chapter : 2

I didn’t sleep.

The bed was too big, the room was too quiet, and the house had a way of holding its breath.

At 11:47 PM my phone lit up on the nightstand.

Unknown number.

`You did well tonight. Don’t get used to it. - Z`

Another buzz two seconds later.

`And stay out of the West Wing.`

I didn’t reply.

I lay there staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks that weren’t there. The mansion was too perfect for cracks.

Somewhere down the hall, a door clicked. Soft. Deliberate.

Footsteps.

Not coming toward me. Going the other way. Toward the West Wing.

My heart did something stupid. It sped up.

Rule #1: *Do not enter the West Wing. Ever.*

Ever is a long time when curiosity is the only thing keeping you awake.

I told myself to roll over. To sleep. To remember the 5 million and Baba’s hospital bills.

I got up instead.

The hallway was dark. Only the emergency lights along the floor made thin lines on the marble. My bare feet made no sound.

The mansion really was a museum at night. Everything behind glass. Nothing to touch.

The West Wing was at the far end. A set of double doors, darker wood than the rest of the house, with no handle on the outside.

The light under the door was on.

I stopped three feet away.

I could hear music. Low. Piano. No words.

And voices. Too quiet to make out.

“Mrs. Malik?”

I jumped. Naseem Aunty. She stood at the top of the stairs in a housecoat, holding a tray with tea. Her face was calm but her eyes were sharp.

“I heard a noise,” I said quickly. “Thought it was the AC.”

She looked at the West Wing doors, then at me. “Mr. Malik asked me to bring him tea. You should go back to your room.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

I nodded and walked back, feeling her eyes on me until I closed my bedroom door.

The next morning the house felt different. Brighter, but colder.

Naseem Aunty set breakfast in front of me alone. Toast. Fruit. Coffee.

“Mr. Malik left early,” she said. “He has a board meeting. He said to tell you there’s an event on Saturday. Gala at the Serena.”

Another event. Another performance.

“Can I go out today?” I asked. “To see my family?”

“Rule #3,” she said gently. “No visitors. No going out without Mr. Malik’s permission.”

Right. I was an asset. Assets don’t get day passes.

The day crawled. I tried reading. I tried walking the garden. The gardener nodded at me but didn’t speak. The pool was Olympic size and untouched.

At 4 PM, a delivery arrived. Five garment bags.

“For Saturday,” Naseem Aunty said. “Mr. Malik’s assistant sent them.”

I unzipped one. Emerald green. Long sleeves. High neck. The opposite of the red dress.

The note pinned inside said: `Wear this. - Z`

No explanation. No apology for last night. Just instructions.

Saturday came fast.

The Serena Hotel was all chandeliers and camera flashes. This wasn’t a dinner. This was a gala. Karachi’s rich in one room, pretending they liked each other.

Zayan was already inside when I arrived with Naseem Aunty’s driver. Black tuxedo. He looked like he owned the air in the room.

He didn’t smile when he saw me. He just held out his arm.

“Smile,” he murmured as we walked in. “Rule #2.”

So I smiled.

We made rounds. He introduced me as “my wife, Areeba” to ministers, CEOs, and women with diamonds bigger than my future.

I nodded. I laughed when he laughed. I said nothing about us.

Halfway through, a reporter cornered us. Young. Hungry.

“Mr. Malik! Any news on the port deal? And congratulations on the wedding. It was so sudden. How did you two meet?”

Zayan’s hand tightened on my back.

“A charity event,” he said smoothly. “She was running a health camp. I donated. We kept talking.”

Lie #3.

The reporter turned to me. “And Mrs. Malik, what charity?”

My mouth went dry. I didn’t know the name. I hadn’t been to a charity event in my life.

“Edhi Foundation,” I said. The first thing that came to mind. “Health camps in Orangi.”

Zayan glanced at me. Just for a second. Surprise?

The reporter smiled and walked away.

“What was that?” Zayan asked quietly.

“What?”

“You picked a real charity.”

“I read the news,” I said. “It’s not a crime.”

He didn’t answer. We moved on.

At 10 PM, he said we were leaving.

In the car, silence again. But different this time. Less sharp.

“Why did you say Edhi?” he asked finally.

“Because it’s true,” I said. “I used to volunteer there. Before… before all this.”

He nodded once.

“Don’t lie unless I tell you to lie,” he said.

“Don’t speak for me unless I ask you to,” I shot back.

He looked at me then. Really looked.

“Fine,” he said. “We’ll coordinate next time.”

That was the closest thing to a truce I’d gotten.

We got home at 11:30. The house was dark except for the hallway lights.

I was exhausted. Makeup heavy. Feet sore.

I went upstairs, took off the emerald dress, and washed my face.

At 11:47 PM, the same time as last night, my phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

`Good answer tonight.`

No name. Didn’t need one.

Another message, a minute later:

`And don’t test me on the West Wing.`

I threw my phone on the bed and went to the window.

Across the courtyard, in the West Wing, a light was on.

And a shadow moved behind the curtain.

I stood there for a long time.

The next morning, I found something new on my dressing table.

Not a rule list. A small black box.

Inside was a necklace. Not diamonds. Pearls. Simple. Real, probably.

Under it, a note in that same sharp handwriting:

`For events. The replicas are getting noticed. - Z`

No “please.” No “thank you.”

But he’d noticed the humiliation. And he’d done something about it.

I put it on.

At lunch, Naseem Aunty set down my plate and hesitated.

“Mrs. Malik,” she said. “Mr. Malik said you can visit your family. One hour. With a driver. On Thursday.”

I stared at her. “He said that?”

“He did.”

My throat got tight. One hour wasn’t much. But it was something.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

That night I didn’t go near the West Wing. I told myself I was being smart.

At 11:47 PM, no text came.

The house was silent.

But the light in the West Wing was on again.

And this time, I saw it.

A small hand pressed against the window from the inside.

Then it was gone.

My blood went cold.

Rule #1 echoed in my head.

*Do not enter the West Wing. Ever.*

I didn’t.

Not that night.

But I didn’t sleep either.

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