Dinner that evening was a subdued affair, with Salma's chatter about the upcoming walima filling the space between them. She spoke of the guest list that grew longer by the hour, the elaborate menu being prepared by the best chefs in Hyderabad, and the intricate decorations that would transform the mansion into a fairy tale. Meerab listened attentively, making mental notes and offering suggestions when appropriate. Despite her apprehension about the event, she knew that a successful walima was essential to maintaining the family's reputation.

Murtasim sat at the head of the table, his eyes never leaving Meerab's face as she spoke. He couldn't help but admire her poise and the way she took charge of the conversation, her voice filled with the confidence of a woman who knew her worth. The warmth of his gaze made her cheeks flush, and she felt a flutter in her stomach that she hadn't experienced in a long time.

As the plates were cleared away, Salma turned to her son with a hopeful smile. "Murtasim, why don't you show Meerab the guest house? It's almost ready for the guests."

He nodded, pushing back his chair with a scrape against the marble floor. Meerab's heart quickened as she followed him into the cool night air, the stars above them a dazzling array of diamonds against the velvet sky.

••••••••••••••••••••••••

The guest house was a smaller, yet equally opulent, version of the main mansion. Each room had been meticulously decorated, the scent of fresh flowers mingling with the faint smell of paint. As they walked through the corridors, their fingers brushed against each other's, sending a jolt of electricity through Meerab's body. She glanced up at him, wondering if he felt it too.

Murtasim's expression was unreadable, his jaw tight as he pointed out the various amenities that had been arranged for their guests. Yet, there was something in the way he held himself, a tension that suggested he was as aware of her presence as she was of his.

In the last room, a suite reserved for Meerab's parents, she paused, her hand lingering on the doorknob. "Thank you for showing me around," she said softly, her eyes searching his.

His gaze remained steadfast, his voice even. "It's your house now too," he replied. "You should know where everything is."

The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of their unspoken feelings. Then, with a curt nod, he turned and walked away, leaving her to navigate the rest of the guest house alone.

Meerab watched him go, her heart aching. This was the man she was now bound to, a man whose heart she wasn't sure she could ever claim. With a sigh, she made her way back to the mansion, the grandeur of the guest house feeling like a stark contrast to the coldness that had seeped into her own chambers.

As she reached the entrance, she found a note tucked into the doorframe, her name scrawled in Murtasim's distinctive handwriting. It read, "Meerab, I need to work in the office tonight. Get some rest. We'll talk tomorrow."

The words were simple, almost cold, but she felt a strange comfort in the fact that he had taken the time to write them. She stepped into their suite, the silence deafening. With a heavy heart, she slipped into bed, the sheets still holding the faint scent of his cologne.

The hours stretched out before her, an endless expanse of darkness filled with doubt and fear. Yet, as she lay there, she made a silent vow. She would not let the shadow of his past love consume her. Instead, she would work to build a new future, one where she could stand beside him, not just as his wife, but as his partner in every sense of the word.

•••••••••••••••••••••••

In the quiet of the night, Murtasim's office was a bastion of concentration. His eyes scanned over the documents and spreadsheets, but his thoughts kept straying to Meerab. The way she had looked at him on their wedding day, the gentle curve of her smile as she saw him , the way she had told him that they would try to make this marriage work. Despite his resolve to maintain his distance, he found himself longing to know her better, to understand the woman who had so willingly stepped into his world.

With a sigh, he pushed away from his desk, the leather chair squeaking in protest. He needed to clear his head, to sort through the tangled mess of his emotions. Walking to the window, he gazed out at the moonlit gardens, the shadows playing tricks with his mind. The memory of Ayesha's betrayal was a specter that haunted him, whispering in his ear that history would repeat itself. But Meerab was different, he assured himself. She had no ulterior motives, no hidden agendas. Her purity was as clear as the moon that shone above them.

Yet, as he pondered the complexities of his heart, he knew that distance was the only way to protect himself. He didn't want to feel the pain of loss again, didn't want to open himself up to the possibility of being hurt. So, he resolved to keep her at arm's length, to treat her with kindness and respect, but to never let her in too deep. It was a decision that felt both right and wrong, a tightrope walk over the chasm of his fears.

•••••••••••••••••••

The next day dawned with the promise of a new beginning, the sun casting long shadows across the marble floors. Meerab woke early, her mind racing with ideas for the walima. She knew that the success of the event was crucial, not just for her new family's reputation, but for her own place within it. As she dressed in a soft pink kameez, she made a silent promise to herself. She would win Murtasim's trust, one act of kindness and one shared smile at a time.

The wedding preparations had reached a fever pitch, the mansion buzzing with the activity of the staff. As Meerab walked through the bustling corridors, she felt a strange sense of belonging, despite the wall that Murtasim had constructed between them. She knew that she had to find a way to breach it, to show him that she was not his enemy, but his ally in this dance of duty and desire.

Murtasim was nowhere to be seen as she ventured into the kitchen, the scent of freshly baked bread and sizzling spices greeting her. The cooks and servants offered her shy smiles, unsure of how to interact with the new mistress of the house. Meerab took charge, her voice firm but kind as she gave instructions for the final touches to the walima's menu.

As the day progressed, she found herself slipping into the rhythm of the mansion's life, her thoughts of Murtasim ever-present but pushed aside in favor of the tasks at hand. Yet, when the evening approached, and the first guests began to arrive, she couldn't help but feel a pang of loneliness. He was her husband, but she felt like a stranger in her own home.

••••••••••••••••••••••••

Meerab stood in front of the full-length mirror in the opulent bedroom, her heart racing as she took in her reflection. The silver and blue dress clung to her curves, the intricate embroidery glinting in the soft glow of the pendant lights. She had chosen the color as it was murtasim's favourite colour , hoping it would be a small gesture of peace offering. Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the dupatta, the weight of the evening's significance pressing down on her.

The door opened, and Murtasim stepped in, his presence like a storm that had been brewing all day. He was resplendent in a dark blue tuxedo, the stark contrast to her dress making them look like they were crafted from the very night and moonlight. His eyes widened at the sight of her, the air in the room seeming to thicken with his sudden stillness.

For a moment, she felt like the most beautiful woman in the world, his gaze devouring her as if he had never seen anything quite so exquisite. Then, as quickly as it had come, the moment was gone, and he was the stoic man she had come to know. "You look...stunning," he said, his voice low and gruff.

Meerab felt her cheeks heat up, the compliment more potent than any bouquet of roses. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.

He took a step closer, extending his hand to her. "Shall we?"

Placing her hand in his, she felt a jolt of electricity shoot up her arm. It was a simple gesture, one that could have meant nothing, but in that moment, it felt like a promise of something more. Together, they walked through the halls of the mansion, their footsteps echoing in the silence.

The walima was a grand affair, the gardens transformed into a shimmering sea of lights and color. The air was alive with the sounds of laughter and music, the scent of exotic flowers and spices filling the air. Yet, amidst the celebration, Meerab felt a strange sense of detachment. This was not her world, not yet.

Murtasim was a gracious host, his smile never wavering as he greeted guests and made small talk. But when he looked at her, she saw the pain in his eyes, the shadow of his past love that still lingered. She knew that she had to find a way to reach him, to show him that she was not a replacement, but a new chapter in his story.

As the night wore on, the music grew louder, the lights more vivid. They danced together, their bodies moving in perfect harmony despite the emotional distance between them. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to imagine a future where they were more than just two people bound by duty.

But as the final notes of the last song played out, and the guests began to leave, she was brought back to reality. This was her life now, a tapestry of obligation and hope, stitched together by the threads of their shared heritage.

The two of them stood on the steps of the mansion, watching the last of the guests drive away. The silence was deafening, the weight of their unspoken words heavy between them. Without looking at her, Murtasim took her hand again, his grip firm and reassuring. "Thank you for tonight," he said, his voice barely carrying on the breeze.

Meerab looked up at him, her heart in her eyes. "It was my pleasure," she replied, her voice filled with a hope that she didn't dare to name.

They walked back into the house, the grand entrance hall echoing with the ghosts of the evening's festivities. As they climbed the stairs to their suite, she couldn't help but wonder if this was the closest they would ever come to a real connection.

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