The first sliver of dawn pierced through the tinted windows of the mansion, casting a soft glow on the gleaming steel and chrome of the home gym. Murtasim Khan, his muscles rippling with the effort of each push-up, breathed in the cool morning air, his mind drifting to a time that felt like an eternity ago. The echoes of his grunts and the thud of his body hitting the mat filled the room, a stark contrast to the serene silence that enveloped the rest of the sprawling estate. Sweat beaded on his forehead, tracing a path down the side of his face as he continued his punishing routine.

Today, Five years had passed since the day Ayesha Ali had shattered his heart into a million jagged pieces. Each repetition served as a grim reminder of the pain she had inflicted, a pain that had forged him into the stoic man he was today. He had sworn to never let anyone wield that kind of power over him again, to never be vulnerable to the whims of love. The gym had become his sanctuary, a place where he could purge his anger and disappointment, leaving them behind with every drop of sweat that fell to the floor.

As he moved on to the treadmill, the rhythmic thump of his sneakers on the rubber melded with the memory of her cold, calculating eyes as she told him she was going to marry Haider Abbas, her childhood sweetheart and a man from a family of more wealth and status. The words still stung, a dull ache that no amount of success could erase. He had given her everything: his heart, his trust, his love, and she had tossed it aside like it was worthless.

The digital display on the treadmill blurred as he pushed himself to run faster, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The walls of the gym seemed to close in on him, suffocating him with the weight of the past. Ayesha's laughter, the way she used to look at him with adoration, all of it felt like a distant mirage, a cruel trick played by his own mind. But the sting of her betrayal remained as fresh as the day it had happened.

Murtasim's grip tightened on the handrails, his knuckles turning white. The treadmill whirred under his punishing stride, a silent witness to his internal turmoil. The only love he knew now was the love for his sister Mariam and the fierce loyalty to his mother, Salma Shahnawaz. The love he had felt for Ayesha was a faded photograph, a shadow of what it once was.

As he increased the speed, the room grew hazy with the fog of his breath and the intensity of his emotions. The image of Meerab, his cousin, swam before his eyes. He knew his mother and his uncle Anwar, had been pressuring him to marry her, a union that would unite their families and fulfill his father's last wish. But Murtasim felt no love for Meerab, no spark of the passion that had once consumed him. She was a symbol of a future he didn't want, a reminder of the vulnerability he had sworn to bury.

Finally, with his heart pounding in his chest and his muscles screaming for relief, Murtasim stepped off the treadmill. He toweled off and walked into the adjacent shower, the cold water cascading over him like a waterfall, attempting to wash away the fatigue and the ghosts of his past. The steam billowed around him, creating a veil that shrouded his thoughts in a momentary peace.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••

He emerged from the shower, the cold air of the marble bathroom causing his skin to prickle. As he dressed in a crisp white shalwar kameez, he contemplated the meeting with Meerab's family that evening. It was an arrangement that he knew he could not escape, despite his reluctance to marry. The scent of his sandalwood cologne filled the air as he dabbed it on his neck and wrists, a ritual that usually brought him comfort but now only served as a precursor to the inevitable confrontation with his own feelings.

Murtasim took a deep breath and looked at himself in the mirror. His reflection stared back, a man whose heart had been forged in the fires of betrayal. He knew he had to honor his family's wishes, but the thought of being bound to someone for reasons other than love filled him with dread. Love, that elusive, treacherous emotion, had brought him to his knees once. He would not let it happen again.

The sun had fully risen by the time he descended the grand staircase, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling parathas wafting from the kitchen. Mariam looked up from her laptop, her eyes filled with concern as she took in his tired yet determined expression. She knew his thoughts lingered on Ayesha, but she hoped that Meerab could offer him the companionship and support he so desperately needed.

"You look tired, Murtasim Bhai," she said gently, her voice carrying the softness of a summer breeze.

He forced a smile. "Just a long night, that's all."

Mariam nodded, choosing not to press further. She had seen the anguish in his eyes too many times. "Breakfast is ready. Maa is waiting for us."

The dining room was a symphony of warm light and rich mahogany, the crystal chandelier casting a kaleidoscope of shadows on the gleaming table. Salma Shahnawaz, her eyes filled with hope and concern, watched as Murtasim took his seat. Despite the opulence surrounding them, the tension was palpable, thick as the steam rising from their plates.

"Your uncle Anwar called again," she said, her voice measured. "They are expecting us tonight."

Murtasim's jaw tightened. "I know."

The conversation was sparse, the air charged with unspoken words. The clinking of silverware against fine china punctuated the silence, a reminder of the responsibilities that weighed on his shoulders. He pushed his food around his plate, his appetite evaporated by the looming meeting.

As the day progressed, Murtasim found himself lost in a whirlwind of preparations. The mansion buzzed with activity as servants bustled about, setting the stage for the evening's gathering. His mother's persistent reminders of the importance of this union and the legacy of their family echoed through the halls, each one a dull thud against his heart.

••••••••••••••••••••••••

Finally, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in a palette of fiery oranges and purples, the time had come. The long drive to Lahore felt like an eternity, the anticipation a heavy burden in the pit of his stomach. The car pulled up to the gates of his uncle's estate, the grandeur of the property serving as a stark contrast to the turmoil within him.

The drawing room was an elegant tapestry of silk and velvet, filled with the muted hum of polite conversation. Anwar Khan, his uncle, was a tall, robust man with a thick beard and piercing eyes that held the weight of his expectations. Murtasim felt a twinge of guilt as he saw the hope in his uncle's gaze. This union was not just about him and Meerab; it was about generations of friendship and respect between their families.

And then, she walked in. Meerab, her honey brown eyes meeting his with a shy curiosity. She was beautiful, there was no denying it. But she was not Ayesha. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, leaving him momentarily breathless. Her smile was tentative, her steps unsure, as if she too was a captive in this dance of destiny.

He forced himself to stand, to greet her, to play the part that was expected of him. As they exchanged pleasantries, Murtasim searched her eyes for any sign of the fiery spirit that he had once seen in seen her eyes . But all he found was a quiet resignation, a mirror to his own feelings.

The evening stretched on, filled with awkward pauses and forced laughter. Meerab's father, Anwar spoke of their shared lineage and the strength of their families, while her mother looked on with a proud smile. It was a performance, a script that had been written long before they had any say in the matter.

Murtasim felt the noose of duty tightening around his neck with every word spoken, every nod of agreement. He knew that he could not break the hearts of those who had loved and cared for him, but the thought of a loveless marriage was a prison he wasn't sure he could bear.

As the night grew late and the guests began to disperse, Meerab approached him, her eyes searching his. "Is this what you want?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the clinking of teacups.

He took a deep breath, the scent of jasmine from her hair enveloping him. "It's not about what I want," he replied, his voice gruff with unshed emotion. "It's about what's expected of us."

Meerab nodded, her eyes dropping to the floor. "I know," she murmured. "But can we find a way to make it work?"

Murtasim's heart lurched at her words. He didn't want to marry her out of obligation, but the weight of his father's wish and his family's expectations was crushing. He looked into her eyes, searching for the answer, but all he found was a quiet resolve that matched his own. He knew that she was as trapped in this situation as he was.

The next day, Murtasim found his mother in the lush gardens of the mansion, her dupatta fluttering gently in the early morning breeze. He approached her, his steps measured, his decision made. "I will marry Meerab," he said, his voice firm despite the turmoil in his heart.

Salma's eyes lit up with joy and relief. "Oh, Murtasim," she said, her voice cracking with emotion. "Your father would be so proud."

He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I want you to know it's nothing more than fulfilling my responsibilities , so please don't have any expectations from me." After he was finished talking he realised that his mother was long gone. Shaking his head he went inside

•••••••••••••••••••••••••

Over the next few days, the preparations for the wedding began in earnest. The mansion was ablaze with color, the air thick with the scent of roses and sandalwood. The sound of laughter and chatter filled the halls, a stark contrast to the solemn silence that had previously reigned. Yet amidst the chaos, Murtasim felt a strange sense of calm. He had made his peace with his decision, or so he thought.

One afternoon, as he sat in his study, signing off on the final details of the wedding contracts, a knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. He looked up to find Meerab standing there, her eyes filled with an intensity he had never seen before.

"Murtasim," she said, her voice unwavering. "I know you don't love me, but I want you to know that I will try to be a good wife to you."

Her words hit him like a sledgehammer. He had never considered that she might have feelings for him, that she might hope for love where there was none. The realization filled him with a newfound respect for her strength and her willingness to sacrifice for their families.

He stood, walking towards her, "Meerab," he said, his voice gentle. "I know that I'm not able to love you but I promise to treat you with the respect and kindness you deserve."

Meerab's eyes searched his, looking for the truth in his words. After a moment, she nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "Thank you," she whispered.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••