The first day of Eid was a blur of sheer white silk, the smell of frying pakoras, and a never-ending stream of guests.
Traditionally, this should have been a day of pure celebration, but for me, it felt like the final countdown. Every "Eid Mubarak" from a distant relative felt like a "Congratulations on your surrender." I moved through the house like a ghost in an embroidered lawn suit, hugging people I barely remembered and accepting envelopes of Eidi that felt like paper weights.
Zayn was across the lawn, doing the same. I caught glimpses of him through the windows—shaking hands with elderly men, bending down to ruffle the hair of his younger cousins. He was back in a crisp, pale blue kurta, looking every bit the perfect Malik heir.
But every so often, he would look toward our house. And for a split second, our eyes would lock across the sea of guests, and the weight would lift.
"You look like you're plotting an escape," a voice whispered.
I turned to find Rayan standing behind me, balancing a plate of sheer khurma. He looked surprisingly put-together, though his sleeves were already rolled up.
"Is it that obvious?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe of the crowded drawing room.
"Only to me. And probably to Zayn," Rayan said, taking a bite. "He's been checking his watch every ten minutes. I think he's counting down the seconds until he can stop being 'The Groom' and just be a human being again."
"Tomorrow is the Nikkah, Rayan," I said, my voice dropping. "There is no 'human being' after that. Just 'The Couple.'"
Rayan stopped eating and looked at me seriously. "Alayna, I saw him in that warehouse. That wasn't a performance. The guy is terrified of losing you again. He's not going to let the 'Couple' label swallow you both. He's already fighting for you, even if the weapons are just sandpaper and silence."
I looked down at the silver jasmine bracelet on my wrist, hidden under my sleeve. "I know."
The evening prayer called, and the frantic energy of the day finally began to simmer down. The guests started to trickle out, leaving the house smelling of expensive perfume and wilted flowers. Tomorrow, the tents would be filled with five times as many people. Tomorrow, the red dress wouldn't be on a hanger; it would be on me.
I slipped out to the porch to catch the evening breeze. The Malik estate was glowing with fairy lights, looking like a palace from a fairy tale.
Zayn was there, standing by his car, talking to one of the drivers. When he saw me, he excused himself and walked toward the low stone wall that separated our properties. He didn't cross it this time.
"One more day," he said, his voice carrying through the quiet air.
"Are you ready?" I asked.
Zayn looked at the lights of his house, then back at me. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, turning the screen off as if dismissing the entire world.
"I've been ready since the night of the storm," he said. "The rest of this... the flowers, the food, the signatures... it's just noise, Alayna. Don't let the noise scare you."
"I'm trying," I whispered.
"Don't try. Just look at me tomorrow. Don't look at the Maulana, don't look at your mother, don't look at the cameras. Just look at me. I'll be the one holding the pen with shaking hands."
He gave me a small, tired nod and walked back toward his house.
I stayed on the porch until the moon was high. The first day of Eid was over. The celebration was done. Tomorrow was the commitment. And for the first time, as I went upstairs to face the red dress, I didn't feel like a prisoner. I felt like a woman walking into a storm with the only person who knew how to navigate it.