The day of the Nikkah had finally arrived. I sat in the parlor chair, staring at my reflection as the stylist carefully adjusted my dupatta. The deep red fabric framed my face perfectly, and for the first time, I truly took in how I looked—beautiful. A bride.

But, of course, life had a way of balancing every win with a loss.

In just a few hours, I'd be on a flight back to London, my Nikkah night spent at 35,000 feet in the air. Romantic? Not quite. But a relief? Absolutely. No nosy aunties, no teasing cousins—just me, Zavian, and the hum of the plane engines.

I sighed, shaking my head with a small smile. Win some, lose some.

Aliha waltzed in, looking every bit the dulhan ki behan with her perfectly curled hair and shimmering outfit. She beamed at me, her eyes twinkling with excitement as she took my hands.

"Miss gorgeous. You look breathtaking," she murmured, giving my fingers a gentle squeeze.

I smiled, a mix of nerves and anticipation bubbling inside me. Before I could respond, Haroon appeared in the doorway, hands in his pockets, his lips curled in amusement.

"Ready, bride? Or do you need a minute to admire yourself some more?" he teased.

Aliha shot him a glare. "Let her have her moment, Haroon. It's not every day you get Nikkahfied and sent off on a plane."

I huffed a laugh, standing up carefully as the layers of my dress shifted around me. "Trust me, I haven't even processed it yet."

Before I could overthink any further, Ali grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the door. "Come on, the car's waiting. And so is your groom."

My heart gave a traitorous skip at that. Zavian.

I took a deep breath and followed them outside, the night air cool against my skin as I stepped into a new chapter of my life.

_

I was led straight to the bridal room, where Mihra, Nimra, and Sameeha were already waiting, their faces lit with mischievous grins.

"Your groom is quite moody tonight," Mihra teased, arms crossed as she leaned against the vanity.

I arched a brow. "Oh? And how exactly is that?"

Nimra smirked, adjusting the bangles on my wrist. "Well... let's just say he's been restless. Asked almost everyone where you were, whether you were okay, and why he couldn't see you yet."

Sameeha chuckled, shaking her head. "Too possessive, if you ask me."

I bit back a smile, warmth creeping up my cheeks. Possessive, huh? I had no doubt.

Soon enough, the small bridal room was packed with my family—my father and mother seated beside me, my cousins huddled close, my Taya and Tayi, and nearly every relative who had a say in this moment. The air buzzed with murmurs and hushed excitement, the scent of fresh flowers and ittar thick in the air.

The Qazi Sahib sat before me, adjusting his glasses as he prepared the paperwork. My heartbeat drummed in my ears. This was it.

Meanwhile, Aisha, Yuki, Isabella, and Sophia were all present—albeit virtually. Their faces lit up on the phone screen, which Mihra held carefully, making sure they didn't miss a single moment.

"You look breathtaking, Iman," Aisha whispered, her expression full of warmth.

"Mashallah, I can't believe this is happening," Yuki added, eyes shining with excitement.

Sophia grinned. "Finally, huh?"

I let out a nervous laugh, my fingers curling around the edge of my dupatta. Arham stood a few feet away, rocking little Siara in his arms, the toddler babbling in soft hums. The atmosphere was overwhelming—warm yet nerve-wracking, joyous yet heavy with anticipation.

Soon, everyone would leave for the hall where Zavian's Nikkah would take place. But for now, all eyes were on me.

The room fell silent as the Qazi Sahib cleared his throat, signaling the beginning of the Nikkah proceedings. My heart pounded against my ribs as he opened the Nikah Nama and turned to my father.

"Wali sahab, kya aap ne apni beti Iman Hamid ka Nikah Zavian Noraiz se, Mehr mukarrar ki gayi cheez ke saath qubool kar liya?"

(Guardian, do you accept the marriage of your daughter, Iman Hamid, to Zavian Noraiz with the agreed dowry?)

My father nodded firmly, his voice steady. "Jee, qubool kiya." (Yes, I accept.)

The Qazi then turned to me, his gaze soft yet authoritative. The weight of a thousand emotions settled in my chest.

"Beti Iman Hamid, kya aap apna Nikah Zavian Noraiz ke saath, Mehr mukarrar ki gayi cheez— ek dastakhat shuda Qur'an-e-Pak— ke saath qubool karti hain?"

(Daughter Iman Hamid, do you accept your marriage to Zavian Noraiz, with the agreed dowry—a handwritten Quran?)

I blinked. My breath hitched. A handwritten Qur'an? My lips parted in shock. The room around me blurred for a moment. That was my Mehr?

Mihra grinned at my reaction, nudging me slightly. Nimra squeezed my hand.

"Beti?" The Qazi prompted again, his voice kind.

I swallowed, my heart full, my lips curving into a soft smile. I whispered, voice trembling yet sure, "Qubool hai." (I accept.)

The Qazi repeated the question twice more, and with each time, my voice grew steadier.

"Qubool hai."

"Qubool hai."

The moment the words left my lips for the third time, the room filled with hushed "Mashallahs" and warm "Bohot bohot mubarak ho." Mama wiped away a silent tear, her smile trembling, while Baba placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. The weight of what had just happened settled over me, a mix of nerves and an unfamiliar kind of warmth blooming in my chest.

I was married.

To Zavian Noraiz.

I watched as the Qazi handed the Nikah Nama to Baba for safekeeping, the ink barely dry. My fingers twitched at my sides, as if trying to grasp the reality of it all. Nimra and Mihra squeezed my hands from both sides, their excitement barely contained.

"Mrs. Zavian Noraiz," Mihra whispered in my ear, and I shot her a glare, my face heating up.

The bridal room slowly emptied as the men and elders left to conduct Zavian's side of the Nikah in the main hall. Mama kissed my forehead before leaving, her hands lingering on my cheeks for just a moment longer. I could see the silent prayer in her eyes, the kind only a mother gives before sending her daughter off into a new chapter of her life.

Arham carried little Siara in his arms as he walked out last, giving me an amused but approving nod before shutting the door.

And just like that, I was left alone with my cousins and sister—Aliha, Mihra, Nimra, and Sameeha.

I exhaled a shaky breath, pressing my hands to my burning cheeks.

"Ya Allah, what just happened?" I muttered.

Aliha giggled, settling next to me. "What happened is that you're a whole wife now. How does it feel?"

I groaned, hiding my face behind my hands. "Weird. Unreal. Terrifying."

"And romantic," Nimra teased, nudging Sameeha's shoulder. "Did you see the look on his face when we came in? He looked like he was ready to fight someone just to see you."

Mihra wiggled her brows. "Forget the fighting part. The way he kept asking 'Where is she?' 'Is she okay?' all night—uff, Iman, you've married an obsessed man."

I rolled my eyes, but my heart betrayed me, skipping a beat. He asked about me that much?

Nimra stretched, brushing nonexistent dust off her clothes before flashing me a knowing grin. "Well, we better go watch the Nikah. Then we have to prepare for your grand entrance too, Mrs. Zavian."

She stood up, her eyes twinkling, and the rest followed, leaving one by one. Mihra squeezed my hand before she left, and Aliha gave me a playful wink. "Deep breaths, jaan. You're about to witness a man vow himself to you."

With that, they were gone, the door clicking shut behind them, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Silence wrapped around me, but inside, my heart was anything but still.

I stared at my reflection in the vanity mirror. The bride looking back at me wasn't the same girl from yesterday. There was something new in her eyes—a quiet anticipation, a nervous thrill.

A buzzing sound made me glance at my phone.

Zavian: Step onto the balcony.

My brows furrowed. What?

Hesitantly, I pushed myself up, gathering my dupatta, and walked towards the balcony doors. A cool breeze brushed against my skin as I stepped out, the scent of fresh flowers mingling with the crisp evening air.

And then—I froze.

Down below, in the open garden where the main hall was visible, stood Zavian.

Dressed in an ivory sherwani, his posture strong and commanding, he was surrounded by a few of his close friends and cousins, yet his gaze—his piercing, unwavering gaze—was locked onto me.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips as he tipped his head slightly, as if saying:

"I see you, Mashal-e-Mehtaab."

My fingers clutched the balcony railing, my breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something dangerously close to exhilaration.

This man—my husband.

The one whose Nikah was about to take place.

And yet, here he was, looking at me as if I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

I shook my head, grinning, and walked back inside, fingers dancing over my phone's keyboard.

Me: Focus on your Nikah first, Mr. Zavian. The Qazi must be there.

A reply came almost instantly.

Zavian: How can I focus when my bride is spying on me?

I rolled my eyes, biting back a smile. Shameless.

Before I could respond, Mihra peeked in. "Ready?"

I took a deep breath and nodded.

And then it was time.

Fifteen minutes later, I was being led out.

Ali, Arham, Abdullah, and Haroon held a beautifully adorned phoolon ki chadar over my head, the delicate white jasmine and deep red roses filling the air with their soft fragrance. Each step I took felt heavier, anticipation curling around me like an invisible thread.

Sameeha's fingers tightened around mine as we walked forward. "Breathe, Iman," she whispered, sensing my nerves.

I kept my gaze low, the world around me a blur of golden lights and hushed murmurs. Somewhere in the distance, I heard Mihra sniffling dramatically, probably exaggerating the whole "losing our Iman" thing.

And then—I felt it.

A presence.

Zavian.

I didn't need to look up to know he was there, waiting. The air had shifted, a strange warmth settling in my chest.

My groom was waiting.

And I was walking toward him.

I stepped onto the stage, my heart drumming against my ribs. The murmurs around me faded into the background as my gaze lifted—just in time to see him.

Zavian.

Standing tall, dressed in an ivory sherwani with gold embroidery, he looked every bit the groom. But it wasn't the clothes that made my breath hitch—it was his eyes. Dark, unwavering, and locked onto me like I was the only thing that mattered in the entire room.

And then—he held out his hand.

A simple gesture. Nothing extravagant. Yet, in that moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of us.

I hesitated, my fingers curling against my palm. Not out of doubt, but because the weight of reality had finally settled in. I was his.

Zavian arched a brow, his lips tilting slightly. "Mashal-e-Mehtaab?" His voice was low, teasing, but there was something else beneath it—something deeper.

Swallowing, I placed my hand in his. Warmth. A firm hold. And then, his fingers curled around mine as if sealing a silent promise.

Our gazes met again.

And just like that—everything around us ceased to exist.

Zavian's grip remained steady as he carefully helped me onto the stage, his touch firm yet gentle—like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go.

I settled beside him, adjusting my dupatta as the soft hum of conversations buzzed around us. The golden glow of the stage lights bathed everything in a warm shimmer, but my focus remained on the man beside me.

He still hadn't let go.

I glanced down at our hands, my fingers still enclosed in his hold. His thumb brushed over my knuckles in slow, deliberate strokes—an absentminded motion, yet it sent a shiver down my spine.

I shifted slightly, whispering, "Zavian... people are watching."

His lips twitched, but his grip didn't loosen. Instead, he leaned in just enough for only me to hear, his voice rich with amusement. "Let them."

Heat crept up my neck, and I tried to pull away, but his fingers tightened ever so slightly. "You're my wife now, Iman," he murmured, his tone dropping to something softer, something that sent my pulse into chaos. "Get used to it."

I exhaled, glaring at him—not that it had any effect. The satisfaction in his gaze was undeniable.

Sameeha coughed from my side, barely hiding her grin. "Ahem. If you two are done, the families would like to proceed with the rasams."

Zavian still didn't release my hand. Instead, his fingers tightened just slightly, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "Sure," he said smoothly, but made no move to actually let go.

I shot him a pointed look, subtly trying to tug my hand away, but he held firm, his thumb lazily tracing circles against my skin.

"Zavian," I whispered, leaning closer, "let go."

His dark eyes gleamed with mischief as he tilted his head slightly. "No."

I blinked at him. "What do you mean, no?" I hissed under my breath, conscious of the dozens of eyes on us.

His smirk deepened. "You're my wife."

Sameeha coughed again, this time with poorly concealed laughter. Nimra and Mihra, standing nearby, exchanged knowing glances.

"Alright, lovebirds, let's get on with the rasams before Zavian decides to kidnap the bride right here," Haroon teased, grinning as he nudged Zavian's shoulder.

I felt my face heat up, but Zavian? He was utterly unfazed, his fingers still wrapped around mine.

"What if I do?" he murmured just low enough for only me to hear.

I shot him a glare, and he chuckled under his breath before—finally—loosening his grip.

Just enough to let me breathe.

Not enough to let me go.

The rasams began, laughter and teasing filling the hall, but through it all, his hand remained in mine, firm, warm, and claiming.

_

The airport was crowded, bustling with travelers, announcements echoing over the speakers, but for me, time had slowed to a painful crawl. My family surrounded me, yet I felt like I was standing in a bubble—every voice muffled, every movement sluggish, my chest tight with emotions I couldn't name.

Mama's hands cupped my face, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Meri Iman... meri beti." Her voice cracked, and that was it. My control shattered. A sob tore through me as I threw my arms around her, inhaling the familiar scent of jasmine oil and warmth.

"Mama... don't cry." My voice wavered, but who was I kidding? My own tears wouldn't stop falling.

"How can I not, beta?" she whispered, pressing a trembling kiss to my forehead. "My daughter is leaving as someone's wife today."

I felt Baba's strong hands on my head, a silent blessing. When I turned, his eyes—always so steady—held a softness I rarely saw. "Khush raho, Iman." That was all he said, but his voice carried years of love and prayers. (Stay happy.)

One by one, my cousins hugged me—Mihra, Nimra, Aliha, Arham—each saying something to make me laugh through my tears. Dada, Dadi, Taya, Tayi, Chachu... everyone.

But when I turned to leave, my feet felt heavy. Every step toward the departure gate was a step away from home. From the life I knew.

And then... his hand was in mine.

I looked up to find Zavian already watching me, his grip firm, grounding. He didn't say anything, just lifted our joined hands and pressed a kiss to my fingers. A silent promise.

"You're not alone, Mashal-e-Mehtaab," he murmured, his voice steady, certain. "You'll always have me."

A fresh tear slipped down my cheek.

And for the first time that night, they weren't tears of sadness.

_

The waiting area was quiet, save for the hum of distant conversations and the occasional announcement. People rushed by, some with their heads down, others lost in their own worlds, but it felt like time had stopped for us. My hand was still nestled in his, and I couldn't help but notice how big his hand was, how perfectly it enveloped mine. It was both comforting and strange, the realization that this man—this stranger just months ago—was now my husband, and we were about to embark on a new life together.

I glanced at him, a mischievous grin creeping onto my lips. "Well," I drawled, keeping my voice low and playful, "How cute to be having our first night on a plane, among people." I grinned wickedly, almost daring him to react.

Zavian's gaze flickered toward me, an amused glint in his eyes as he raised an eyebrow. "Who said that?" His voice was smooth, like he was enjoying this little tease of mine. He leaned closer, his lips brushing my ear just enough for me to feel his breath, sending a little shiver down my spine.

"You mean to say you don't want our first night to be unforgettable?" I teased, looking at him sideways.

Zavian chuckled softly, the sound rich and warm, like velvet. He gave my hand a gentle squeeze before he leaned back in his seat, looking around as if he was considering my words. "We'll see about that, Mashal-e-Mehtaab," he murmured, the tone in his voice shifting just enough to make my heart race.

He pulled out his phone and sent a quick message, and I couldn't help but be curious. "Who are you messaging?"

"Just making sure our flight is ready," he replied casually, but there was something about the way he said it that made me wonder if he was being completely honest.

I didn't get a chance to ask more because the announcement came over the speaker. It was time to board.

He stood up before I could, holding his hand out for me. "Come on, let's go, princess. Our little private oasis is waiting."

I blinked at him, surprised for a second. "Private oasis?"

He simply grinned, that same confident, almost cocky smile playing on his lips. "Let's just say, the first night won't be so public after all."

I followed him through the jet bridge and into the plane, heart fluttering. He was full of surprises, wasn't he?

_