A/N: I was going to hold back Murtasim's POV till the end, until y'all hated him, but then I read the comments and I was like "okay, maybe they don't need to hate him that much". So here y'all go! See you on the other side!

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Murtasim Khan stood rigid, his muscles coiled tight with a tension that threatened to erupt. The conversation swirling around him felt like a cacophony of harsh, discordant notes, each one striking a nerve. He clenched his jaw, a storm brewing in his eyes as he listened to his mother's words, words suggesting that Meerab should be married off.

A part of him, a part buried deep beneath layers of duty and familial obligation, wanted to believe his mother meant well. That she was trying to guide his straying heart back to the path she deemed right. But her suggestion had the opposite effect. It ignited a fire within him, a fire of possessiveness and longing, accompanied by a hollow ache where his heart used to beat with hope and love.

He wanted to scream, to unleash the fury that simmered just beneath his surface. He wanted to proclaim to everyone in the room that Meerab was his, that she belonged with him. But the bitter truth clung to him like a second skin – he had forfeited that right. He had pushed her away, he had laid his own grave, and now he was reaping the whirlwind of his actions.

As the voices around him grew louder, insisting on the necessity of Meerab's marriage, the pain in his chest sharpened. It was a physical hurt, a manifestation of the emotional turmoil he was drowning in. He hated how the mere suggestion of her being with someone else felt like a thousand knives twisting in his gut.

But what shattered him the most was Meerab's acquiescence. When she nodded her agreement, it was as if a part of him died. He knew Meerab. The Meerab he fell in love with was fiery and headstrong, a woman who carved her own path and stood defiant against the world. And now, seeing her broken, subdued, agreeing to something so against her very nature, he couldn't help but loathe himself.

He had broken her. The realization was a crushing weight. He had shattered the very essence of the woman he loved – her indomitable spirit, her fierce independence. He had dimmed the light in her eyes, the light that had once shone so bright and fearless. In his quest to protect her, to shield her from the harsh realities of his world, he had inadvertently destroyed the part of her that lit up the world.

Murtasim's heart ached with a sorrow so deep it was almost suffocating. He stood there, a silent spectator to the unfolding tragedy, a tragedy he had authored with his own hands.

Murtasim felt Meerab's gaze pierce through him, her eyes holding a depth of understanding that unnerved him. It was as if she could see the turmoil raging within him, the storm of emotions he battled to keep at bay. How could she not? His actions in the past days had laid his heart bare, exposed his soul in ways he never thought possible.

He remembered the desperate frenzy with which he had searched for her, his voice hoarse from yelling, his eyes stinging from unshed tears. The moment he found her, covered in mud and barely conscious, a sob had wracked his body, a visceral reaction to the sight of her so vulnerable, so close to being lost forever. In the cold, sterile room of the hospital, he had sat by her side, whispering apologies to her unhearing ears, praying for her to wake up, to look at him again.

Every waking moment since she had opened her eyes, he had watched her, a silent guardian, yearning to reach out, to soothe her pain, to erase the distance that had grown between them. But he couldn't, shackled by the weight of his decisions, by the path he had chosen.

He felt a pang of self-loathing as he realized his involvement was expected in the discussions about her marriage. The idea of finding a suitable man for Meerab, the woman he loved more than life itself, felt like a betrayal of the worst kind. Yet, there he was, listening to his family plot a future for her that didn't include him.

The urge to sweep her away, to escape the suffocating walls of that house in Karachi, had been overwhelming. He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms, to flee from the expectations, the judgments, the responsibilities that bound him. But he couldn't. His family safety, their happiness, a whole village, the intricate web of expectations that he was entangled in, held him back.

As he ran from the house, feeling like his very soul was ablaze, he despised himself for his cowardice, for his inability to stand up for what his heart desired the most. He hated the chains that bound him, the circumstances that forced him to suppress his love for Meerab. In that moment, Murtasim Khan, the proud and strong, felt powerless and defeated, a man torn between love and duty, unable to reconcile the two.

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Murtasim trudged back to the village, the weight of recent events heavy on his shoulders. The familiar surroundings offered a sense of solace, yet the ache in his heart persisted, everything was a constant reminder of Meerab and the lack of her presence.

As he approached his home, Murtasimbakri, their beloved goat, bounded up to him. She sniffed at him intently, her antics bringing a faint smile to his face. It was as if she could detect Meerab's scent lingering on him, a thought that oddly comforted him amidst the chaos of his emotions.

Areeb followed shortly behind Murtasimbakri, his expression concerned. "Don't, Areeb," Murtasim warned, his voice weary, as they made their way to his study, with Murtasimbakri trailing close behind.

Once inside, Murtasimbakri leaped onto the couch with surprising agility, her hooves deftly grabbing the TV remote. Murtasim watched, amused yet unsurprised, as the goat had developed a peculiar habit of watching television. The background noise from the TV, usually a blend of dramas and news, had become a calming presence in his life as of late. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that Meerab was curled up on the couch beside Murtasimbakri, the two of them watching television together, as if nothing had changed.

Areeb broke the silence, his voice laced with curiosity. "What's with the list you sent me?" he asked, his eyes scrutinizing Murtasim, who had sunk into his desk chair, a portrait of exhaustion and defeat.

Murtasim sighed, the weight of the world seemingly resting on his shoulders. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to Murtasimbakri, who seemed engrossed in the television drama, her head tilting side to side as if trying to make sense of the human emotions displayed on the screen.

Murtasim watched her for a moment, a sad smile playing on his lips. "Sometimes, I wish I could be as carefree as her, oblivious to the complexities of human emotions and the burdens we carry," he mused, his gaze returning to Areeb.

Areeb just arched his eyebrow again, the air was thick with tension and unspoken words, he suspected Areeb knew exactly what the list was for.

Murtasim's jaw clenched as he tried to maintain his composure. "I need them all investigated, thoroughly," Murtasim stated, his voice firm yet strained. "Every little thing about them and their families – what they say they do, what they actually do, who's around them, who their distant relatives are, everything. If they've so much as breathed at someone the wrong way or done something even remotely wrong, I want to know."

Areeb shifted uncomfortably. "They're all men... around Meerab's age," he noted, his voice laced with disbelief.

Suddenly, the TV blared, "KITNE ADMI THE?" Murtasimbakri apparently felt the need to contribute to the room's atmosphere, pressing on the TV remote rapidly. Murtasim let out a heavy sigh, his frustration palpable but ignored the goat as she somehow managed to mute the TV again.

"I know," Murtasim replied to Areeb, his words muffled between his clenched teeth.

"Seriously, are you really having me screen rishtas for the woman you love?" Areeb asked, exasperated.

The TV's volume escalated again, a man's voice screaming, "WOH MERI HAI, KISI AUR KI NAHI HO SAKTI!" echoing eerily through the room.

Murtasim groaned, reaching for the second remote he had bought for these occasions, muting the TV. Murtasimbakri, undeterred, started switching channels again, her bleats filling the silence left by the muted television.

"Just do as you're asked, Areeb," Murtasim said, his voice heavy.

"Just tell Meerab what happened, forget all of this, we'll find another way together," Areeb insisted, his voice rising in frustration.

Murtasim shook his head. "You know we can't," he muttered, a tone of defeat seeping into his voice.

The tv blared again. "Kehte hain agar kisi cheez ko dil se chaho toh puri kainath use tumse milane ki koshish mein lag jaati hai."

Areeb, undeterred and unbothered as Murtasim muted the TV again, pressed on. "Then forget her. Why are you doing this to yourself? You're going to watch her get married, Khan? You? Without killing someone? You know that's not going to happen."

Murtasim's gaze drifted to the muted TV where Murtasimbakri was now engaged in a futile attempt to interact with the screen. The absurdity of the situation would have made him laugh on any other day but right then, he couldn't muster any amusement.

Murtasim clasped and unclasped his hands as he faced Areeb. "Meerab," Murtasim's voice cracked, laden with emotion, "she deserves someone perfect, someone who will love her and take care of her and always put her first...someone who will make her happy, who'll give her everything she wants and deserves... I – I don't trust her parents or my uncle or my mother to find her someone like that...so I need to make sure the person she marries is someone who can give her all of that." His words were a mix of determination and despair.

"ARREY KITNA JHOOT BHOLEGA TU KUTTE?" the TV suddenly blared, causing Murtasim to reach for the remote again and press mute, his actions swift but his heart heavy.

"Why are you lying to yourself?" Areeb's sigh was heavy, filled with frustration and concern.

"I am not," Murtasim replied, but even he could hear the unconvincing tone in his voice.

Murtasimbakri, sensing the seriousness, bleated loudly and frantically pressed on the remote, causing the TV to come back to life. "UTHA LE RE BABA," the TV blared again, accompanied by Murtasimbakri's bleating. Murtasim sighed, turning the TV off once more, trying to ignore her persistent whines.

"Meerab loves you, and for whatever reason, you're perfect to her. So why must we do this?" Areeb's voice was a mix of exasperation and logic.

Murtasim's gaze fell to the floor, "Areeb, you know what's happening."

Areeb's frustration boiled over, "Fuck it, I'll go kill Malik myself. I'll go to jail for driving him to the grave," he yelled, his face flushed with anger.

Just then, the TV blared again, "BABU MOSHAI ZINDAGI BADI HONI CHAHIYE LAMBI NAHI," echoing through the room.

"Honestly," Murtasim groaned, reaching once again for the remote to turn off the TV. Murtasim leaned back in his chair, his face a mask of solemnity, his voice barely above a whisper. "This is the only way."

"You're setting yourself up for a lifetime of unhappiness, Murtasim Bhai," Areeb said, his tone grave. Murtasim noticed the use of 'Bhai' instead of 'Khan,' a sign of the seriousness of their conversation.

"We've been set up for failure since last summer," Murtasim muttered, his gaze distant. "If all of what happened last summer didn't happen, Baig and others wouldn't have switched sides. If Shabana hadn't left Salim, he wouldn't have stolen all those papers from the Haveli and given them to the Maliks. Then, I wouldn't have gone after Zubair, he wouldn't have said what he said about Meerab, and I wouldn't have shot him..." His voice trailed off, laden with regret and bitterness.

Murtasim recounted the events that led to his current predicament, a chain of events he couldn't have ever predicted had been set into motion with Meerab's well-intentioned thought to empower the village women.

The tide of favour had changed towards the Maliks, the panchayat and the sarpanch in their pocket, he could have dealt with that easily. He had expected it.

But then Salim, a disgruntled abusive husband whose wife and children left him due to Meerab's help, had stolen papers for much of the village land from the safe. In the absence of a comprehensive, digitized, and tamper-proof land record system in the country, physical papers often hold substantial sway in land disputes. Paired with the fact that the panchayat and sarpanch were not on his side, and the corrupt police force in the area where the regional head was a friend of Malik didn't bode well for them.

Yet, Murtasim had still tried to scare the Maliks into giving the papers back. Of course, that visit to retrieve the stolen papers had not gone well, the panchayat and sarpanch had stood silent as he expected, their eyes averted, complicit in their silence and greed. He knew the police would be no help, and even if they would be, it would set in motion years of legal battles, the enmity between the Maliks and Khans had been bad enough over just one parcel of land, acres would mean bloodshed.

But it had been Zubair's taunting words about Meerab as Murtasim was about to leave that had been the final straw. "Say thank you to Meerab for me, she was such a great help. Actually, I'll thank her myself, thoroughly until she's screaming for me to stop, she seems like she'd be fun to break," Zubair had sneered, his cruel laughter echoing in the open.

Murtasim's reaction had been immediate. His gun was out in a flash, even with Zubair's gun trained on him. He should have waited for Zubair to shoot first, but the mention of Meerab, the thought of her even being thought of in such a manner, made him see red and drove him to act. He shot Zubair in the spine just as the man turned to laugh with his lackeys.

Zubair was in the hospital, paralyzed from the waist down, fighting for his life. If he survived, Murtasim would get charged with attempted murder. If he died... then murder. The witnesses were not on his side either, they were on Zubair's, so he couldn't claim self-defence, he had shot first.

He sighed deeply, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of the world.

Because that wasn't all, if that was all there was to it, he might have found another way out. But with Zubair out of the picture, his cousins Zoravar and Badar Malik, men who were even more deplorable than Zubair stepped in, knowing it was their chance to take over the lands that belonged to their uncle. Within weeks, they had razed fields, burned houses, kidnapped women, and wreaked havoc on the village. They were waiting for Murtasim to fall, because that would give them free reign, there would be no one to stop them, and they had their eyes on the lands they hadn't gotten a hold of yet – land that technically belonged to Meerab.

"If I give in to what I want, I go to jail. How can I protect her, my family, or this village from behind bars?" Murtasim's voice cracked with emotion. "The Maliks will see a weakened hold and take everything, they'll harm my family because they can. If I tell Meerab...what do I say? I love you, but I'm going to jail, and everyone we care about will be in danger out here with no one to protect you?"

Murtasimbakri sensing the tension, bleated softly, her antics a brief respite from the heaviness of their conversation. She nudged a pile of papers with her nose, causing them to flutter to the ground.

Areeb leaned forward, his expression serious. "Murtasim, you can't carry this alone. There has to be another way."

Murtasim shook his head, his gaze distant as he scratched Murtasimbakri's head. "I wish there was, Areeb. I really do."

Areeb's voice was heavy with concern, "If Yusuf Ali knows you love someone else, would he still help you?" His question cut through the silence.

Murtasim scoffed, a bitter edge to his laugh. "Nothing is free in this world. He will only help if I marry Asma." His words were tinged with resignation, a man cornered by his own fate.

"And there's really no one else that can help?" Areeb pressed on, seeking some sliver of hope.

Murtasim sighed deeply, shaking his head. "It's like finding a needle in a haystack, and they're all ifs. With Yusuf Ali, it's a definite thing."

Yusuf Ali, wielded immense power, and was the only viable solution to protect his family and land from the clutches of the Maliks and the corrupt police. Only he had the influence to keep Murtasim out of jail and reclaim their land – to keep his family, people, and his Meerab safe.

Areeb looked pained, "You're signing your life away."

Murtasim's response was a mere shrug, the gesture of a man who had come to terms with the sacrifice he was about to make. "I think I am just realizing that my life isn't mine... that I can't be selfish and put myself first." His voice cracked, betraying the emotional turmoil beneath his stoic exterior. "I... I want nothing more than to run away with her... my heart is never going to accept anyone but her, but the circumstances... all of this... I can't."

"Tell her." Areeb pleaded.

Murtasim laughed. "You don't know her. If I tell her – Meerab - she's stubborn and so utterly brave that she'll stand by me in all of it, and insist we fight, she doesn't think of the long run. And she'll get hurt...she's already become much too visible to everyone in this village...and they now know exactly what triggers me. Even Zoravar and Babar Malik know that. And it's not just the outsiders...my mother and uncle will constantly blame her, they all already treat her horribly, they'll make her miserable...and I won't be around to stop them...and – I don't want her to face that, to be unhappy. I can't, she has to move on, to find happiness far away from all of this..." His decision was also about her safety, her future, her happiness.

As if on cue, the TV blared again, breaking the heavy atmosphere. "Pushpa I hate tears rai," a line from an old movie echoed through the room.

Areeb groaned, his frustration evident. "Your goat child is seriously messed up," he remarked, watching Murtasimbakri, who had now nuzzled her way towards Murtasim's leg. "You're going to spend your whole life loving that goat more than the woman you marry."

Murtasim smiled faintly, a sad smile as he petted Murtasimbakri. In his heart, he acknowledged a painful truth - Murtasimbakri might be the first and last thing he and Meerab would ever share. His world, once filled with the hope of love and shared dreams, was now narrowing down to sacrifices and duty, a path where his heart had no say.

"Do you think she'll go through with it?" Areeb muttered.

Murtasim didn't know how to answer that question, for it was both something he wanted and didn't.

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The afternoon sun cast long shadows as Murtasim arrived at the Ahmed House, the familiar weight of Murtasimbakri in his arms. The goat, an unwitting participant in the emotional whirlwind surrounding them, bleated softly, a sound that resonated with a tinge of sadness in Murtasim's heart.

In the backyard, workers were putting the finishing touches on a sturdy wooden house, a new abode for Murtasimbakri. Murtasim watched them work, his mind a turmoil of thoughts and emotions. The goat's new home was a symbol of the changing dynamics, a tangible reminder of the distance growing between him and Meerab.

He had spoken to Meerab's parents, Anila and Waqas, convincing them of the necessity of Murtasimbakri's presence in their home. It wasn't an easy task, explaining why a pet goat, of all things, was essential for Meerab's well-being, but Murtasim was determined and they had relented.

From her room, Meerab had observed the workers who were putting up the wooden house, her gaze hard and accusing as she tried to figure out the purpose. Murtasim had felt her eyes on him, a silent accusation that pierced through his defenses. He hadn't told her why...not because it was an elaborate surprise, but because she refused to speak with him.

He caught sight of her at the window again, and watched the shock on her face before she disappeared, likely rushing down to see her goat.

Turning to Murtasimbakri, Murtasim lifted her up, gazing into her innocent, doe-like eyes. "You need to take care of Meerab," he instructed the goat earnestly. "If anyone – and I mean anyone – makes her cry or look sad, you have my permission to push them to the ground and attack. Understand?"

Murtasimbakri responded with an enthusiastic bleat, her body wiggling in agreement. Her spirited response brought a faint smile to Murtasim's lips, a rare moment of lightness in the heavy atmosphere.

"But don't go overboard, or they might cook you," he warned in a half-joking tone. The goat's bleat changed, now sounding almost shocked at the suggestion.

Holding Murtasimbakri close, Murtasim allowed himself a moment of vulnerability. "I'll miss you," he murmured, reflecting on the unexpected bond he had formed with the animal. It was strange, how a goat he had given as a reluctant gift had become a creature he genuinely cared for.

Murtasimbakri nuzzled against him, her affectionate gesture a small comfort. "But Meerab needs you more," he concluded, a statement that held more truth and pain than he cared to admit. As he set Murtasimbakri down in her new home, Murtasim's heart felt heavier than ever as Meerab ran out into the garden.

As Murtasim handed Murtasimbakri to Meerab, the scene was achingly familiar, reminiscent of the day he had first gifted her the goat. Murtasimbakri, with her innate sense of affection, nuzzled and cuddled Meerab, bleating softly as if complaining about the long separation. Meerab's laughter, a sound he had sorely missed, filled the air, but the moment she affectionately called the goat "Rangeeli," Murtasim felt a pang of loss. The name change, seemingly trivial, symbolized the shift in their relationship, the distancing of their shared world.

Murtasimbakri, ever the mediator, pranced around them playfully, tugging at their clothes with her teeth, as if trying to bridge the gap that had grown between them. Watching the scene, Murtasim was flooded with memories of laughter and light-hearted struggles to retrieve papers from Murtasimbakri's mouth, times when he and Meerab would sit side-by-side, and wrestle with their goat.

"Tell me if you need anything," he found himself saying, his voice barely above a whisper, laden with a hope he dared not admit.

Meerab's response was quiet but sharp, like a dagger to his heart. "Why would I tell you?" The words stung, echoing in the silence that followed.

He sighed, a sound heavy with resignation, and nodded. "Of course," he replied, masking his turmoil with a façade of indifference.

As he walked towards his car, the ache in his heart was palpable. But then, he heard her voice, laced with confusion and hurt, speaking to Murtasimbakri. "If he doesn't love me, why does he do so much?" Her words, muffled by sniffles, reached him, stopping him in his tracks.

He lingered, hidden from view, wrestling with the desire to rush back and confess everything - his love, his fears, the sacrifices he was making for her safety and happiness. But he remained silent, a silent guardian, torn between his heart's longing and the harsh realities that kept them apart.

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Murtasim felt a surge of unease as he watched his mother bustling around the Ahmed House, her words about hastening the process of Meerab's wedding echoing in his ears. It was all happening too fast, the list of suitors was materializing in front of him before Areeb could even finish his thorough background checks. Yusuf Ali's displeasure at the delay of Murtasim's engagement was a constant pressure at the back of his mother's mind, but it was Asma's ability to placate her father that surprised him.

Murtasim stood silently, his thoughts a whirlwind of conflict. The decision to delay his engagement with Asma was one he couldn't fully understand himself. Was he doing it for Meerab's sake, to ensure she had the best possible match, or was it a subconscious effort to buy himself more time, to delay the inevitable reality that he couldn't be with the woman he truly loved? Every moment he managed to push back his own engagement brought him a twisted sense of relief. It was a small, fleeting victory in a war he felt he was losing.

The tension in the air was palpable as a family from Lahore arrived at the Ahmed House. Murtasim stood stiffly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the first suitor, Ali Ibrahim Raza. Every instinct screamed that he didn't like this man, and his fingers moved rapidly over his phone, urging Areeb to expedite the background check.

In Murtasim's critical gaze, Ali Ibrahim Raza presented himself with an air that instantly ruffled Murtasim's instincts. He had that smug tilt to his chin, the type that Murtasim had come to associate with overconfidence and arrogance. His eyes, dark and probing, had a gleam that Murtasim distrusted, a hint of cunning that suggested he was a man who played games.

Ali's casual stance, the way he leaned in with a predator's grace, struck Murtasim as someone who was used to getting his way, likely with charm that was as superficial as it was effective. The slight smirk playing on his lips as he scanned the room, landing on a picture of Meerab with an intensity that Murtasim found unsettling, only cemented his initial impression.

To Murtasim, this Ali was the embodiment of every entitled man he despised, the kind who wandered through life taking what they wanted without a second thought to the consequences. There was a looseness to his demeanor, a relaxed confidence that was at odds with the situation's formality. This was a man who, Murtasim was sure, left a trail of whispers and rumors in his wake—a "fuck boy," as the streets would label him.

The man was undeniably handsome, he had a rugged handsomeness about him, a chiseled jawline paired with deep-set eyes that held a confident gleam, perhaps a bit too smug for Murtasim's liking. His hair was styled with precision, not a strand out of place, and it gave him an air of someone who paid considerable attention to his appearance.

The suitor's attire was impeccable, a well-tailored grey suit that hugged his shoulders and tapered down elegantly, yet he seemed uncomfortable in it, as if he preferred t-shirts and leather jackets. The subtle sheen of his silk tie hinted at affluence, and the watch on his wrist was undoubtedly from a brand that spoke of loud luxury.

Yet, despite his seemingly perfect exterior, Murtasim found flaws that no one else could see. To him, the suitor's poised demeanor lacked the depth that Meerab deserved. There was a rehearsed charm to his movements, a lack of the genuine warmth that Murtasim felt Meerab needed. He was a portrait of suitability on the surface, but Murtasim's heart knew that the canvas of his intentions was painted with colors that didn't match the vibrancy of Meerab's spirit.

Ali's restless tapping was a discordant rhythm against the soft murmur of conversation. Murtasim's gaze, sharp and assessing, was interrupted by the click-clack of hooves on polished wood. Murtasimbakri, the capricious goat, ambled in with the air of one who owned the place, her presence suddenly turning the formal atmosphere on its head.

The goat made a beeline for Murtasim, settling beside him with proprietary ease, her intelligent eyes sizing up the suitor with a discernment that seemed almost human. Murtasim held Murtasimbakri close, whispering into her ear. "Keep a close eye on him, alright?" The goat bleated, a sound that seemed to carry a promise. It was a surreal tableau—a man and his goat, bonded in their mutual protectiveness over the woman who had captivated both their hearts.

They both watched Ali. Every now and then, he would glance down at the watch encircling his wrist—a subtle, yet telltale sign of impatience.

Murtasim observed him from across the room, his disdain growing with every passing second. Would this man, with his restless tapping and time-checking, have the patience for Meerab's long routines? She was not one to rush when she was dressing herself or doing her makeup —her attention to detail and her leisurely pace in preparing herself were aspects of her personality that Murtasim had come to adore.

Ali's impatience was more than a breach of etiquette; it was a glaring sign that he might not be the right man for Meerab, who deserved someone who understood that the best things in life could not be rushed.

The ticking of the clock, the tapping of impatient fingers, all faded into insignificance as the moment they were all waiting for arrived. As Meerab entered the room, time seemed to slow down for Murtasim. She was a vision in red, her beauty accentuated by the soft curls of her hair and the subtle makeup that highlighted her natural features. For a moment, he was transported back to a summer memory – her descending the stairs clad in a red suit for the first time, his heart racing with admiration as he finally admitted her allure to himself. The memory was so vivid, so poignant, that it momentarily took his breath away.

But the moment was shattered when their eyes met. There was a fleeting connection, a spark that used to ignite into something more, but it was gone as quickly as it came. Meerab looked away, breaking the eye contact that used to linger. Murtasim felt a pang of longing, mixed with a dull ache of something lost.

Murtasim's jaw tightened as Ali's gaze met Meerab's, the interaction sparking an irrational surge of protectiveness. He could almost see the invisible threads of manipulation weaving from Ali's fingertips, and he silently vowed that this man would not ensnare Meerab in his web. The kameenapan in Ali's eyes was a warning sign, one that Murtasim read loud and clear. Ali might have been deemed a suitable suitor by some, but to Murtasim, he was a threat that needed to be neutralized. The admiration in his gaze, treating Meerab as though she were a prize to be won, sparked a flare of anger within him.

Murtasimbakri seemed to share Murtasim's sentiment, her bleat turning into a growl, her eyes narrowed into slits.

The adults around them engaged in idle chatter, feigning a sense of privacy for Meerab and her potential suitor while their eyes remained locked onto the pair. The pretense of conversation hung heavily in the air, a dance of words Murtasim found both infuriating and pointless.

Ali, seemingly oblivious to the tension, flashed a confident grin and offered what he likely thought was a compliment. Murtasimbakri seemed to share his sentiment for her bleat turned into a growl. "You're much more beautiful in real life than even the pictures," he said, his smile stretching wide.

The statement sent Murtasim's fists curling into a tighter ball, his nails digging crescents into his palms. Beside him, Murtasimbakri let out a low, dismissive bleat, as if mirroring his thoughts on the suitor's lackluster attempt at flattery. Her head cocked to one side, eyes narrowed in a clear display of skepticism toward the man attempting to woo her human friend.

He watched Meerab's reaction intently, a part of him screaming in protest as she smiled back. Murtasimbakri shuffled closer to Murtasim, a soft rumbling bleat emerging from her throat, akin to a disapproving grumble at the sight of Meerab's strained smile.

Meerab's gaze flickered to Murtasim for a fleeting second—a look he couldn't read—before she turned back to Ali. Her smile was too stretched, too forced, resembling a clown's exaggerated grin more than a genuine expression of pleasure. "Thank you, you're much more handsome than the pictures too," she responded, her voice light but her fingers betraying her as they twisted her dupatta nervously. Murtasimbakri, sensing the underlying tension, began to gnaw lightly on the corner of the sofa, her own form of anxious fidgeting that seemed to align with Meerab's unease.

Murtasim's mind raced with disbelief and a silent scoff. Was she serious? Did she actually find this man attractive? In Murtasim's eyes, Ali was passable at best, nothing compared to the man Meerab deserved. The thought crossed his mind whether Meerab needed an eye examination because Ali was just... alright, utterly average. The jealousy simmered within him, a toxic brew threatening to spill over at the slightest provocation.

Murtasimbakri seemed to pick up on his rising ire, her own restlessness growing as she started to chew more vigorously on the sofa, pulling at the fabric in a rare display of goatish annoyance.

Murtasim could feel his jaw muscles working as Ali's laughter rang out, too loud, too confident. "I heard you're finishing up law school here?" Ali inquired, turning his full attention to Meerab.

Murtasimbakri, her chewing momentarily forgotten, lifted her head to stare directly at Ali. The goat's gaze held an unimpressed glint, as if she too questioned the merit of his interest in Meerab's academic pursuits. Her ears flicked back, a subtle but unmistakable sign of her growing distaste.

Meerab gave a simple nod in response to Ali's question, a motion that Murtasim found himself tracking with an intensity that bordered on obsessive. The background check on Ali was still not complete, but Murtasim remembered the snippet that had stood out glaringly: Ivy League graduate. It was a detail that had irked him for reasons he couldn't fully articulate even to himself.

"That's great, I went to law school at Yale," Ali announced, and Murtasim could practically hear the capital letters in his tone, the pride that seemed to say he believed he was better than others just because of where he had studied. Murtasimbakri let out a soft snort, a puff of air through her nostrils that suggested she shared Murtasim's disdain for the man's pretension.

"Yale?" Meerab's voice held a note of awe, and Murtasim's gaze snapped to her. Murtasimbakri followed suit, turning her head to regard Meerab with what could be interpreted as a goatish frown, as if questioning her judgment.

There was a look of admiration in her eyes that seemed to elevate Ali to some higher plane in her estimation. Murtasim's hands clenched into fists. So what if he hadn't attended Yale? He had excelled in his studies without the crutch of an Ivy League name, all while fulfilling his demanding duties as a feudal lord. Murtasimbakri, sensing the rising tension, pawed at the ground, her bleat a low rumble that punctuated the silence following Ali's nod.

Ali confirmed with a nod, a self-satisfied tilt to his chin. "Class of 2018."

"What kind of law do you practice?" Meerab's voice was laced with curiosity, and Murtasim hated how engaged she sounded.

"Corporate Law. I work for one of the biggest firms in New York; we have many of the Fortune 500 companies as our clients." Ali's chest seemed to swell with each word, and Murtasim's stomach turned at the overt display of arrogance. Murtasimbakri gave a disdainful flick of her tail, as if to say that even she knew there was more to life than the prestige of one's clients.

"Why corporate law?" Meerab's question was innocent, yet loaded with expectation. Murtasimbakri leaned closer to Murtasim, her body language showing a keen interest in the response. It was as if the goat understood the weight of the answer on Meerab's decision.

Murtasim watched as his mother's expression soured slightly, while Meerab's parents beamed, oblivious to the undercurrents flowing between the younger individuals in the room. Ali's answer was a self-assured chuckle. "Honestly, the money."

At this, Murtasimbakri let out a sharp bleat, the sound cutting through Ali's laughter like a knife. It was clear, even to a goat, that this man's values were misaligned with those of the woman he sought to marry.

Meerab's laugh was a polite, hollow sound, but Murtasim noticed the shift in her eyes, the dimming of that starry look as a touch of disillusionment crept in. He knew her well enough to understand that she valued purpose over profit, passion over paychecks. In that moment, he felt a surge of relief wash over him. Ali had just slipped in Meerab's esteem. The corporate lawyer might have won her parents over with his credentials and financial success, but he had failed to capture what truly mattered to Meerab. And for Murtasim, that was the first crack in the armor, the first small victory in a war he was silently waging...one he shouldn't have been waging at all.

Meerab's eyes met Murtasim's, and in them, he saw a flash of defiance, a silent challenge. It was a look he knew all too well, one that used to be directed at him often. He must have let his emotions show on his face.

"To each his own." Meerab's laughter was light, but her words held an edge. "The money must be nice." Her voice was almost playful.

"New York is expensive, so every bit counts," Ali replied with a carefree smile. In that moment, Murtasimbakri made a soft, discontented noise, akin to a huff. It was a small sound, but it spoke volumes to Murtasim, a vocal agreement of his own unspoken criticism.

Murtasim couldn't hold back the sharp retort that sprang to his lips. "It can't be enough for a comfortable lifestyle despite selling out." The words were out before he could stop them, his tone biting and cold. Murtasimbakri shuffled closer to Murtasim, pressing against his leg in a silent show of support, her gaze fixed on Ali with a skepticism that mirrored Murtasim's own.

Meerab's giggle cut through the tension like a knife, and she turned to Ali, dismissing Murtasim's comment with a wave of her hand. "Ignore him, he has a problem with people who know what they want." Her eyelashes fluttered in a blatant display of flirtation, and Murtasim's hands balled into fists at his sides. "And are you planning to live in the US after getting married?" she inquired, leaning forward with genuine interest.

Murtasim scoffed, the sound harsh in the silence that had befallen the room at his outburst. Ali, seemingly encouraged by Meerab's interest, launched into a passionate speech about the superiority of the United States over Pakistan, highlighting the opportunities and lifestyle that awaited them there.

Murtasimbakri stood up abruptly, her hooves clicking on the floor as she positioned herself between Meerab and Ali, a living barrier to their union.

With every chuckle and smile that Meerab offered Ali, Murtasim felt a sharp pang of jealousy. He wanted to leap across the room, to put an end to this charade, to tell Ali that he had no right to laugh with her, to dream of a future with her. But he restrained himself, his body rigid with effort.

Murtasimbakri, in turn, tossed her head and stamped a hoof, the movements disruptive and drawing the attention of everyone in the room. It was as if the goat was openly voicing her disapproval of the suitor, her antics a reflection of Murtasim's inner turmoil.

She couldn't marry this man. Murtasim was sure of it. There was something off about Ali, something that didn't sit right with him. And though a small voice in the back of his mind whispered that he would probably never approve of anyone for Meerab, in this case, his dislike for Ali was visceral, undeniable.

Murtasim's phone dinged, a caps lock message from Areeb – not a lawyer, dropped out, he's a DJ, goes by DJ Ali and is hired by influential people.

Following the text came pictures – of the man smoking, drinking, and partying.

Murtasim's patience snapped like a brittle twig underfoot. He hated liars. He couldn't sit by idly any longer, watching this...this charade. With a resolve hardened into steel, he leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Ali with the intensity of a hawk targeting its prey.

"So, Ali," Murtasim began, his voice calm but carrying a razor-sharp edge, "tell us about your daily life in New York. How do you balance work and religion in such a fast-paced environment?"

Ali, taken aback by the sudden interrogation, faltered for a moment before answering. "Well, it's all about prioritizing, isn't it? I make time for Friday prayers, at least."

"Just Fridays?" Murtasim probed, one eyebrow arching critically. "And the rest of the week?"

Ali shifted uncomfortably. "Well, the firm keeps me busy, but I try to pray when I can."

After each of Ali's attempts at an answer, Murtasimbakri let out a soft, skeptical bleat, almost as if she was calling out the half-truths and evasions. She paced back and forth beside Murtasim, her movements restless and agitated.

Murtasim's lips curved into a sardonic smile. "I see. And politics? Where do you stand on the issues affecting our country?"

Ali blinked, clearly unprepared for such a question. "Uh, well, I believe in progress and..."

"Progress," Murtasim cut him off sharply, "is a broad term. Can you elaborate?"

Ali's discomfort was palpable. He stuttered through a half-baked response about reform and change, but Murtasim was relentless.

"Have you ever been involved in any...contentious legal battles? Any...ethical dilemmas in your line of work?"

A bead of sweat trickled down Ali's temple as he responded with a nervous laugh. "Well, in corporate law, you know how it is. It's a cutthroat world."

"So, no ethical quandaries then?" Murtasim pressed, the intensity of his gaze unyielding.

Ali shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I always try to do what's right, of course."

Murtasimbakri trotted over to Meerab, nudging her gently with her nose, as if trying to draw her attention to the unfolding scene. She then returned to Murtasim's side, standing protectively close, her gaze fixed on Ali with an unmistakable glare.

"Of course," Murtasim echoed, his tone dripping with disbelief.

The room was thick with tension, the air charged with Murtasim's barely contained hostility. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, his dark eyes still fixed on Ali. There was a silent challenge in his stare, a warning that he wasn't done.

The tension in the room was palpable, a thick cloud of unspoken words and suppressed emotions, as Murtasim's phone vibrated with another incoming message from Areeb. With a surreptitious glance, he checked the screen, his body tensing as he read the urgent, all-caps text.

Meerab's piercing gaze caught his attention once again. Her eyes, full of fire and defiance, held a flicker of something else as well—curiosity. She seemed to sense the shift in the air, the subtle change in Murtasim's demeanor from protective hostility to something more significant, more damning.

"How long did it take to become a citizen in the USA?" Murtasim's voice cut through the room like a knife, sharp and precise.

Murtasimbakri made small biting gestures in the air towards Ali, reflecting Murtasim's own desire to expose the man's true character.

Ali, caught off guard, stumbled over his words, "Just a year," he managed to get out, trying to maintain a semblance of control.

Murtasim's eyebrow arched in disbelief. "That's quite short, I heard it was a lot longer," he pressed, his voice calm but carrying an edge that was hard to miss.

A nervous chuckle escaped Ali. "There are workarounds, I am a lawyer, after all," he tried to joke, but the attempt fell flat, his earlier confidence fading fast.

Meerab's glare had not waned, her eyes now flitting between Murtasim and Ali, reading the room, reading the men.

"I see... marrying a US citizen, right? Alizeh is it? Your ex-wife? The one that likely got you your citizenship? Maybe you met her at one of those parties you DJ?" Murtasim asked, his tone no longer just pointed—it was accusatory, his words laced with implication.

Murtasim threw his phone down on the table, a picture of Ali with the woman in question.

His mother's gasp was like the first crack of thunder in a storm, one that set off a chain reaction. Anila's gasp was sharper, a piercing sound that seemed to slice through the tension.

Ali and his parents, their complexions having lost all color, were a picture of dismay and embarrassment. His parents were glaring at him, clearly they hadn't known. Ali fumbled for words, their earlier confidence dissolving into a mess of stutters and stammers, their well-rehearsed facade crumbling under scrutiny.

Murtasimbakri suddenly charged forward with a determined bleat. Her small body moved with surprising speed as she aimed straight for Ali, her teeth bared in a clear attempt to bite him. The room erupted into chaos, with Ali jumping back in shock and alarm, trying to dodge the irate goat.

Meerab, quick to react, lunged forward and grabbed Murtasimbakri, pulling her away from Ali. She held the goat firmly against her, trying to soothe her agitation. Murtasimbakri, still riled up, continued to make snapping gestures in Ali's direction, her displeasure unmistakably clear.

As Meerab cuddled Murtasimbakri, trying to calm her down, the goat nestled into her arms, still keeping her eyes fixed on Ali with obvious disdain.

Ali's father's voice boomed across the room, heavy with disbelief and anger, "What is this nonsense, Ali? You dropped out of law school? And a DJ? What kind of life is that?"

His mother's voice followed, shrill and panicked, "Married and divorced? Without telling us? How could you be so irresponsible?"

Ali cleared his throat, the sound rough and loud in the silence. "I... well, that was purely a business matter, a contract marriage," he said, attempting to regain his composure.

"Hmmm." Murtasim echoed, his tone dripping with skepticism. "Tell me why I should believe a word you say when you've proved you're nothing but a liar."

Ali jumbled over his words, his attempt to explain cut short by his mother's sharp reprimand, "Enough, Ali! We don't want to hear any more of your lies."

Ali's parents turned to Anila and Waqas, their faces a mix of shame and contrition. "We are deeply sorry for this, we had no idea," his father said, his voice heavy with regret. "We'll take our leave now."

With that, Ali's father gripped his son firmly by the arm, his mother trailing close behind, her eyes downcast as they hurriedly escorted their son out of the house, leaving behind a wake of awkward silence and unspoken questions.

The goat, who had been tense and on edge, now relaxed, her demeanor changing as the source of her agitation left the room. She nuzzled into Meerab affectionately, wiggling happily in her arms, as if celebrating the departure of the unwelcome guest.

Murtasimbakri's behavior didn't go unnoticed by Murtasim, who couldn't help but crack a small smile at the goat's antics. It was almost as if Murtasimbakri was in tune with the emotions swirling around in the room, understanding the relief that came with Ali's exit.

He also noticed the glare - Meerab's glare was a force all on its own, her eyes locked onto Murtasim with an intensity that could ignite flames. He met her fiery gaze with a raised eyebrow, a silent challenge that spoke volumes of the history and tension between them.

Meerab's glare sharpened, a wordless interrogation that seemed to pierce right through him, as if she was questioning his intentions, his timing, the revelations he had just laid bare.

He glanced at his phone again, the evidence still glaring from the screen, and shrugged subtly as if to say, "I just found out." But Meerab's eyes narrowed further, her look demanding a better explanation, a silent accusation of why he had allowed the meeting to progress this far if he had such damning information.

Murtasimbakri seemed to sense the unspoken communication, her ears twitching as she observed their silent exchange, her head turning back and forth between them.

Murtasim gave a slight tilt of his head, a non-verbal concession. "I saved you," he tried to convey through his steady gaze, his expression firm yet tinged with an unspoken plea for understanding.

But Meerab was having none of it. Her lips pursed in a silent huff, she rose abruptly from her seat. There was a regal kind of fury in the way she moved, every step an emphatic punctuation to the silent conversation that hung unfinished in the air. She stomped off, her departure a clear sign of her annoyance—not just with the situation, but with the flirtations she had attempted. Murtasimbakri matched her pace, staying by her side as a faithful ally.

Murtasim watched Meerab leave, a storm of red fabric and righteous indignation, her departure leaving ripples of tension in her wake. Her anger, her fiery spirit—it was a balm to his weary soul. This was the Meerab he knew, the one whose defiance and courage had always drawn him in. The very same Meerab who wouldn't have stood for being married off, who would have fought tooth and nail against it.

A part of him swelled with a perverse sense of pride and relief. There she was, the woman he loved, not complacent or broken but as fierce and formidable as the day he'd met her. It gave him a shard of hope in the midst of his bleak ruminations.

But then reality set back in, the crushing weight of all the 'never will bes.' He'd imagined a future where he'd come home to her huffs, where he'd tease her until she scrunched her nose in mock annoyance, where they'd navigate her fiery moods together, sometimes with laughter, other times with whispered promises and kisses. He'd even indulged in the fantasy of a daughter inheriting her mother's spirit, a little girl with Meerab's eyes and the same indomitable will.

He sighed heavily, a sound that carried the weight of his resignation. There would be no placating, no shared future, no daughter with her mother's fire. The life he'd dared to dream of would remain just that—a dream. As the sound of the door slamming echoed in his ears, he knew that the absence of her vibrant energy would haunt him, a poignant reminder of all that could have been.

With the finality of the door's slam still resounding in the room, Murtasim faced the remaining assembly of parents. His mother's expression was taut, her displeasure at the scene that had unfolded was clear as day. Meerab's parents, Waqas and Anila, looked unsettled, the illusion of a perfect suitor shattered by the truth that had come to light.

"That's the type of man you're going to marry Meerab off to if you don't give me the time to look into them," Murtasim said firmly, locking eyes with each of them in turn. His voice carried a warning that brooked no argument, a final line drawn in the sand. "Don't rush it."

His mother pursed her lips, the lines of her face hardening as she considered his words. It was a rare moment where her son's intervention gave pause to her own plans, and she weighed his admonition with a calculating eye.

Waqas and Anila exchanged a glance, their expressions softening into an uneasy agreement. They nodded, the unspoken acknowledgment of Murtasim's request hanging heavy in the air. They understood the stakes now, the potential for disaster if they failed to heed his counsel. The process of finding a suitor for Meerab would not be a hasty one, not if it meant risking her future happiness and well-being.

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A/N: Soooooooo, what do you think? Has the u-turn commenced? Are we feeling sorry for Murtasim yet? And whatever shall happen next? Hint: the third time is the charm, hehehe.