3

The festive lights that had once symbolized *Khush Naseebi* now felt like cold, mocking eyes as the Qasmi household descended into a waking nightmare.

The front door slammed with a finality that made the crystal chandelier tremble. Narmeen stood in the foyer, her eyes wild and hair disheveled, only to be met by Maheen’s razor-sharp tongue. "You’re acting like our jailer, Narmeen," Maheen hissed, her voice low to avoid waking their father. "You should be grateful Papa isn't home to see you sneaking in at this hour." Narmeen let out a stressed, jagged laugh, tossing her handbag onto the sofa. "Nihal missed his flight because of the luggage, Maheen! Do you have any idea how many bed covers and expensive blankets I made him pack? He’ll be on the next one. Stop acting like it’s the end of the world." Maheen simply turned away, her silhouette a pillar of doubt. "I hope for your sake he is. But the silence in this house is getting louder."

The fragile peace was shattered when the study door flew open. Siraj Qasmi didn't look like a proud father anymore; he looked like a man who had seen a ghost. "A liar and a hypocrite like that boy should just die!" he roared, his voice trembling with a terrifying blend of rage and grief. Narmeen rushed to him, her voice frantic as she tried to weave the same thread of excuses about missed flights and luggage. Siraj gripped the edge of his desk, his knuckles white. "How do you know about the flight, Narmeen? Did he call you? Or are you both just making a mockery of me now?" He shoved his phone toward her, his eyes burning. "Call him. Right now. Prove to me he isn't the coward I think he is." When she hesitated, Siraj collapsed into his chair, his head in his hands. "I blame myself," he whispered to the empty air. "I raised daughters who think a father’s honor is a toy."

In the midst of the storm, Humayun appeared like a quiet shadow, guiding a stumbling Siraj toward his bedroom. "Your uncle is under immense mental stress, Maheen," Humayun whispered as they crossed the hall. "I found him wandering near the market, barely able to keep his footing. He needs rest, or his heart won't take much more of this." Maheen, moved by the tailor’s genuine care, offered him a seat at the table. "Stay for dinner, Humayun. You’ve done so much." But before he could answer, Narmeen’s voice cut through the room like a whip. "We don't need to be so accommodating to every guest, Maheen. If he’s hungry, he can find a stall outside. We have family matters to attend to." Humayun flinched, the insult landing with practiced precision, and he quickly retreated into the night.

Emaan caught him by the garden gate, her eyes searching his face. "What are you hiding, Humayun Bhai?" she demanded, pulling him into the shadows. Humayun tried to pull away, muttering about picking up inventory and checking on Moni, but Emaan wouldn't let go. "I know you don't know how to lie. Tell me the truth about Nihal." Humayun looked at the girl who was the only one truly seeing the tragedy unfolding. "I only know what Narmeen says, Emaan," he pleaded, his voice breaking. "Don't ask me to be the one to break this house." Emaan watched him run away, her heart sinking. "You’re running because you can't stand to see her marry a ghost," she whispered to the wind.

The truth didn't walk through the front door; it came through a phone call that turned Narmeen’s blood to ice. It was Wasif, Nihal's friend, his voice shaking with terror. "Narmeen, you have to listen to me. Nihal is a fugitive. He scammed people out of lakhs, promising them visas to Europe as an agent. He’s gone, Narmeen. He’s escaped the country." The phone slipped from her hand, hitting the floor with a dull thud. The room spun. The Europe she had dreamed of, the blankets, the status—it was all built on the bones of stolen dreams. She stood in the center of the room, a bride with no groom, surrounded by the hollow echoes of a fraud.

In the kitchen, the younger sisters tried to make sense of the debris. "She’s awake," Maheen said, her voice devoid of its usual bite. Emaan leaned against the counter, staring at the floor. "This feels like a movie, Maheen. How did we get here?" Maheen began to pace, her hands trembling. "I want to run away. I want to leave this house and never look back. Who even cares if I stay? Papa is depressed, and Narmeen... Narmeen is a widow before she even said 'I do'." Emaan’s face hardened. "Curse him," she whispered. "Curse Nihal for doing this to us."

Seeking a moment of escape, Emaan found herself in the park, the cool air a brief respite until a stranger blocked her path, questioning her presence. "Stop talking nonsense and move," she snapped, her family’s fire flaring up. Before the situation could escalate, a man named Talha stepped between them. "Relax," he said, his voice calm and steady. "I’m just here to help." He looked at her with a spark of recognition. "Coincidence, isn't it? The beach last time, and now here." He admitted he’d only asked for her name to scare off the stranger, but as the tension faded, a real conversation bloomed. When he mentioned working at a textile mill, Emaan felt a flicker of hope for the first time in weeks. "I have a degree in textile design," she said, her voice small but clear. "I’ve been looking for a way out."

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