𖥻﹕𝖥𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖮𝗇𝖾𝗌﹒ຯ - Chapter 15: Chapter 15

Silent Claims, Loud Hearts
Weeks had passed, and both of our leads settled well with their new lives and schedule.
Fahmid was already making a name for himself at the office. His calm nature, discipline, and leadership were earning him respect fast. He did not speak much, but when he did, people listened. His military training clearly reflected in the way he managed things—organized, focused, and sharp.
Afreen, on the other hand, was doing great in university. She was already one of the teachers’ favorites. Her classmates admired her confidence and calm personality. She did not talk much unless needed, but when she did, her words were clear. She carried herself with quiet grace, and it did not take long for people to notice her.
It was an off day for Afreen—a rare pocket of calm. So, she decided to spend it doing something her heart had been aching to: cook lunch for her Lion-ie.
She stepped into the kitchen with a small smile. It had been a while since she cooked for him. She wanted it to be just right. She put her dupatta on the side, tied the apron neatly around her body, rolled up her sleeves, and got to work in the kitchen. The scent of spices and warmth filled the house within minutes.
“Maa! Come here! I need backup!” She shouted, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “The onions are killing me again.” She complained, half-laughing, half-coughing as the onions got the better of her.
Soon, Sabrina appeared, laughing as she entered the kitchen. “Still crying over onions, huh? I told you to wear swimming goggles this time.”
Afreen looked at her with a whiny look: "Maa! Please, don’t laugh. You know how sensitive I am. So, please, help me cut them. And taste the spice too." She requested her.
"Call the one for whom you are doing all this." The old lady snickered playfully.
"Maa! You know how he is being nowadays! So, please, my sweet Maa, help me." She used her bambi eyes, which, of course, Sabrina could not deny, and rolling her eyes, she got to work.
Both of them worked effortlessly and diligently, Sabrina slicing onions with practiced hands, Afreen carefully stirring the fried rice, adjusting the chicken and veggies just right. It was the dish she knew he liked most. The one he always asked his mother to make “next time.”
Then came the pudding—soft, golden, and jiggly in the way he liked. She topped it with roasted nuts and set it aside with a satisfied sigh. Finally, she poured the homemade mango juice into a chilled bottle, pressing a little sticker on the cap that read, “Drink me. You’ll smile.”
Afreen then looked at the table—fried rice, pudding, juice—her heart swelling with pride. “Perfect,” she whispered to herself, eyes gleaming. “Now let’s see if he can act cold after this."
She packed it all carefully in a polished tiffin box, tied it with a cloth ribbon, and held it in her hands like a gift. Because to her, it was. With the tiffin box in hand and a little hope in her heart, she got ready to visit his office—wanting nothing more than to see his eyes soften at the taste of something made just for him.
Afreen reached Fahmid’s office building just before lunch break. She walked in, holding the tiffin box close, her eyes scanning the place nervously. She had been there before—back when his father was still in charge—but that time felt different. Then, he was in charge. She asked the receptionist if she could meet him and was politely guided upstairs.
Fahmid’s cabin was at the far end of the corridor, the nameplate shiny and new. She stopped right outside the glass door, fixed her hijab, took a deep breath, and knocked twice. “Come in,” came his voice—flat and firm.
Afreen pushed open the door and stepped in with a small smile. He was seated behind a large desk, files stacked to one side, laptop open, pen between his fingers. He looked up, and for a moment—just a blink—his eyes softened.
“Hey…” She said gently, placing the tiffin on the desk. “I made you lunch. Thought you could use a break.”
There was a pause. And then—
“You didn’t have to,” he said without any emotion. “I’m busy.”
Afreen’s smile faltered a little. “Still, I wanted to. It’s your favorite—”
Before she could finish, he pressed the intercom button. “Rafiq, come in and take this lunch. Share it with everyone. I am not hungry.” Afreen’s heart sank. She blinked quickly to hide the sting in her eyes.
The office boy walked in with a bright smile, unaware of the silent tension, and took the tiffin box carefully. “Give it to the staff. Everyone can have some,” Fahmid instructed.
Afreen stayed quiet. She did not argue. Just nodded slightly, mumbled a soft, “Okay,” and turned to leave. She was breaking apart inside. But just outside the cabin, as she walked down the hallway, she heard a few female employees whispering near the water cooler.
“CEO sir looked so good in that navy suit today.”
“He’s totally husband material. I bet he has girls chasing him already.”
“I swear, the way Sir walks in, all tall and serious—uff, I’d spill coffee just to get a reason to talk to him.”
“And that jawline? My God. If I were his wife, I’d handcuff him to myself every morning.”
Afreen stopped. Her eyes narrowed. She turned around and marched right back into the cabin—not even knocking that time. Fahmid, who looked up at her, raised his eyebrows. She marched in, eyes blazing, and stood before him.
She grabbed his collar and stared deeply in his eyes. “For the record, if you think that being the CEO-to-be makes you public property, think again. You might ignore my food. You might act like you don’t know me. But that doesn’t change facts.
"You are mine. I don’t care how many suits you wear or how many girls giggle behind your back. You’re still mine. My Lion-ie. Got it?” She said—no, she declared, her voice loud and sharp. It was loud enough to make everyone outside the cabin hear it and keep it in mind.
Fahmid blinked. One eyebrow arched. One corner of his mouth twitched—but before he could smirk, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the office like a queen walking away from a battlefield she had just won, leaving his cabin door slightly open.
From behind the glass, Fahmid watched her walk away, eyes blazing and back stiff with annoyance. He let out a chuckle. “Still the stubborn and possessive one. My lioness, after all,” he murmured with a smile.
A long moment passed. He stood frozen. Then—
He tossed his pen on the desk and rushed out the door to the break room, where Rafiq was just about to open the tiffin.
“Stop,” he snapped, grabbing the box from his hand.
Rafiq looked confused. “Sir?”
“This isn’t for everyone. This is from her. For me,” Fahmid said, clutching the box close. “My Angel made this. It’s mine.”
“God knows what your hands would’ve done to it,” he muttered, side-eyeing Rafiq. And with that, he walked back to his cabin, clutching it close to his chest like a kid who almost lost his favorite toy. He was hugging the tiffin box like it held the world.
He reached his cabin and shut the door—a soft, crescent moon-like smile dancing on his lips. He placed the tiffin on his desk. He opened it slowly, smelled the food, and smelled her. And for the first time all day, he let himself breathe. “Stupid woman,” he whispered. “How can I ever let you go?”
With that, after rubbing his hands with hand sanitizer and reciting the food-consuming du'a, he dived into the food. Eating with utter delightfulness, moaning occasionally at the taste as if he had been starved for ages. He was savoring each item with satisfaction. Once done, he let out a loud burp, making him smile sheepishly at his own antics. At the end of the day, he was contented and grateful for the meal, specifically the meal made by her. Only for him.
A few more weeks passed, and the day finally came. Fahmid was officially stepping into his role as the CEO, marking his father’s full retirement. A formal party was hosted in the company’s event hall—classy, tasteful, and filled with people from different industries. His family members and friends were present there as well.
The event room shimmered with soft golden lights, crystal chandeliers hanging from above, and delicate instrumental music playing in the background. His father, then retired, stood with a proud yet tired smile beside him, shaking hands, offering introductions, slowly fading into the backdrop of a legacy he then handed over.
Fahmid wore a deep charcoal suit with a faint silver lining—crisp, tailored, regal. He looked like he belonged in control. And he was. Rashid leaned in beside him, adjusting his cuff playfully. “Are you nervous, bro?”
Fahmid raised an eyebrow. “Not at all.”
“Good,” Rashid smirked. “Because someone just walked in who might make you forget your own name.”
Fahmid looked at him confused and then turned instinctively—and his heart stumbled. There she stood, Afreen.
She entered through the large glass doors, her steps graceful, posture poised. She wore a silver georgette saree with minimal golden embroidery, paired with a matching hijab that was carefully pinned. Her look was modest yet elegant, traditional yet timeless. She was not trying to turn heads. She just… did.
Fahmid’s throat felt dry. The way her saree flowed with each step, the little smile she offered to the receptionist, the way her hands adjusted her clutch nervously—everything about her struck him like a memory he wanted to preserve.
“Are you alright there, Mr. Lion-ie?” Rashid whispered with a smirk.
Fahmid cleared his throat, casually looking away. “She’s wearing silver. She always wears that when she’s unsure of a place.” He muttered under his breath.
“Did you say something? Or too stunned to speak after seeing your Angel~~?” Rashid teased while wiggling his eyebrows.
Fahmid dismissed him with a wave and walked off to the drinks corner, ordering a cold drink to cool himself. He was suddenly feeling hot in the air-conditioned room. "Control, Fahmid, control. You are supposed to be angry and cold in front of her. Not to melt like a damn ice cube!" He scolded himself while fanning himself with his hands.
Afreen greeted a few familiar faces from her family and friends, most of whom were surprised to see her here. She smiled, responded politely, and kept herself out of the spotlight. But the stares had not gone unnoticed. She was not naive—men noticed her. Some in admiration, others with distasteful thoughts. But she was used to handling herself.
She was standing beside the refreshment table when someone brushed past her—a little too close. A warm palm slid against her exposed back—right where the blouse dipped. She stiffened. Her hand curled into a fist. She turned slowly. A man in a blue blazer, possibly mid-thirties, raised his brows and smirked.
“You shouldn’t wear things that send the wrong signals, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low, eyes not even trying to hide their filth.
Afreen stepped back, shocked and furious. “Excuse me?!”
“Oh, relax. If you didn’t want attention, you wouldn’t be here looking like a married man’s fantasy.” The man replied nonchalantly, making her blood boil.
From across the room, Fahmid heard laughter die down. One of his father’s old business partners, Mr. Faruq, who had been standing beside him, leaned closer and scoffed, "Girls like that always bring unnecessary attention due to their provocative dresses and walks. Tsk! Bloody Women." He sipped on his wine.
Fahmid looked at him with a dead stare but did not say anything or such. He simply waited for some time as he eyed Afreen, who was boiling in rage. Just then—
SLAP.
A loud sound rang out, silencing the music. People turned, looking at them with shocked eyes. Afreen had slapped the old man who touched her inappropriately. The man she slapped staggered slightly, blinking in disbelief, palm over his reddening cheek. Afreen stood tall, her hand still in the air, her voice calm but loud enough for all to hear. “Just because I’m silent doesn’t mean I’m weak. Just because I’m dressed up doesn’t mean I’m asking for it.”
“Touch me again or take one more step. I swear the next thing I break won’t be your ego—it’ll be your spine.” She said, stepping forward, “I’m not here to be gawked at, touched, or talked down to. I’m here because I earned my place. I walked in on my own two feet, not through anyone’s charity. And if that offends your fragile masculinity, take it up with your therapist—if you’ve ever been man enough to see one.” She defended herself gracefully, earning gasps, whispers, and a couple of claps even.
The man stammered, trying to defend himself, but no one was listening. Meanwhile, Mr. Faruq, who was beside Fahmid, gaped. His jaw almost touching the ground, making Fahmid smile proudly. He calmly sipped his drink, then turned to the man. He leaned in slightly, closing the partner's mouth, and said, his voice laced with pride, “That’s what real women look like. Strong. Decent. And untouchable. Respectfully, women!”
He looked straight at Afreen. “And just so you know, that girl you just judged... is a hell of a dangerous woman. A walking tsunami, a lioness beneath that angelic face. Specifically, that's my woman.” The partner stood there, speechless, as Fahmid walked away—eyes locked on the girl in silver, whose courage had just stolen the spotlight.
The crowd still buzzed with whispers long after the slap echoed. But Afreen did not stay to hear them. Her steps were quick, her heart thundered in her chest, and her eyes blurred with the tears she did not want to shed in front of strangers.
She rushed past the side corridor into the hallway that led to the restrooms, breathing hard. Her fists clenched at her sides, her heels clicking against the marble floor. As she left, Hamza gestured to the ladies—Sabrina, Yasmin, and Sufiyah—to check upon her. While Ashraf and he handled the guests, Ayaan and Rashid, along with the guards, threw that cheap man out of the venue.
Inside the bathroom, the moment the door closed behind her, her body collapsed slightly against the counter. She gripped the sink, trying to breathe, but her reflection stared back at her—humiliated, angry, trembling.
“Why does this always happen?” She whispered to herself, biting her trembling lip. “Why do they think they can touch and talk and disrespect… just because I didn’t raise my voice first?”
Suddenly, the door opened with urgency. Sabrina entered. Then Yasmin and Sufiyah. They did not say anything at first. Just walked in, faces full of concern, their expressions already taking in Afreen’s trembling shoulders.
Sabrina reached her first, gently wrapping her arms around Afreen from behind. “We saw it. We saw what he did, baccha. And we saw how you slapped him,” she whispered fiercely. “You did the right thing, my baby. You didn’t let him get away with it.”
Afreen did not speak. She just let the tears fall as Yasmin rubbed her back. “That man’s being thrown out like garbage,” Sufiyah added with disgust. “Guards literally dragged him out. I saw it. He was still mumbling like a coward. No one stood by him.”
Afreen slowly turned around, her makeup smudged slightly, but her face still proud. “Was I too much?”
“You were perfect, sweetie.” Yasmin replied without hesitation.
“You didn’t overreact. You reacted just enough,” Sufiyah added.
Sabrina gently handed her tissues, then fixed her hijab. “Do you want to go home?”
Afreen looked at herself again. She wiped away the smudges and straightened her back. “No. I want to finish what I came here for—to support him. Not to let some creep steal that from me.”
All three women smiled in admiration. “That’s our girl,” Yasmin whispered proudly.
Meanwhile, outside the venue, a black SUV parked at the far edge of the building, away from the entrance and the lights. Fahmid stood in front of it, sleeves rolled up, jaw locked.
Two guards had already thrown the man out, his blazer dusty, ego shattered. “You bloody psycho—” the man started yelling until he realized who was walking toward him.
Fahmid Bilal.
He walked slowly, the look in his eyes unreadable. Dead calm. The man laughed nervously. “Listen, I was just— it was a misunderstanding; I didn’t mean to—”
BAM.
A punch to the stomach silenced him. The man doubled over, gasping for air. Fahmid grabbed his collar, dragging him up to eye level, his voice still dangerously quiet. “You touched her.”
The man choked. “I-it was just a touch— I didn’t—”
CRACK.
A swift punch to the jaw the second time. “I’ve been in love with her for years,” Fahmid hissed. “I haven’t touched her without her permission. Not once. Not even a brush of her hand.”
He shoved the man against the wall. “Because she deserves respect. Because she’s not just a woman—she’s mine. And you thought you could slide your filthy hand across her back and get away with it?”
The man whimpered. “Do it again,” Fahmid said, grabbing his collar tighter, “and they won’t be dragging you out next time. They’ll be picking your teeth off the floor.”
He let the man drop and stepped on his hand harshly while crushing his fingers under his feet. The man let out a loud scream of agony. Blood dripped from the man’s lip as he lay there, panting.
Fahmid took a step back, straightening his sleeves, then looked at the guard. “Don’t ever let him into another event we host. Not even if he begs.”
The guards nodded, dragging the man away like trash. Fahmid did not look back. He walked toward the venue, toward the woman who still held his whole world in her heart, knowing that no matter what, he would always fight for her—even when she was already strong enough to fight for herself.
Fahmid re-entered the venue, his sleeves still slightly wrinkled from the altercation, though his expression was as composed as ever. The soft murmur of the celebration filled the room again—clinks of cutlery, background jazz, camera flashes. But he was not paying attention to any of it.
From across the room, Rashid raised his glass and smirked. “Did someone just teach a man a lesson for touching his woman?”
Fahmid’s eyes briefly flicked to him before looking away, trying to ignore the jab. But Rashid walked up to him, unfazed. “Come on, you’re practically glowing with post-punch satisfaction,” he added in a low voice. “Can’t fake that.”
Fahmid sighed, adjusting his cufflinks. “It was just a warning.”
“Sure,” Rashid said, leaning closer. “But not for him. It was for yourself, wasn’t it?” Fahmid paused.
“If you still love her that much,” Rashid continued, voice steady, no longer teasing, “then why are you pushing her away? You always wanted her. We all saw that. Hell, she was the only thing that made you alive."
Fahmid tried to walk past, but Rashid blocked him gently with an arm. “And now that she’s right here—yearning for you, trying… hurting—you’re the one pulling back. Why?”
There was a silence. A heavy one. Fahmid’s jaw tightened. For a long moment, he said nothing—eyes staring ahead like he was trying to swallow a storm. Then, voice low, almost broken, “I’m afraid, Rashid.”
Rashid turned to him fully, surprised. “Of what?”
“Of hoping again. Of feeling that much again… and losing it. I barely survived the last time I thought I lost her. If I let myself fall now and something happens—if I lose her again—” He exhaled sharply. “It’ll destroy me.”
Rashid was quiet for a moment. Then, with unusual calm, he replied, “You’re not the only one who's scared, Fahmid. But love isn’t about being fearless. It’s about choosing the same person, even when fear screams louder than your heart.”
He clapped a firm hand on Fahmid’s shoulder. “You didn’t survive her once just to let her go now. She’s here. She stayed. Don’t punish her—or yourself—for what might happen. Heal with her… or you’ll spend the rest of your life pushing her away, just to protect a scar that never got a chance to fade.”
With that, Rashid walked off, leaving Fahmid alone by the corridor, silence settling over his thoughts like dust. He did not move. From where he stood, he could still hear the soft hum of music in the distance, the laughter, the clinking of glasses—a celebration he was supposed to be the center of.
But his eyes were fixed on a specific table. There she was—Afreen. Sitting with Yasmin, Sufiyah, and Sabrina, laughing faintly at something they said, but her smile did not reach her eyes. She looked tired. Like someone holding herself together with invisible threads. Like someone waiting for a sign that she was not the only one fighting.
His hand twitched slightly at his side, unsure if it should reach towards the table or stay clenched just like his heart. His breath caught somewhere between resolve and regret. He stood there—caught in the space between pride and longing, fear and the aching truth. And for the first time that night… Fahmid did not know what to do.