It was our anniversary.

I stood there, staring at the door he had just walked out of, my fingers trembling at my sides. The silence in the room was suffocating, pressing down on me like a weight I couldn't lift.

He left.

Just like that.

No hesitation. No second glance.

My throat burned as I swallowed the lump rising there, my gaze flickering to the clock on the wall. 10:30 p.m.

How stupid of me.

I should have known better. After last night... after the coldness in his eyes, the way he pushed me away without a single explanation. I should have kept my expectations low, buried them deep where they couldn't hurt me.

But I didn't.

I let hope crawl into my chest, let it whisper foolish promises that maybe, just maybe, he would remember. That he would stay. That he would choose us.

Foolish.

Idiot.

I sucked in a shaky breath, blinking rapidly, but the tears spilled over anyway, hot and relentless. My fingers clenched into fists. My heart ached in a way I had never known before—like it was unraveling, thread by thread, with no way to piece it back together.

He left.

A broken sob tore from my throat as I pressed a trembling hand against my lips, trying to muffle the sound. My entire body shook, a raw ache clawing at my chest, spreading like wildfire through my veins.

My gaze flickered to the small box on the table—untouched, forgotten.

He didn't even glance at it.

The ribbon still perfectly tied, the wrapping uncreased—untouched, just like me.

I had spent hours choosing it, hoping—foolishly hoping—that maybe, just maybe, it would make him pause. That it would remind him of who we used to be. Of who he used to be.

That it would bring him back to me.

But he walked away without looking back.

My breath shuddered as I swallowed past the lump in my throat. The Zavian I knew, the Zavian who once looked at me like I was his whole world, was slipping through my fingers like sand.

And I was powerless to stop it.

I licked my lips, the bitter taste of heartbreak lingering as I forced my feet to move. Step by step, I walked to the kitchen, my vision blurred with unshed tears. My hands trembled as I reached for the cake I had baked with so much love, carefully wrapping it away, as if that could somehow hide the pain sitting heavy in my chest.

One by one, I packed away the dishes I had spent hours making, my fingers shaking, my breath uneven. Every movement felt hollow, meaningless—just like the night.

Tears spilled freely, dripping onto the counter, onto my hands, onto everything I had prepared for him. For us.

Oh, Allah... I was hurt.

I was so, so hurt.

And the worst part?

He didn't even care.

By midnight, with a heavy heart and an even heavier soul, I made my way to our room. The silence was deafening, wrapping around me like a cold embrace. My limbs felt weak, my chest hollow, but I knew there was only one place to turn.

I performed wudu, letting the cool water wash over my trembling hands, my tear-streaked face, as if it could cleanse the ache lodged deep within me.

Stepping onto the prayer mat, I let out a shaky breath. Ya Allah...

Maybe praying would help.

It always did.

And right now, I needed it more than ever.

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Zavian's POV:

The job was done. No loose ends. No traces left behind.

I drove through the empty streets, the city lights blurring past like ghosts in the night. My grip on the steering wheel was tight, knuckles white, but my mind was elsewhere—calculating, assessing, erasing every possible thread that could lead back to me.

Pulling into a deserted alley, I killed the engine and stepped out. The air was thick with the scent of rain and gasoline. Without hesitation, I stripped off my gloves, tossing them into a metal drum. A flick of the lighter, and they curled into flames, devoured by the fire.

Next, the SIM. I snapped it between my teeth, grinding down until it broke in two, then tossed the pieces into the blaze. The fire crackled, erasing evidence like it had never existed.

I reached into the glove compartment, pulling out a new phone. A new number. A new identity.

By the time I stepped back into the car, I wasn't the man I was an hour ago.

Reaper didn't exist.

Not tonight.

I walked back to my car, now dressed in a simple trouser and shirt, the crisp night air cooling my skin. My jacket hung loosely over my arm, the weight of the evening still pressing against my shoulders.

Reaching up, I pressed the small button in my ear. My voice was low, steady. "Done."

Silence stretched for a second before the familiar voice crackled through. "Clean?"

I slid into the driver's seat, my fingers drumming against the wheel. "Always."

Without another word, I pulled out of the alley, the city swallowing me whole once again.

As I drove through the empty streets, my mind buzzed—a tangled mess of calculations, loose ends, and the weight of what I had just done. Clean. Perfect. Not a trace left behind. But the fear—God, the fear—whispered through the cracks.

What if?

What if I missed something? What if they figured it out? If they knew who I was... they wouldn't come for me. No. They'd go after my most precious thing.

My wife. My Iman. My Mashal-e-Mehtaab.

A lump lodged in my throat. My grip on the wheel tightened. My gaze flickered to the dashboard. 12:30 a.m.

I glanced down, my mind still racing— and then it hit me.

My chest caved. My stomach turned. My breath came short and harsh. My pulse roared in my ears as my foot slammed the brakes. The car screeched to a stop in the middle of the empty road, my body jerking forward.

No. No. No.

With trembling fingers, I yanked my phone from my pocket, my heart hammering as I stared at the screen. The date.

Fuck.

My entire world blurred. A strangled curse ripped from my throat.

I forgot. I fucking forgot.

"Oh, shit." My breath came fast and shallow as I pressed the button on my earpiece. My fingers trembled against it. "Do you copy?" My voice was sharp, edged with panic.

Shit. Shit.

A second of silence. Then, a low hum from the other end. "Hm?"

"I need a diamond ring. RIGHT. NOW."

Not a request. A demand. A fucking order.

A sharp inhale crackled through the earpiece. I didn't have time for hesitation. My foot slammed on the gas as the city blurred past me.

"Alley 1254," the voice finally responded, curt and precise.

And then—silence.

I exhaled through clenched teeth, gripping the wheel tighter.

Thank God.

I tore through the city, my pulse hammering against my ribs. So late. So fucking late.

Damn me.

I bit down hard on my lower lip, frustration and panic twisting inside me like a vice. The tires screeched against the pavement as I slammed the brakes, my car skidding to a stop in front of an upscale housing scheme. No time to breathe. No time to think. I shoved the door open and sprinted toward the designated mailbox—Alley 1254.

My hands were shaking as I yanked the metal door open. Inside, a small velvet box sat waiting.

They were fast. Good.

I snatched it up, flipped it open with my thumb.

A ring.

A perfect, glimmering ring meant for her fingers.

For my Iman.

For the woman I was about to lose.

My gaze dropped to the ground. A small box. A single rose resting beside it. Clever. I let out a sharp breath, my fingers closing around both in one swift motion.

Oh, I owe my colleague for this.

No time to waste. I turned on my heel, sprinting back to the car, my heart pounding like a war drum. Hold on, Iman. I'm coming.

I tore through the city like a madman, the roar of the engine drowning out every sane thought. Red lights? Speed limits? Fuck that. My only focus was getting to her. My hands gripped the steering wheel tight, knuckles white, as I weaved through traffic with reckless precision.

Every signal I ran, every sharp turn I took—I didn't care. My men would handle it. They always do.

But Iman?

She was mine to handle. And I was so damn late.

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I fumbled with the keys, my fingers trembling so badly I could barely fit the damn thing into the lock. Come on. Come on! My breath was ragged, my heart slamming against my ribs like it was trying to break free.

The door finally gave way, and I rushed inside, my eyes darting around, searching for her. The house was quiet. Too quiet. My chest tightened as I stepped forward, my gaze sweeping the living room, the kitchen—empty.

Then, my eyes flickered toward our bedroom. The door was slightly ajar.

I pushed it open, my breath hitching.

There she was.

Kneeling on the prayer mat, her hands lifted in dua, her head bowed, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. Her lips moved in hushed whispers, pleading, crying—to Allah. To the only One she knew would listen.

And I... I had never felt smaller in my entire damn life.

I clutched the gifts tighter, my fingers pressing into the velvet of the ring box, the delicate stem of the rose trembling in my grip. My breaths were uneven, a sharp sting burning behind my eyes.

Reaper? Seriously? The name felt like a fucking joke right now. The Reaper was ruthless, untouchable. The Reaper didn't hesitate.

But here I was—paralyzed.

Because she was crying.

Because of me.

I took slow, silent steps forward, my pulse hammering in my ears. Every tear that slipped down her cheek felt like a dagger to my chest, carving through my ribs, straight into my heart.

I sank to the ground beside her, close enough to feel the warmth of her presence, but not close enough to disturb her prayer. She didn't know I was here. Not yet.

So I just... stared.

At my wife. At my Mashal-e-Mehtaab. My light in this godforsaken darkness.

The way her hands trembled as she lifted them. The way her lips moved in silent supplication, whispering words, prayers, silent, broken.

And God, it broke me.

I should be the one she sought at night, the one she turned to when she needed strength. Instead, I was the reason she was down on her knees, pleading through her tears. Oh Allah forgive me.

My jaw clenched, my vision blurred. I'm sorry, baby.

I wanted to say it.

I wanted to gather her in my arms, press my forehead against hers, and swear that I'd never hurt her again. That I'd never let a single tear stain her beautiful face.

But I couldn't.

Because if I did, if I let myself love her the way I wanted to, with every inch of my goddamn soul—

I'd lose her.

And that? That wasn't an option.

She ran a trembling hand over her face, wiping away the remnants of her tears. And then—she opened her eyes.

Her gaze met mine.

And shit.

The hurt.

It was there, raw and unfiltered, swirling in the depths of those eyes that once held nothing but love for me. Now? They were filled with something else. Something that made my stomach twist and my chest cave in.

Disappointment.

Pain.

Distance.

My throat went dry. I felt like the air had been knocked out of my lungs. I should die. I really should.

Her lips parted, but no words came. Just silence. And for the first time in my goddamn life, silence scared me.

Because silence meant she had given up.

I reached out, hesitantly, my fingers aching to touch her. To wipe away the tear that still clung to her lashes. To pull her into me, to bury my face in her neck and just breathe her in.

But she flinched.

It was small, barely noticeable, but I saw it. I felt it. And it shattered something inside me.

"Iman," my voice was hoarse, desperate.

She blinked, her eyes searching mine, as if looking for the man she once knew. The man I used to be. But I wasn't sure he existed anymore.

I swallowed hard, tightening my grip on the rose and the gift, feeling utterly helpless.

She finally spoke. A whisper.

"You forgot."

Two words. Soft, fragile. But they cut through me like a blade.

I shook my head. "No, baby, I—"

"Don't," she said, her voice stronger this time. "Don't lie to me, Zavian. Not anymore."

I sucked in a sharp breath, my hands curling into fists. How do I tell her? How do I make her understand?

That I was destroying us to protect her.

That I was breaking her heart to keep it beating.

That I loved her more than my own goddamn life.

But the words wouldn't come.

Because the truth would only put her in danger.

So instead, I did the only thing I could—I held out the ring box, my hands shaking. "Happy anniversary, Mashal-e-Mehtaab," I murmured, my voice cracking.

She stared at it.

And then?

She laughed.

A broken, hollow laugh that sent ice straight through my veins.

And that's when I knew.

I was losing her.

My eyes burned, the sting sharp and unrelenting. I bit down on my lower lip, hard enough to taste metal. I can't cry.

Men don't cry. Not like this. Not over something they caused with their own damn hands.

But God—I wanted to.

I wanted to break, to let the weight of this unbearable ache crash down on me. I wanted to fall apart the way she was falling apart right in front of me.

But I couldn't.

Because if I did, then what the hell was all this for?

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice barely audible, almost lost in the space between us.

She just stared at me, tears slipping down her cheeks in silent devastation. No words. No accusations. Just pain.

And that—that—was worse than any scream, worse than any slap, worse than any hatred she could have thrown at me.

I was breaking too. Cracking, shattering—but I deserved it.