Hello, my dear stars! ✨

I hope you all are doing well. I know, I know—the story is moving a little slowly, and I truly understand your impatience. I’m really sorry for that! But trust me, everything has its own time, and I promise the wait will be worth it.

The much-awaited male and female lead interaction is coming very soon—just two more chapters! Before that, I want to give Sifna a little strength, to shape her character in a way that makes her journey even more impactful.

I hope you all will cooperate with me, trust the process, and keep supporting this story. And please, don’t forget to show your love on Wattpad and Instagram—like, vote, comment, share—your support means everything to me!

Happy reading! ❤️

On the other side RUSSIA

AUTHOR'S POV

The sun had barely risen when Hamad Malik’s morning routine began. His fists met the heavy bag with sharp, calculated force, the rhythmic thuds echoing through his private gym. Sweat trickled down his back, but he didn’t stop. Discipline. Control. Strength. These were the foundations of his life.

After an intense workout, he stepped into a cold shower, the icy water grounding him. By the time he emerged, dressed in a crisp black shirt and tailored trousers, the city outside was fully awake.

---

Breakfast was a quiet affair.

Across the table, Ibrahim Shah, his closest friend and right-hand man, sat sipping his black coffee. Unlike Hamad, Ibrahim carried an easygoing aura, his dark eyes observant yet relaxed.

“You know,” Ibrahim started, stirring his coffee lazily, “not everything in life is a battle. Try enjoying a meal without looking like you’re about to kill someone.”

Hamad took a sip of his own coffee, expression unreadable. “Try keeping up, and maybe you’ll understand why I don’t have the luxury.”

Ibrahim chuckled. “Still the same.”

As they ate, Sharma, Hamad’s secretary, entered, a tablet in hand.

“Sir, your schedule for today.”

Hamad gestured for him to continue.

“You have meetings with the Dubai expansion team until noon. After that, an inspection at the docks regarding the new shipment. At 5 p.m., a conference call with the Mexican cartel representative.”

Hamad barely reacted, only giving a small nod. “Anything urgent?”

Sharma hesitated. “Nothing unusual.”

Before the conversation could continue, Hamad’s phone buzzed—his mother.

He exhaled through his nose before answering.

Sighing, he picked up. "Ji, Ammi?"(yes mom)

Sabrina Malik’s elegant yet firm voice echoed through the speaker. "Hamad, when are you coming? The wedding preparations are in full swing, and I need you here."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Ammi, I told you—I’ll be there before Mehendi. That’s in thirteen days."

Sabrina sighed. “You always delay things, Hamad.”

“It’s not a delay, it’s work.”

Abeeha and Sidra’s voices chimed in the background, teasing him. "Bhai, take care and don’t forget our shopping list! Especially my designer clutch!" Sidra giggled.

Abeeha added, "And don’t come empty-handed!"

Hamad rolled his eyes. "Fine. I’ll send someone to get your things."

Then came Abeeha’s voice, lighter, teasing.

“And don’t be so grumpy when you arrive. We have a wedding to enjoy, Malik Sahab.”

Hamad leaned back in his chair, his lips almost twitching into a smirk. These two.

“Noted.”

“Noted?” Sidra gasped dramatically. “No, bhai. We want you to promise.”

Before they could start another round of chatter, Hamad ended the call. He leaned back, rolling his neck.

Family. The only weakness he allowed himself.

Ibrahim chuckled. "You spoil them too much."

Ignoring him, Hamad ended the call and resumed eating. But before he could finish, Ibrahim’s expression turned serious. But for now, there was work to do.

"Haroon called me yesterday."

Hamad looked up. "And?"

Ibrahim placed his phone on the table, sliding it toward Hamad. "Human trafficking.It's bigger than we thought."

Hamad stilled, the grip on his fork tightening. "How big?"

"Haroon and I dug into it last night. Women and children are being taken, smuggled through routes linked to our ports—without our knowledge." Ibrahim’s voice darkened. "Haroon already started tracing the network. But he wants us in. And Hamad—he’s furious."Hamad’s jaw clenched. Haroon didn’t lose his temper often

Yesterday reached to one route and saved the childrens and women and the head of this mastermind is someonelse someone big the puppets of mastermind didnt opened his mouth and haroon brutally killed him.

Ibrahim leaned forward. "It’s connected to the Mexicans."

A cold silence settled.

Hamad finally spoke, his voice like a blade. "Then we end it."

Ibrahim smirked. "That’s exactly what I told him."

Hamad pushed his chair back, already thinking ahead. The Mexicans had made a mistake crossing into his business. Now, they'd pay in blood.

After that Ibrahim tossed a file on the table. "Oleg Sokolov. But he's just a puppet. Someone else is pulling the strings."

Hamad flipped through the documents, his jaw tightening. Women. Children. Sold like merchandise. His patience wore thin.

"He's attending today’s meeting?"

Ibrahim nodded. "Yes. And he won’t give us anything willingly."

Hamad’s smirk was ice-cold. "Then we take what we need."

The conference room in Moscow headquarters was a fortress of power—dark marble, bulletproof windows, and an air of controlled authority.

The Russian clients were already seated. Among them, Viktor Petrov—a trusted associate. And Oleg Sokolov—the man of interest.

Hamad and Ibrahim walked in, their presence enough to make the room go silent. They took their seats.

The meeting began with discussions of logistics, security, and investments. Oleg spoke, but Hamad barely listened.

Then, without warning, Hamad leaned back, his fingers tapping against the table.

"Oleg."

The man stilled. "Yes, Mr. Malik?"

Hamad's gaze was sharp. "Who do you answer to?"

A flicker of panic crossed Oleg's face before he masked it. "I—I'm not sure what you mean."

Ibrahim sighed, placing the file of evidence on the table. "Don’t insult our intelligence."

Oleg hesitated, his fingers twitching. Then he forced a chuckle. "You have it wrong, Mr Malik. I'm just a businessman."

Hamad smirked. "A businessman… selling lives?"

Silence. A bead of sweat formed at Oleg’s temple. But he didn’t break.

Ibrahim’s patience snapped. "We know you're not the one in charge. Give us a name."

Oleg shook his head. "I can’t."

A death wish.

Hamad exhaled, standing up slowly. He walked around the table, stopping behind Oleg’s chair. The Russian tensed, his breath uneven.

"You can't?" Hamad’s voice was calm—too calm. "Or you won’t?"

Oleg swallowed hard. "They’ll kill me."

Hamad leaned down, voice a whisper. "And what do you think I’ll do?"

Oleg flinched but said nothing. Loyalty to his master ran deeper than fear.

Hamad straightened, glancing at Ibrahim. A silent conversation passed between them.

This man was useless.

Hamad turned to Viktor. "Deal’s off. I don’t work with puppets."

Viktor, understanding the weight of those words, nodded stiffly. "Understood."

Oleg’s face turned pale. "Wait—"

Hamad walked away, buttoning his suit. "You should’ve talked when you had the chance."

As he and Ibrahim left, the room remained silent.

But Oleg knew.

He was already a dead man.

The meeting had ended, but for Oleg Sokolov, the nightmare had just begun.

Hamad never tolerated betrayal, and silence was a betrayal in itself. He never left loose ends.

Oleg was dragged into the cold, dark basement of the Moscow headquarters—soundproof, bloodstained, and filled with screams that never left the walls.

He was thrown onto a steel chair, his wrists tied behind his back. His breath was ragged, fear dripping from his skin like sweat.

Hamad stood before him, calm, unshaken.

Ibrahim leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching. He had seen Hamad like this before. And he knew—Oleg was already dead.

"Last chance," Hamad said, rolling up his sleeves. "Who do you work for?"

Oleg spat blood onto the floor. "Go to hell, Malik."

Hamad smirked. "I'll send you there first."

He reached for the rusted pliers on the metal tray.

Crack.

Oleg’s scream tore through the air as Hamad twisted the pliers, crushing his fingernails—one by one.

"A name, Oleg."

"I—I won’t!" Oleg sobbed, his body convulsing from the pain.

Hamad tilted his head. "Then you're of no use to me."

Slice.

The blade cut deep into Oleg’s cheek, the blood dripping onto his expensive suit.

Hamad leaned in, voice cold. "Men like you… you think you can ruin lives and walk free?"

Oleg gasped, his body trembling.

Ibrahim sighed. "This is getting boring, Hamad."

Hamad nodded, picking up his gun.

"Enough of the games."

Oleg barely had time to beg before—

Bang.

The bullet tore through his kneecap. A gut-wrenching scream filled the air.

Hamad crouched beside him, wiping the blood from his gun with a white cloth. "The only reason you're still breathing is because I want you to feel every second of your death."

Crack. Another bullet. Another scream.

Blood pooled beneath the chair. Oleg sobbed, his life slipping through his fingers.

Hamad’s patience ran out.

He grabbed Oleg by the hair, yanked his head back, and slit his throat—slow.

Oleg gurgled, choking on his own blood.

And then… silence.

Hamad wiped the blade clean, tossing it aside. "Throw his body in the Moscow river. Let his master know… I’m coming."

Ibrahim smirked. "You really don’t leave survivors, do you?"

Hamad exhaled, lighting a cigarette. "Survivors talk."

And with that, he walked away—leaving behind only death.

After sometime

The air at the Moscow docks was thick with the stench of oil, salt, and something more sinister—fear.

Hamad arrived in his black bulletproof SUV, stepping out with the authority of a king surveying his empire. Dressed in a black coat over a crisp three-piece suit, his presence alone sent chills down spines.

Ibrahim walked beside him, phone in hand, as they approached the shipment area.

"I've already told Haroon," Ibrahim murmured. "He's tracking every movement on this human trafficking ring. But we still don’t have a name."

Hamad’s jaw clenched. "Then we’ll rip apart every operation until we do."

Rows of shipping containers lined the area, some already being unloaded. Workers froze as they noticed Hamad and Ibrahim approaching.

Hamad’s eyes scanned the manifest in Sharma’s hands. One shipment stood out.

"This wasn’t on the original list."

Sharma adjusted his glasses. "No, sir. It was added last minute. No sender details."

Ibrahim let out a humorless chuckle. "Looks like our rats are getting bold."

Hamad motioned to his men. "Open it."

The lock was cut, the doors creaked open, and what they saw inside made Hamad’s blood boil.

Girls.

Young, terrified, barely clothed. Shaking in fear, their wrists bruised from ropes.

One of them flinched, expecting another beating.

Ibrahim’s fists clenched. "Bastards."

Hamad stepped forward, his voice low, controlled—dangerous.

"Who did this to you?"

The girls hesitated. One, braver than the others, whispered in broken English, "They… they said… Malik… owns us."

A storm brewed in Hamad’s eyes. Someone was using his name.

Ibrahim exhaled sharply. "Now it’s personal."

"Kill every man involved." Hamad’s order was final. "No mercy."

His men spread out, gunshots echoing in the cold Moscow night.

Hamad turned to Sharma. "Send the girls to a safe house. Make sure they get medical help."

Then, he pulled out his phone, dialing Haroon.

"Find out who’s using my name in this filth." His voice was ice. "Because when I do—I'll make him beg for death."

As Hamad stepped away from the massacre at the docks, his phone buzzed. A private number.

His eyes narrowed. Few had the audacity to call him this way.

He answered, but there was no voice—only silence, then a whisper.

"You’re late, Malik."

Hamad’s grip on the phone tightened. "Who the hell are you?"

A chuckle, dark and mocking. "The man you should’ve killed first."

The call disconnected.

Hamad immediately turned to Ibrahim. "Trace that call. Now."

Ibrahim nodded, already dialing his contacts. "This isn’t over, Hamad. Someone’s playing us."

Hours later, Sharma rushed into Hamad’s office in Moscow, panic visible for the first time.

"Sir—one of our shipments is missing!"

Hamad’s gaze turned lethal. "Which one?"

Sharma swallowed. "The one headed to Dubai. It never arrived. The security feed was wiped clean. No traces."

Ibrahim cursed under his breath. "Someone’s two steps ahead of us."

Then, another call came—this time from Haroon.

"We found something."

Hamad’s blood ran cold at what Haroon said next.

"It’s not just your name they’re using, Hamad. Someone inside our own circle is feeding them information."

A traitor.

Someone close.

Later that day as Hamad reviewed the missing shipment files in his Moscow penthouse, his phone vibrated.

A blocked number.

He answered.

No voice at first. Only breathing. Then—a whisper.

"Did you like my gift, Malik?"

Hamad’s grip on the phone tightened. "Who the hell are you?"

A dark chuckle. "The man you should’ve killed first."

The call cut off.

A second later, a notification popped up on his phone. A live video feed.

Hamad tapped on it, and his blood ran ice-cold.

The screen showed a warehouse—one of his own facilities. Inside, tied to a chair, was one of his men, bleeding, trembling, barely conscious.

A masked figure stepped into the frame, holding a knife.

A gloved hand grabbed the captive’s chin, forcing him to look at the camera. The masked man spoke, his voice distorted:

“Your empire is rotting from the inside, Malik. And I’ll be the one to burn it down.”

The knife sliced through flesh, and the screen went dark.

Hamad slammed his phone down. His patience had just run out.

"Find him." His voice was deathly calm as he looked at Ibrahim. "And bring me his head."

On the other side

The dim glow of an antique chandelier cast flickering shadows over the luxurious office. Heavy velvet drapes muffled the roaring thunder outside, and the scent of expensive cigars hung in the air.

Behind a grand mahogany desk sat Emiliano Valdez.

A man of precision. A man of patience. And tonight, a man who had set a trap.

His fingers tapped the polished surface, his cold gaze fixed on the flickering screen in front of him— Hamad Malik’s face captured from security footage at the docks.

"He picked up the call."

A deep, accented voice broke the silence.

Beside him stood Rafael Cortez, his most trusted assistant—loyal, ruthless, and silent as death.

Emiliano smirked, exhaling a slow puff of smoke. "Of course, he did."

Rafael adjusted his cuffs, his expression unreadable. "But he didn’t ask the right questions."

Emiliano leaned back, amusement dancing in his dark eyes. "That’s what makes it interesting, no?"

He had left just enough breadcrumbs. Enough to intrigue. Enough to pull Hamad deeper.

The shipment at the docks? A distraction.

The real cargo had already sailed.

"Does he know about the girls?" Rafael asked.

Emiliano chuckled softly. "Not yet."

The shipment Hamad inspected had been a test—a set-up designed to measure his reach, his instincts.

The real human trafficking operation was happening elsewhere.

Somewhere Hamad had yet to look.

Emiliano took another drag from his cigar. "Let him think he’s getting closer."

He glanced at the screen—Hamad’s cold stare frozen in the footage.

"Because the moment he finds the truth… he will already be too late."

Emiliano Valdez leaned back in his chair, swirling a glass of whiskey in his hand, the golden liquid catching the dim light of his office. His sharp gaze flickered toward Rafael, his most trusted assistant, who stood beside him with an unreadable expression.

"So… Malik is poking around," Emiliano mused, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Tch. I thought he'd be smarter than to chase shadows."

Rafael remained silent, his hands clasped behind his back.

Emiliano chuckled, shaking his head. "The moment he finds the truth, he’ll finally see reality. These so-called kings of the underworld—nothing but over-glorified businessmen playing at being ruthless." He took a sip, letting the burn settle before continuing. "He might have a reputation, but in the end, he’s just another name. Just another man who thinks power makes him untouchable."

Rafael hesitated for a moment before speaking. "And what if he’s not just another man?"

Emiliano’s smirk widened. "Then I’ll enjoy crushing his little empire even more."

But what Emiliano didn’t realize was that Hamad Malik wasn’t just a name.

He wasn’t a businessman playing at being dangerous.

He was the danger.

He didn’t move in the shadows—he ruled them.

And by the time Emiliano Valdez understood that truth…

It would already be too late.

On the other side

The soft Azaan of Asar echoed through the grand halls of Khan Villa, gently pulling Sifna out of her slumber. The golden sunlight seeped through the sheer curtains, casting a warm glow over the lavishly decorated room. Blinking away the remnants of sleep, she stretched slightly, feeling the emptiness beside her.

Her gaze shifted to the bedside table, where a neatly folded note rested. She picked it up, already knowing who it was from.

"Beta, I am going to the office for urgent work. Take care and remember what I told you."

A small smile tugged at her lips. Inayah aapa—always protective, always making sure she was okay. Sifna pressed the note against her heart for a moment, feeling a deep sense of warmth.

She didn’t think much about where Inayah had gone; she knew her sister had important responsibilities. Instead, she pushed the blanket aside and got up, heading toward the bathroom to perform wudu.

Standing before the mirror, she caught a glimpse of herself—her eyes slightly swollen, traces of the earlier tears still lingering. No, not today.

Her fingers trembled as she recalled the weight of Inayah’s words earlier.

"You do not have to suffer oppression, even from parents."

Her heart clenched. Was it true? Could she really fight back? Could she truly stand against the people who had always made her feel unwanted, unloved?

Her gaze dropped to the faint bruise on her wrist—a silent reminder of the hands that had hurt her, of the words that had shattered her. Of Daniyal’s cruel grip. The way his touch made her skin crawl, the way his presence made her breath hitch in terror.

A tear slipped down her cheek, but she quickly wiped it away. She had cried enough. She had begged enough.

No more.

A deep inhale. A slow exhale.

She turned to look at herself in the mirror across the room. The girl staring back at her looked fragile—but maybe, just maybe, there was strength hidden beneath the softness.

"Ya Allah, ab mujhe himmat de." (O Allah, now give me strength.)

Her voice was barely above a whisper, but in that moment, something inside her shifted.

Maybe Inayah was right. Maybe love wasn’t something she had to chase.

Maybe… it was time for them to regret ever making her feel like she was unworthy of it.

With a newfound determination settling in her heart, Sifna turned away from the mirror and stepped toward the prayer mat. The soft fabric felt warm under her feet as she adjusted her dupatta, letting it drape over her head.

She raised her hands, whispering "Allahu Akbar," as she began her salah.

As she bowed, as her forehead touched the cool surface of the prayer mat in sujood, a wave of emotions surged through her. The weight of everything she had been carrying—the pain, the fear, the loneliness—felt like it was melting away, pouring out of her heart with every silent plea to Allah.

"Ya Allah, mujhe sabr de… (O Allah, grant me patience.) "Ya Allah, mujhe himmat de… (O Allah, grant me strength.) "Ya Allah, mujhe insaaf de… (O Allah, grant me justice.)

Tears slipped down her cheeks, but this time, they weren’t of helplessness. They were of release, of surrendering her pain to the One who never turned away from His believers.

As she completed her salah and raised her hands for dua, she felt lighter—as if the invisible chains around her heart had loosened.

She finally understood. She wasn’t alone. She was never alone.

"Allah never abandons His believers."

The words rang in her heart like a whispered promise.

And for the first time in a long time, Sifna didn’t feel afraid anymore.

Sifna took a deep breath, smoothing down her dress as she stepped out of her room. The air in Khan Villa was calm, the golden sunlight filtering through the vast windows, casting long shadows on the marble floor.

She placed her hand lightly on the railing, about to descend the stairs, when—

A figure stepped in front of her.

Her breath hitched.

Daniyal.

His cold, dark eyes bore into hers, a smirk playing at his lips as he blocked her way. The same suffocating presence, the same cruel glint in his gaze that had haunted her for so long.

She felt her fingers tighten around the railing, her heartbeat echoing in her ears.

"Not again… not again… Ya Allah, give me strength."

"Where are you going, Sifna?" His voice was smooth, laced with mockery. "Running away again?"

She clenched her jaw, Inayah’s words flashing through her mind.

"You do not have to suffer oppression, even from parents or anyone."

"If someone tries to violate your dignity, fight back."

She inhaled sharply, pushing down the fear that threatened to consume her. Not this time.

"I wasn’t aware I needed to answer you," she said, her voice steadier than she expected.

His smirk faltered for a second before he let out a dry chuckle. "Oh? Since when did you grow a spine, little girl?"

Something inside her snapped.

She took a step forward, her gaze meeting his without wavering. "Since I realized that fear only gives power to the wrong people."

Daniyal’s amusement flickered into irritation, his expression darkening. "Watch your mouth, Sifna. You know what happens when you—"

"Or what?" she cut him off, her voice sharper than ever. "You’ll lay a hand on me? Do it, Daniyal."

She saw his hand twitch—the same hand that had left bruises on her skin before.

But this time, she didn't flinch.

This time, she held her ground.

Daniyal’s nostrils flared as he stepped closer, but there was something new in his eyes—hesitation.

Because she wasn’t the same frightened girl anymore.

"Move," she ordered, her voice carrying a quiet strength. "You are nothing but a coward, Daniyal. And for the first time, I see you for what you really are."

His jaw tightened, his ego burning at her defiance.

But he said nothing.

For the first time… he was the one left speechless.

And Sifna walked past him, without fear.

Daniyal’s patience snapped. His hand shot out, gripping her wrist in a bruising hold. Before she could react, he slammed her back against the cold wall, his face inches from hers.

"You think you can talk to me like that?" he hissed, his fingers digging into her skin.

Sifna gasped as the impact knocked the air out of her lungs, her head spinning slightly. The old fear tried to creep back in. The same helplessness, the same suffocating terror.

But then—

"If someone tries to violate your dignity, fight back."

The Prophet ﷺ had said it. Inayah had told her. Allah had given her the strength.

Something inside her snapped like a tightened chain breaking free.

Her eyes, once filled with silent suffering, turned bloodshot with rage.

Without thinking, she lashed out.

Her fists slammed against his chest, her nails scratched his arms, her knees kicked forward— anywhere, everywhere, to make him feel the pain she had endured.

"Let me go!" she screamed, her voice shaking the very walls of Khan Villa.

Daniyal cursed, trying to restrain her, but she fought like a storm unleashed. Like a lioness defending herself.

"You disgusting coward!" she spat, punching his jaw with all her might. His head snapped to the side. Shock flashed in his eyes.

He had never expected this.

He had expected a fragile, trembling girl.

Not this.

Sifna didn’t stop. She shoved him back with all her strength, causing him to stumble.

Her chest heaved, her hands trembled, but her stance remained firm.

"You will never touch me again," she spat, her voice shaking with both fear and power. "Not now. Not ever."

Daniyal smirked, still clinging to his arrogance. His fingers tightened around her wrist as he leaned in, his voice low and mocking.

"You think you can fight me, Sifna?" he sneered. "You were always weak."

But before he could say another word—

SMACK!

The sound of the slap echoed through the halls like a gunshot.

Daniyal’s head snapped to the side, his cheek burning red from the force of her strike.

Sifna’s own hand stung, but she didn’t care.

For the first time in her life, she had fought back.

His eyes widened in shock. He had never imagined—never once thought—that Sifna would dare raise a hand against him.

"You…" He gritted his teeth, rage darkening his face.

But Sifna stood her ground.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her hands still trembling, but her eyes burned with fury.

Daniyal raised his hand, anger boiling inside him—

But this time, Sifna didn’t cower.

This time, she glared straight into his eyes, unflinching.

"You lay a single finger on me," she said, her voice firm, unwavering, "and I swear by Allah, I will make sure you regret it for the rest of your miserable life."

There was no pleading in her voice anymore.

No fear.

Only a promise of destruction.

For the first time…

Daniyal was the one who took a step back.

As Sifna stormed away, her breath still ragged, her hands trembling from the intensity of what had just happened, Daniyal remained standing there, his jaw clenched, his cheek still burning from her slap.

His fingers curled into tight fists, nails digging into his palms as a slow, sinister smirk stretched across his face.

"You will regret slapping me, Sifna," he murmured under his breath, his voice laced with quiet, seething rage.

His eyes darkened, filled with something far more dangerous than just anger—a thirst for vengeance.

"This isn't over," he whispered, watching the spot where she had disappeared. "Not even close."

As the silence of Khan Villa settled around him, Daniyal pulled out his phone, his fingers hovering over the screen for a moment before he finally dialed a number.

The line rang once. Twice.

Then, a deep, menacing voice answered.

"It’s time to teach her a lesson," Daniyal said, his smirk widening. "And I want her to suffer."

Daniyal let out a low, mocking chuckle as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. His tongue ran over the inside of his cheek, still stinging from the slap.

"You think you’ve won, Sifna?" he muttered, a twisted grin forming on his lips. "You have no idea what you’ve just done."

His mind raced with plans—ways to break her, to make her beg for mercy, to remind her that she was nothing but a powerless girl.

"I will ruin you," he whispered to himself, his voice laced with cruel amusement. "I will destroy you so completely that you will regret ever raising your hand against me."

But what Daniyal didn’t know—what he could never have imagined—was that he had just sealed his own fate.

Because far away, in the towering glass walls of her office, Inayah Khan sat in her chair, her fingers drumming against the polished desk. Her phone rested beside her, the last call she had made still lingering in her mind.

Her expression was unreadable—calm, calculating. Deadly.

She had promised Sifna that she would protect her.

And Inayah Khan never broke her promises.

"You think you can destroy my sister, Daniyal?" she mused, a dangerous smirk tugging at her lips. "You have no idea who you're up against."

The game had begun.

And Daniyal Ansari was about to lose everything.

The Fall of Daniyal Khan

Daniyal leaned back against the cold marble wall, a smug smirk tugging at his lips. His jaw still throbbed from the impact of Sifna’s slap, but instead of anger, amusement danced in his dark eyes.

"She’ll come crawling back," he muttered, arrogance dripping from every word. She was nothing without her fear. The fire in her eyes, the way she had fought back—it was temporary. She would break again. They always did.

But Daniyal had no idea that his world was already collapsing around him.

---

Meanwhile, in the dimly lit office of Inayah Khan, silence reigned like a lurking storm.

She sat behind her grand mahogany desk, her manicured fingers tapping against her phone, her voice a quiet command. Deadly. Unforgiving.

"Do my work. Fast."

The deep voice on the other end let out a small, knowing chuckle. "You sound impatient, Inayah. What’s the rush?"

Her grip on the phone tightened, her nails pressing into her palm. "I don’t have time for games. Bankrupt him. Make him fall to his knees."

There was a brief pause before the voice asked, "You do realize he’s your own cousin, don’t you?"

Inayah’s jaw clenched. Her eyes flickered to the small photo frame on her desk—Sifna, smiling, untouched by the cruelty of this world.

She exhaled slowly. Cold. Calculated.

"Nobody is more important than her."

Her voice carried no hesitation, no guilt. Only a promise.

"Make him regret every single tear he caused her."

The voice on the other end hummed in amusement. "Alright. Within a minute… your work will be done."

And then—silence.

---

Daniyal was about to take another sip of water when—

RING!

His phone buzzed violently on the table.

Irritated, he picked it up. "What?"

His manager’s panicked voice came through, frantic and breathless. "Sir, we have a problem—"

"What problem?" Daniyal snapped.

"The company’s accounts… they’re wiped out!"

His smirk faded.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"It’s all gone, sir! The stocks are crashing! We’re—"

Bankrupt.

The word sent a chill through his spine.

Before he could even process the horror of it, another call came in. Then another. Each one bringing worse news than the last.

His empire—his legacy—was turning to dust.

Daniyal’s breath came out in sharp, uneven bursts. His hands trembled as he opened his banking app.

Frozen.

Every single account.

His stock market notifications flooded in.

Crash. Crash. Crash.

"What do you mean the accounts are frozen?" he roared into the phone.

His manager’s voice was barely coherent. "Sir… every single asset under your name has been seized! The investors are pulling out! The company’s stocks have collapsed! We… we don’t know who’s behind this!"

Daniyal’s grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white.

Who did this?

Who had the power, the intelligence, the ruthlessness to destroy him within minutes?

This wasn’t an accident.

This was personal.

---

His mother’s teacup clattered onto the tray as he stormed into the grand living room of Khan Villa, his breaths ragged, his face pale.

"Ammi…" His voice cracked. His chest heaved. Fear. Desperation.

"Mera sab kuch chala gaya…" (Everything is gone…)

She frowned, setting her tea down. "Kya keh raha hai tu?" (What are you saying?)

Daniyal collapsed onto the couch, his fingers digging into his hair, his mind spiraling.

"Sab kuch barbaad ho gaya, Ammi!" (Everything is ruined, Ammi!)

"Meri company—bankrupt ho gayi! Mera saara paisa chala gaya! Accounts freeze ho gaye! Contracts terminate ho rahe hain! Investors bhaag rahe hain!" (My company is bankrupt! All my money is gone! My accounts are frozen! Contracts are being terminated! Investors are running away!)

His mother’s face paled.

"Kya? Yeh kaise ho sakta hai?" (What? How is this possible?)

"Bas ek pal mein sab khatam ho gaya!" (Everything ended in just a moment!) Daniyal’s voice cracked as he stared at her, his eyes hollow.

"Mujhe samajh nahi aa raha yeh sab kisne kiya! Kisne kiya yeh sab?!" (I don’t understand who did this! Who did this?!)

His voice echoed through the massive villa, filled with rage, disbelief, and something unfamiliar—helplessness.

His mother tried to process his words, but even she was at a loss. Who could have destroyed him so ruthlessly?

No warning. No threats. No rivals making a move.

It was as if someone had pressed a button and erased him.

A strange chill ran down Daniyal’s spine.

This wasn’t just an attack.

This was a message.

But from whom? And why?

Sifna walked toward the kitchen, her steps light, her heart still pounding from the confrontation with Daniyal. The sting of her slap still burned on her palm, but more than that, the fire in her chest hadn’t dimmed. For the first time, she had fought back. For the first time, she hadn’t cowered.

But just as she reached the hallway, she heard it.

Daniyal’s frantic voice echoed through the grand living room, raw with confusion, drenched in disbelief.

"Mujhe samajh nahi aa raha yeh sab kisne kiya! Kisne kiya yeh sab?!" (I don’t understand who did this! Who did this?!)

She stopped. Her breath caught in her throat.

And then—realization dawned.

She didn’t need to guess.

She knew.

Inayah.

A quiet chill ran through her veins, not of fear—but of something else. Something she had never felt before. Not guilt. Not sadness.

Pride.

A small, satisfied smile tugged at her lips as she remained in the shadows, unseen. Her gaze flickered to Daniyal, who sat on the couch, his hands gripping his hair, his entire empire crumbling beneath him.

For years, he had tormented her. He had humiliated her. He had made her feel small, insignificant, as if she was nothing but a pawn in a world ruled by men like him.

But today?

Today, he was the one suffering.

And she? She didn’t feel a single ounce of remorse.

She tilted her head slightly, watching him drown in his downfall. It should have made her feel something—perhaps pity, perhaps regret. But her heart remained still.

Allah ki adalat mein der ho sakti hai, andher nahi. (In Allah’s justice, there may be delay, but never darkness.)

Sifna’s fingers curled at her sides, a quiet strength settling in her bones.

For years, she had suffered, cried, broken. She had begged for mercy from those who never knew its meaning.

But today?

She would beg no more.

Justice had found its way.

As the realization settled in her heart, Sifna didn't waste a second. She turned on her heel, moving swiftly down the hallway, her heartbeat steady yet resolute. Her fingers trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the weight of everything that had just unfolded.

Reaching her room, she closed the door behind her and took a deep breath before dialing the one person she needed to speak to.

The call barely rang twice before Inayah answered.

"Sifna?"

Her sister’s voice was calm, steady—just like always.

Sifna clutched the phone tighter. "Di... daniyal bhai is in miserable condition he was crying in living room."

There was a beat of silence. Then, a soft exhale.

"Tell me everything."

And Sifna did. Every word, every reaction, every broken piece of Daniyal that had scattered before her eyes. She spoke of his desperation, the way he collapsed onto the couch, the raw disbelief in his voice as he begged to know who had done this to him.

When she finished, a quiet chuckle reached her ears.

"Good."

No hesitation. No regret.

Just a single word. A declaration.

A strange sense of peace settled over Sifna. For the first time in her life, she wasn’t the one left crying. She wasn’t the one left pleading.

Today, she stood with her sister—the woman who had always shielded her, always fought for her, always reminded her of her worth.

"He thought he was untouchable," Inayah murmured. "But no one is greater than the justice of Allah."

Sifna closed her eyes, her heart steady. "JazakAllah, di."

"You never have to thank me, Sifna," Inayah said, her voice softer now. "You are my precious girl. No one will ever hurt you again."

And this time, Sifna believed her.

---

Inayah ended the call, exhaling slowly as she leaned back in her chair, her fingers tapping lightly against the polished wooden desk.

The glow of the large TV screen in front of her illuminated the dim room, the headlines flashing in bold letters—

"Daniyal Khan’s Empire Collapses suddenly—A Sudden and Mysterious Downfall!"

A slow smirk played on her lips as she watched reporters scramble for answers, analysts debating how a man so powerful had fallen in mere hours.

"This is what happens when you touch what’s mine," she muttered under her breath, her smirk widening.

For years, Sifna had suffered. For years, she had been broken, silenced, humiliated.

But not anymore.

Today, justice had been served.

And Inayah was far from done.

Her fingers swiftly danced across her phone screen as she typed a message to the one person who had made this possible.

"I didn’t expect you to do it in just two minutes. That was… impressive. Thank you."

A single checkmark appeared, then two. Read.

No response, but she hadn’t expected one.

Leaning back, she let out a quiet chuckle, stretching her arms before standing up.

"Let’s go home, shall we? I want to see his reaction with my own eyes."

She reached for her handbag before pausing, a thoughtful glint in her eyes.

"And why not make it sweeter?"

A sly smile curved her lips as she grabbed her car keys.

"Some sweets for my girl… and me."

As Inayah stepped into the house, the atmosphere was thick with tension. The air felt heavy, charged with unspoken words and lingering emotions. Her eyes immediately landed on Daniyal, slumped on the couch, his head buried in his hands. He looked utterly defeated, his once-arrogant posture now reduced to nothing but exhaustion and despair.

Before she could take another step, her khala rushed toward her, her voice laced with urgency.

"Inayah! You see what happened to your brother? Do something! You have so many connections, so much power—fix this!"

Inayah barely spared her a glance as she shrugged off her shawl. "Maybe it's his own deeds that got him here." Her voice was cold, devoid of sympathy.

A sharp silence fell over the room.

Her father, who had been watching the exchange, suddenly snapped. His glare was cutting as he sharply shot back, "How dare you talk like that? You will not speak this way in my house!"

Inayah turned to him, unbothered, her expression calm yet unyielding. Then, in a voice colder than ice, she stated, "Don't you dare shout at me. I'm not Sifna that you can yell at and break.

Her words hung in the air like a final judgment.

For the first time, the room was silent—not because there was nothing to say, but because no one dared to challenge her.

Before anyone could respond, Alia scoffed, crossing her arms as she sneered, "You’ve really changed, haven’t you, Inayah? Just because you have power now, you think you can talk like this? Family doesn’t abandon each other."

Inayah’s jaw tightened, her fingers clenching at her sides. A slow, bitter laugh escaped her lips. "Family?" she repeated, tilting her head slightly. Her gaze darkened as she stepped closer, her presence suddenly suffocating. "You talk about family, Alia, but where was this so-called family when Sifna cried herself to sleep every night? When she was humiliated, broken, and treated like nothing? Where were you then?"

Alia faltered, shifting uncomfortably, but Inayah didn’t wait for an answer. She had no patience for hypocrisy.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked away, her footsteps echoing through the tense silence. She didn’t care about their glares, their murmured protests, or their wounded pride.

She had wasted enough time on people who never cared when it mattered.

Reaching her room, she slammed the door shut behind her, her chest rising and falling as she took a deep breath.

Enough was enough.

As soon as Inayah entered her room, she found Sifna sitting on the bed, her eyes still reflecting the storm she had endured. Without a second thought, Inayah pulled her into a tight hug, holding her close as if shielding her from the world itself.

Sifna clutched onto her sister, taking a shaky breath before whispering, "di… he held my wrist today and pinned me to the wall. But I—I fought back."

Pride flickered in Inayah’s chest, but she remained silent, letting Sifna speak.

"I slapped him," Sifna continued, her voice steady despite the weight of her words. "I told him I’m not scared anymore. That he has no power over me."

A slow smile tugged at Inayah’s lips, a mix of pride and sorrow settling within her. She gently cupped Sifna’s face, brushing a thumb over her cheek. "That’s my brave girl."

But this wasn’t over.

Inayah took a deep breath, her expression hardening. "Sifna, put on your ear pods. Play something loud, and don’t come out of this room until I say so."

Sifna hesitated. "Dida—"

"No arguments," Inayah cut her off, her voice firm but gentle. "Trust me."

Reluctantly, Sifna nodded and reached for her ear pods.

Satisfied, Inayah stood up, walked to her closet, and pulled out a new outfit. She changed swiftly, her movements calculated, precise—like a warrior preparing for battle.

Then, without another glance, she turned and stepped out of the room, her footsteps steady as she made her way downstairs. It was time to settle things

The room was still. Too still. As if the very walls held their breath.

Inayah descended the stairs with an air of quiet fury, her every step measured, deliberate. Her gaze was locked onto Daniyal, who sat on the couch, his face buried in his hands. The moment she reached him, she didn’t hesitate The heavy silence in the grand hall of the Malik mansion was shattered by the sharp, resounding slap.

SLAP!

Daniyal’s head snapped to the side, his cheek burning red from the force of the impact. The arrogance drained from his face as he stared at Inayah in disbelief. The room was frozen, breaths held, eyes wide.

Before he could recover, Inayah’s voice lashed through the air like a blade.

"How dare you?" Her words dripped with cold fury, her entire body vibrating with rage. "How dare you lay a hand—no, how dare you even try to touch Sifna?"

Gasps rippled through the gathered relatives. Elders, cousins, uncles—no one had ever dared to raise their voice against Daniyal before. Let alone strike him.

Before he could even process it, a second slap landed—harder, sharper.

"This is for every girl you’ve ever thought you had a right over."

Daniyal stumbled back, his breathing uneven.

"Inayah!" Alia rushed forward, voice shrill with outrage. "Have you lost your mind? Sifna must have provoked him—girls these days have no shame, no respect!"

Asiya, standing beside her, nodded in furious agreement. "She must have done something to tempt him! No man acts this way without reason!"

Hania, Inayah’s own mother, added in a low, disappointed tone, "Inayah, you are embarrassing the family."

Asiya, agajn scoffed, "This is why women should know their place. Sifna must have crossed her limits."

Inayah’s blood boiled at the audacity of their words.

She turned sharply, her eyes burning with barely restrained rage.

"Enough."

Her voice was low, dangerous, commanding absolute silence.

She took a step forward, locking eyes with each of them. "Don’t you dare blame her. Don’t you dare tell me she 'asked for it.' If a man thinks he has the right to force himself on a woman, if he sees her as nothing more than something to take—then he is not a man. He is filth."

"Inayah," Haniya chided, her tone filled with forced patience, "a man does not act this way without reason. Sifna must have done something—"

"What could she have done, mom?" Inayah’s voice dropped to a deadly whisper. "Breathe? Exist? Refuse to bow to him?"

Haniya flinched, but she wasn’t done.

"Fear Allah, all of you. How can you stand here and justify oppression?

"Tell them, Daniyal," she demanded, voice unwavering. "Tell them what you did. Tell them how you grabbed Sifna, how you ignored her pleas, how you thought her fear was amusing."

Daniyal’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

"Tell them!" she roared, her voice echoing off the marble walls.

The weight of her fury pressed down on him, suffocating, undeniable. And for the first time, Daniyal realized—he was alone.

No one spoke for him.

Not his mother.

Not his khala.

Not his sister

Not even his father.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then, a deep, authoritative voice cut through the air.

"Did you try to force yourself on her?"

The room tensed as Daniyal’s father stepped forward. He had remained silent, watching, listening. But now, his patience had snapped.

Daniyal swallowed hard, his bravado crumbling. "Abu, I—"

SMACK!

The slap rang through the hall, sending Daniyal stumbling. Gasps erupted, but no one dared to interfere.

His father’s gaze burned with disgust. "I raised a coward." His voice trembled with barely restrained fury. "A man who preys on the weak. I have never been more ashamed."

Daniyal’s lips parted, but no words came out.

"You disgrace my name, this family," his father continued, his voice sharp as a blade. "And more than that—you disgrace Islam. The Prophet صلى الله عليه وسلم said:

'Beware of oppression, for oppression will be darkness on the Day of Judgment.' (Muslim 2578)

How will you answer Allah when He asks you about this? What excuse will you give?"

A heavy silence followed.

Then, his sharp, unyielding gaze returned to Daniyal. "Get out."

Daniyal paled. "Abu, please—"

"I SAID GET OUT!"

The finality of the words echoed through the grand hall.

Daniyal, breathing heavily, scanned the room desperately. But no one—not even his mother—spoke for him.

Inayah crossed her arms, her cold, victorious gaze locking onto him. "This is what happens when you harm what Allah has protected."

Humiliated, Daniyal clenched his jaw and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

But Inayah wasn’t done.

Not yet.

She turned to the stunned gathering, her voice steady, clear, and unwavering. "Let this be a lesson for all of you. If anyone dares to harm my sister again, I swear by the One who created me, I will not stay silent."

As soon as Daniyal was thrown to the ground, his arrogance shattered. His breath was ragged, his eyes filled with desperation as he crawled toward Inayah, his hands trembling.

"Inayah, please—listen to me! I made a mistake! I was blinded, I— I swear it won’t happen again! Just forgive me!"

His voice was pathetic, a stark contrast to the ruthless man he had once pretended to be.

Inayah tilted her head, watching him with cold, unreadable eyes. Then, without a word, she turned and walked away.

For a moment, Daniyal thought she had spared him. Relief flickered in his eyes. But then—she returned.

With a belt.

His face paled. "I-Inayah—?"

CRACK!

The first strike landed across his back, making him jolt forward with a strangled cry.

"This," Inayah’s voice was sharp, laced with fury, "is for laying your filthy hands on her!"

CRACK!

Another strike. He flinched, his hands flying up in defense.

"This is for breaking her!"

CRACK!

"This is for every tear she shed because of you!"

Her blows were precise, fueled by a rage so cold it was terrifying. She wasn’t screaming. She wasn’t hysterical. She was eerily calm—calculating, controlled, punishing.

Daniyal whimpered, his body curling in on itself. "P-please, Inayah! No more!"

She crouched down, gripping his hair, forcing him to look into her merciless eyes.

"If you ever come near her again," she whispered, her voice lethal, "I will make sure you have a brutal, agonizing death. And trust me, Daniyal—" she leaned in closer, her smirk dark, "I never leave things unfinished."

His entire body trembled, fear finally sinking into his bones.

With one final shove, she let him collapse onto the cold floor, broken and disgraced.

Then, she tossed the belt aside, adjusted her coat, and turned away.

Without a second glance, she walked upstairs—back to her Sifna.

Because this war?

It was already won.

Inayah took a deep breath, her anger still simmering beneath her cold exterior. But she wasn’t going to let this end with just words. No—Daniyal needed to feel, to understand, to suffer.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and strode upstairs.

The moment she entered the room, she saw Sifna sitting on the edge of the bed, her fingers twisting together, her face still holding traces of unease. But she was safe. That was all that mattered.

Inayah walked over and took her hands gently, looking into her eyes.

"Come with me."

Sifna frowned. "Where?"

Inayah didn’t answer, only giving her hand a reassuring squeeze before leading her downstairs.

The room was deathly silent when they entered. Daniyal was still on the floor, his head bowed, his hands trembling. His own father had disowned him, and now, the weight of his sins was beginning to settle.

Sifna hesitated at the threshold, her heart pounding. She had never stood in front of her so-called ‘family’ like this. Never had she been pulled to the center, never had she been given the chance to fight back.

But then, Inayah did something unexpected.

She reached for a belt from the table and pressed it into Sifna’s hands.

Sifna’s eyes widened in shock. "Inayah di...?"

Her sister’s voice was unwavering. "Take it."

Sifna swallowed hard, staring down at the belt. Her hands trembled, her breath uneven.

"I-I can’t," she whispered. "I’m not like him."

Inayah knelt beside her, her voice gentle but firm. "No, you’re not. But you need to stop feeling sorry for people who never felt sorry for you." She looked deep into Sifna’s eyes. "He touched you, hurt you, broke you. And yet, you still hesitate? Why, Sifna? Because you think he deserves mercy?"

Sifna’s fingers curled around the leather. A lump formed in her throat.

"Because I don’t want to be like them," she admitted, voice shaky.

Inayah sighed. "You won’t be. You know why? Because you’re not hurting an innocent person. You’re not destroying someone’s life the way they destroyed yours. You are standing up. And if you don’t do it today, Sifna, you never will."

Silence.

Then, Inayah did something no one expected.

She picked up the Qur’an from the shelf and placed it in Sifna’s hands.

Sifna’s breath hitched. "Inayah…?"

Her sister’s gaze was unwavering. "Read."

Sifna hesitated, then opened the pages. Her teary eyes landed on a verse.

"Indeed, Allah defends those who have believed. Indeed, Allah does not like everyone who is treacherous and ungrateful." (Surah Al-Hajj 22:38)

Her hands trembled. The words sank into her heart like a soothing balm, like a shield against all the pain she had endured.

Inayah’s voice was soft but firm. "You are not weak, Sifna. Allah has always been with you. Even in the darkest nights, even when you felt alone, He was watching. And today, He gave you justice."

Sifna’s fingers tightened around the Qur’an. Tears spilled down her cheeks—not of sorrow, but of relief.

She whispered, "Hasbunallahu wa ni’mal wakeel." (Allah is sufficient for us, and He is the best disposer of affairs.)

Inayah continued, her voice sharp with conviction, " Islam tells us to fight against oppression. It tells us that justice is not optional. No is no, and when someone refuses to listen, when they take what was never theirs, when they dare to break what Allah made sacred—" her gaze darkened, "—they don’t deserve your mercy."

Sifna’s grip tightened. Shame flooded her chest. Why was she still afraid?

Then, as if something clicked, her hesitation melted away.

Sifna’s grip tightened again

No mercy.

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. She turned her gaze onto Daniyal, the man who had once towered over her, who had once smirked while she trembled. Now, he was on his knees, face pale, his breaths uneven.

He was afraid.

For the first time, he was afraid.

A storm surged inside her—a wildfire, burning away every ounce of weakness, every doubt, every moment she had let him believe she was powerless.

And she raised her hand.

CRACK!

The first lash struck across his arm.

Daniyal

A sharp gasp filled the room—whether it was from him or the watching family, Sifna didn’t care.

She raised her hand again.

"This—" another hit, sharper this time "is for making me feel worthless!"

Her breathing grew heavier.

"This—" another hit, this time across his back "is for touching me without my permission!"

Tears burned in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall.

"This is for making me afraid!" "This is for making me think I was nothing!" "This is for every time you made me question my worth!" "This is for thinking you could own me!"

Her hand didn’t stop. Again. And again. Until her arms ached, until her breath came out in ragged sobs.

Daniyal whimpered on the floor, his face hidden, his shoulders shaking.

The grand hall of the khan villa trembled with the weight of what had just happened. Daniyal lay sprawled on the marble floor, his once-proud face swollen, his breath uneven. His arrogance was gone. His voice—always filled with entitlement—was now laced with pain, disbelief.

Because the girl he had tried to destroy… had destroyed him instead.

Sifna stood over him, her small frame heaving with ragged breaths. The belt in her hand trembled, stained with the marks of her justice. Her revenge.

The elders—Haniya, Asiya, Alia, Sifna’s father —sat frozen, their faces pale. This was not the Sifna they had expected.

But this was the Sifna they had created.

Her gaze flickered to them—each of them—her voice shaking, but not from fear. From the weight of truth.

"How many times?" Her voice was eerily soft. "How many times have you defended men like him?"

Silence.

"How many times have you silenced women like me?"

Haniya’s ’s lips parted, but no words came out.

Sifna let the belt fall to the ground with a sharp thud. "You say women should know their place. Tell me, what is our place? Beneath the feet of men who think they own us? Beneath your approval, your conditions?"

Asiya, Daniyal’s mother, flinched. "Sifna, bas (enough)—"

"No!" Sifna’s voice cracked through the room, stopping her cold. "You don’t get to tell me what’s enough."

Her hands curled into fists. "Was it enough when he tried to touch me? Was it enough when you blamed me instead of him? Was it enough when you made excuses for men like him, over and over again?"

A stunned hush. No one had ever spoken like this before.

No one had ever dared.

Sifna inhaled sharply, her voice lowering into something that sent shivers down their spines.

"Allah is Al-Adl." Her eyes glowed with certainty. "The Most Just. Do you think He does not see?"

Her gaze met Asiya’s. "Do you think He does not hear the cries of the oppressed?"

Alia shifted uncomfortably. "We are only saying—"

"You are saying," Sifna cut in coldly, "that men like Daniyal are innocent, and girls like me are guilty. That a man’s sin is always a woman’s fault."

Her voice trembled, but her stance remained unshaken.

"You fear shame before people," she whispered. "But do you fear Allah?"

A stunned silence.

Then sifna murmured a verse:

“And never think that Allah is unaware of what the wrongdoers do.” (Surah Ibrahim 14:42)

Tears burned Sifna’s eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. Not here. Not before them.

She turned to Daniyal, who groaned, his breath shaky. His lips moved—maybe to plead, maybe to curse—but Sifna didn’t care.

She crouched beside him, her voice quiet. But deadly.

"If you ever look at me again, Daniyal," her whisper sliced through the heavy air, "I will not stop next time."

His pupils shrank in terror.

Sifna didn’t wait for a response.

She turned, her shoulders square, her heart pounding—but her spirit, unbroken.

And as she turned, a verse echoed in her heart—a promise.

"Indeed, the supplication of the oppressed is answered, even if it takes time." (Musnad Ahmad 12140)

Justice had been served.

And Allah had seen it all.

(AUTHOR’S NOTE: This scene isn’t just about revenge—it’s about justice. About the strength of women. About the truth that should never be silenced. No matter who the oppressor is—family, friend, or stranger—no one has the right to take what isn’t theirs. Islam stands with women. Allah stands with women.And no man, no matter how powerful, can change that.)

She turned to Inayah, her vision blurred.

Inayah didn’t say anything. Just smiled softly and pulled Sifna into a tight embrace.

"I’m proud of you," she whispered against her head.

Inayah took a deep breath, shaking off the last traces of fury as she turned to face her so-called family. Her sharp gaze swept over each of them—her Khala, Alia, her mom who stood frozen in shock, her Khalu, who looked utterly speechless, and the rest of them, whispering, judging, refusing to accept the truth.

Her voice was dangerously calm when she spoke.

“Listen to me— all of you.”

The room fell into an eerie silence. Even the air felt heavier.

She took a slow step forward, her heels clicking against the marble floor.

“If I ever—" she paused, her eyes locking onto each one of them, "ever— hear a single word against Sifna, if I see even a trace of disrespect toward her, I swear on everything you hold dear—”

Her voice dropped lower, turning cold.

“I will make you all see living hell.”

Haniya and asiya flinched. Someone audibly gasped.

But Inayah wasn’t done.

She let out a bitter chuckle. “You people think you’re powerful? That you can torment someone just because she’s quiet? Just because she never fought back?” Her eyes darkened. "You think your son is the victim here? Let me make one thing very, very clear—"

She took another step, her presence suffocating, her aura heavy.

"Sifna is under my protection now. And if any of you—" she pointed a manicured finger at them, "dare to breathe wrong in her direction, I will destroy you, one by one, and trust me—" her lips curled into a smirk, "I’ll enjoy every second of it.”

Alia opened her mouth, probably to protest, but one sharp glare from Inayah shut her up instantly.

Satisfied, Inayah adjusted the sleeves of her coat, dusting off an invisible speck.

Her voice was sharp. Cold. Final.

"Anyone who dares to hurt her now—will pay in hell."

She turned to Daniyal, broken and trembling.

"Never come in my sight again."

And with that, she walked away.

This time, the silence wasn’t suffocating.

It was liberating.

A lesson had been learned.

No means no. And when a woman says stop, she means it. Islam doesn’t tell us to suffer. It tells us to fight back.

As soon as they stepped into the room, Sifna's legs gave out, and she collapsed onto the plush carpet. Her chest heaved with ragged breaths, her body trembling violently. The adrenaline that had kept her standing in the hall was gone, leaving only raw pain behind.

Inayah was beside her in an instant, pulling her into a tight embrace.

And then—Sifna broke.

A heart-wrenching sob tore from her throat, her small frame shaking as she clutched onto Inayah like a lifeline. Her tears soaked into Inayah’s dupatta, but Inayah didn’t care. She only held her closer, rocking her gently.

"You did it, bacha," Inayah whispered, kissing the top of Sifna's head. "You did it."

Sifna's fingers dug into Inayah’s arms, her voice barely audible between her cries. "I-I was so scared, Inayah di... I c-couldn’t breathe… I thought—"

"Shh, shh," Inayah soothed, rubbing her back in slow, comforting circles. "But you still did it. You stood up for yourself, bacha. Just like you should."

Sifna let out another broken sob, shaking her head against Inayah’s shoulder. "I don’t feel strong… I feel—"

"You are strong," Inayah cut in firmly, cupping Sifna’s tear-streaked face in her hands. "You are my sister, and you are strong. You fought back. And you will keep fighting. Because no one—no one—will ever break you again. Do you hear me?"

Sifna hiccupped, her lips trembling.

Inayah wiped her tears away, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "You are my strong girl, Sifna. My warrior. Make your sister proud."

For the first time, Sifna looked up at her—her eyes still glistening with tears, but something deeper flickering beneath them. Something stronger.

She sniffled, her voice small but certain. "I will."

Inayah smiled through her own unshed tears and pulled Sifna into another embrace.

And as the evening wrapped around them, Sifna—though broken, though still healing—made a silent promise to herself.

Never again.

Hope you enjoyed it!

1. How do you think this moment will shape Sifna’s character moving forward?

2. What role does Inayah play in Sifna’s emotional growth, and how does their sisterly bond impact the story?

3. Do you believe this experience will make Sifna stronger, or will it leave lasting scars that she will struggle with?

4. How did you feel when Sifna broke down in Inayah’s arms? Did it make you empathize with her more?

5. What do you think Sifna’s silent promise of “Never again” truly means? How might it influence her actions in the future?