days straight. We're done with the library. We're done with the logistics. We're going to rest."
Zayn didn't look back at me. He just held the door open for me to pass through the chaos and toward the stairs.
As we walked up, away from the flurry of gold and silk and voices, I realized the house hadn't changed, but the power dynamic had. We weren't the two people who were going to be told how to act anymore. We were the people setting the pace.
When we reached the top of the stairs, I looked at him. "You just canceled half the morning's schedule."
Zayn leaned against the banister, a small, tired smile tugging at his mouth. "I think the world will survive, don't you?"
"I think it might," I said.
For a moment, we stood there, surrounded by the echoes of the house, before we both turned and went toward our separate rooms. The wedding was still coming, but the dread was gone. We had four days left and for the first time, I felt like we were going to survive them on our own terms.