𖥻﹕𝖥𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖮𝗇𝖾𝗌﹒ຯ - Chapter 17: Chapter 17

The office room was quiet-so quiet that every small sound stood out clearly: the ticking of the wall clock, the soft rustling and turning of papers, and the hum of silence from the sleeping laptop. The air carried a mix of smells-faint coffee, fresh disinfectant from the just-cleaned floor, and the lingering scent of room spray. It was peaceful outside, but inside Fahmid, everything was chaos. He couldn't stop thinking about his last conversation with Ayaan.
Since that day, he had been stuck in a whirlwind of confusion, torn between letting go of Afreen or giving her another chance. His heart had already chosen, but his mind refused to agree. A battle raged within him. "That woman... Ya, Allah... Am I being too much now? But what to do? Should I really give it another shot?" Thoughts clashed inside him until, almost on their own, his fingers picked up the phone and dialed Afreen's number.
It was time, he told himself. Time to stop the silent suffering-for both of them. Afreen may not have defended him when it mattered most, but she never left. She waited-for years-without any promise of return. Her love wasn't loud or filled with dramatic words, but it showed in her quiet prayers, in her fasts, and in her constant hope. Because sometimes, waiting itself is the purest kind of love.
However, before the call could ring, his secretary, Yeasir Bhuiyan, entered, silencing the soft sounds around the cabin, as he informed, "Mr. Bilal, the representative from Silver Sky Promotions is here."
"Let her in." He instructed while cutting the call and putting the phone down.
He stood as the woman, Alina Gazi, walked in: a polished professional, high heels clicking against the floor, a portfolio clutched in her perfectly manicured hand. Her eyes sparkled with something more than business. He averted his gaze down, out of respect and modesty. As his mother and religion always taught him.
"Mr. Bilal," she said, her voice sweet like honey. "It's a pleasure finally meeting you. I've heard so much."
"Thank you. Please, take a seat," he replied formally.
They discussed terms briefly and efficiently. Fahmid remained professional. Alina, however, leaned in too often, letting her hand brush his when not necessary. Her compliments came layered, sly, and personal.
He shifted uncomfortably. "Ms. Gazi, I prefer to keep things strictly professional."
"Of course," she said, but her smile remained. "Just thought we might get to know each other better. Business is all about relationships, no?"
Before he could respond, she stood up, pretending to drop her pen. She bent down slowly, and when she rose again, she was closer than before. "You don't have to play so distant," she murmured, moving a little too near. "I know what men like you want."
"Excuse me?" Fahmid frowned, stepping back.
But Alina advanced again, and before he could move away fully, her hands clutched his collar and her lips grazed his jaw. Alarm bells rang in his head. Disgusted, he pushed her back immediately. "What the hell are you doing?!" He snapped.
But the insolent lady did not take the hint; instead, she started to force herself on him. Pulling his tie and grabbing his nape, trying to kiss him, she was almost on top of him. Fahmid was struggling to pry her off himself, as Alina's grip was tighter than he thought. "Stop! Leave me! What are you doing!?" He protested, but she paid no heed. She had already untied his tie, and her grip was becoming tighter with each passing moment. Fahmid was stepping back under Alina's violent approach, making his hand toss off some papers kept on the desk.
He had never felt so helpless before; at last, finding no other option, he used his manly strength and shoved her off himself quite harshly. He yelled at her, "Are you freaking out of your mind?!" Her sharp nails had left behind marks on his exposed neck and wrist and also tore off the button of his shirt's upper button. In the scuffle, his watch had caught on her sleeve's end.
As she stumbled back, she deliberately yanked the fabric, tearing it. Then, right in front of him, she clawed her arm and cheek with her manicured nails. She tore off the remaining sleeve and started to scream at the top of her lungs. Her voice was loud and harrowing. "HELP! HELP! He's trying to rape me! He assaulted me!"
Time did not just stop. It shattered. Fahmid's body turned to stone. Cold. Paralyzed. His brain screamed at him to speak, to move, to explain-but his mouth stayed open, useless, as air left his lungs like a dying gasp. He blinked once. Twice.
Alina stood in the middle of his cabin like a masterpiece of chaos-a torn sleeve barely clinging to her shoulder, thin trails of blood running down where her nails had dug in. Her mascara ran in ugly black rivers down her cheeks, as if she had rehearsed the scene in the mirror a hundred times.
Then, as if on cue, the door slammed open. A rush of footsteps. Gasps. Phones were being pulled out. Mouths opening in shock. His secretary froze by the door. "S-Sir...?" Yeasir's voice cracked like glass.
Fahmid's shirt collar was disheveled, pulled down, and askew. His watch dangled, entangled in a strip of her torn sleeve. His wrist and neck stung from where her nails had clawed him, and his neck burned where she had pulled his tie to trap him.
He looked down at himself-the scratches, the wrinkles, the damning evidence. And still... he could not speak. His soul felt like it had just been yanked out of his chest and shoved through a meat grinder.
"What just happened?"
"How the hell did a routine meeting turn into such a thing?"
Every muscle in his body screamed in betrayal. He knew he had pushed her away. He knew he had said no. Repeatedly. He knew he was the one being cornered, the one violated. But none of that mattered anymore. The evidence-fabricated, convenient, cruel-was louder than the truth.
A man standing amidst a scene that told a very different story than what actually happened. His breath hitched. His lips parted, trembling. "I... I didn't..." His voice came out as a broken whisper, so lost even he barely heard it. But no one was listening. Because everyone had already seen what they wanted to believe.
Within the hour, the nightmare had evolved into a circus. Red and blue sirens painted the office walls. Uniformed officers stomped through the glass doors. Journalists clustered outside like vultures, cameras flashing like lightning during a storm. Reporters shouted questions with predatory glee, not waiting for answers. Truth was irrelevant-they only needed a headline.
The woman-the architect of the lie-stood before the microphones, a trembling hand to her chest, her voice deliberately soft yet loud enough to be caught by every boom mic. Tears glistened under the lights, perfectly staged. "He attacked me. I thought I was safe. He locked the door and... and..." She sobbed. "I begged him to stop."
FLASH. FLASH. FLASH.
Fahmid sat in the back of the police van, handcuffs biting into his wrists. His mind played the scene over and over again, unable to make sense of how everything spiraled so fast. He could still feel her claws on his skin, still smell her perfume-sickly sweet, like rotting flowers. It could not be real. But the cold steel and flashing cameras screamed otherwise.
At the station, behind the bars of a holding cell that reeked of sweat and shame, Fahmid waited-hollowed out, numb. His shirt was still crumpled. His wrists were red. No one asked him anything. No one wanted his truth. No one asked for his version. They only counted the blood on her arm and the tears in her eyes.
Then he heard them-footsteps too familiar to mistake. His and Afreen's parents, Rashid, Ayaan, and Sufiyah, all had arrived, their faces taut with confusion and distress. Sabrina's hands trembled around the edges of her dupatta. Hamza-always stoic-looked as though someone had struck him in the gut. Others stood slightly behind, their expressions unreadable.
They were not accusing, but they were not defending either. They were... lost. Like they were walking through a fog, trying to grasp something solid-something true. "Fahmid..." Hamza finally spoke, his voice rough like gravel. "Just tell us... what happened. Son, please. Say something."
Fahmid blinked hard, swallowing against the lump in his throat. His voice came out cracked, hollow. "I didn't do it." His gaze darted to each of them. "She forced herself on me. I pushed her off. I-I swear. I didn't touch her like that. I swear, Maa, I didn't. I am your son. You always taught me to respect women, right? You know and trust me, right?"
Sabrina's lips parted in a silent gasp. Afreen's parents looked down, conflicted, while others exhaled shakily but said nothing. Not a single accusation. But not blind belief either. Just... that look. That silent, uncertain look.
As if they were begging for some invisible sign that this was all a mistake-some camera angle, some witness, something that would clear the fog. But all they had were bloodstains, a ripped sleeve, and a world that listened to who cried louder. The bars between them were not just metal anymore. They were fear. They were doubt. They were heartbreak. And they left Fahmid colder than the cell ever could.
Something inside him cracked like thin glass under a heavy foot. He backed into the wall of the cell, unable to stand. His knees folded, and he slid down to the cold floor, his heart drumming panic into every inch of his body.
"She won't believe me either." The thought stabbed his chest as he imagined Afreen hearing the news. "She's going to hate me. She'll believe I'm everything she feared in a man. Just when I was going to fix everything! No!" He gripped his hair in frustration. The walls closed in. But then-
A rush of air. The distant echo of hurried footsteps. He did not look up. Not until a soft, breathless voice said. "Lion-ie?"
His eyes snapped to the bars. There she was. Afreen. Her breath ragged and hijab misplaced from running, a tote bag still clung to her shoulder loosely. She came running, leaving everything behind, as soon as Sufiyah informed her about the occurrence. Her eyes scanned the chaos around her, and when they landed on him, she stilled.
Fahmid staggered toward her, stumbling to the bars like a prisoner desperate for a breath of freedom. "Afreen..." His voice broke. "I didn't-please, you have to believe me. Angel-I didn't touch her-I swear-" He could not finish. The words clawed at his throat, too thick with fear.
But she did not recoil. She did not step away. Instead, Afreen stepped forward and reached out her hands for him through the bar. She gently cupped his face and pressed her forehead against the cold bars until it touched his. And softly-barely a whisper-she said,
"Shh... I trust you. You don't have to explain anything to me. At least not to me. I know how my Lion-ie is."
Fahmid blinked. Tears welled up in his eyes before he could stop them. Not because of weakness, but because for the first time in hours, he could breathe. She looked into his face then. Close. Carefully.
His collar was still disheveled. His shirt was wrinkled and faintly torn near the shoulder. There were scratches along his wrist, some deep and angry. His neck had faint red marks too. Afreen frowned. She turned her head slowly and locked eyes with Alina, the woman sitting on the bench just across the room, dramatically holding her arm with gauze, fake tears still smudging her mascara.
Then Afreen's gaze dropped to Fahmid's nails. Neatly clipped. Clean. Trimmed short. There was no way he made those scratches. She looked again at Alina's torn sleeve. It was not ripped naturally-the fabric was pulled along the thread line. Like someone tore it deliberately.
Afreen went near the woman. "Which company are you from?" She suddenly asked, her voice sharp and clear.
Alina blinked. "I-I'm from... Silver Sky Promotions...."
Afreen's entire posture stiffened. Of course. Silver Sky had been gunning for Bilal Industries' downfall for years ever since their illegal promotions were rejected by Bilal Industries. From the days of Fahmid's father, they had tried to blackmail, bribe, and break them.
Afreen turned to the officer nearby. "Sir, I would like to file for a forensic analysis. A simple DNA test on the scratches on Ms. Gazi's arm. If she was attacked, her skin would carry traces of Fahmid's DNA under her nails. And vice versa."
Alina's eyes widened. The officer looked at her. "You're okay with this, Miss?"
Alina stammered. "I-uh-I don't think we need to go that far-"
"Why not?" Afreen narrowed her eyes. "If you were assaulted, this will only prove your claim."
"I... I..." Alina began to sweat. Her perfect script was unraveling. The room grew tense. Fahmid's friends leaned closer. Their parents and friends exchanged looks. And then-
"I'm sorry!" Alina suddenly shrieked, collapsing to the floor in tears. "I'm sorry, I lied! I didn't mean for it to go this far. I just wanted to frame him! My company told me to-they said to ruin his reputation and they'll make me rich! I-I scratched myself. I tore my sleeve on purpose. I just wanted to scare him and record it. But-he fought back-I panicked-please-I'm sorry!"
Silence crashed down. Not a sound. Not a breath. Just stunned stares. Fahmid, still gripping the bars, could not move. Afreen, eyes blazing, stepped forward. She looked around. At the officers who once looked certain. At the friends who stood in frozen conflict. At the family members too afraid to meet her eyes. At the flashing cameras, still hungry for another headline.
Then she raised her chin and spoke-loudly, steadily, unapologetically fiercely, "Just because Fahmid is a man doesn't mean he has to be the predator. And just because Alina is a woman doesn't mean she's automatically the prey."
Her words sliced through the room like a blade. Silence fell like a curtain. One could almost hear the shift in the air-the crack in their certainty, the guilt blooming in their chests. Some lowered their eyes. Some blinked as if seeing the truth for the first time. The shame was palpable. It was suffocating and heavy.
Fahmid lowered his forehead to the bars again. Not in defeat, but in silent gratitude-for the one person who stood by him when the entire world hesitated. Afreen stayed by his side that entire evening. Through the legal formalities. Through the press apologies. Through the undoing of a trauma that should not have existed.
As the legal dust began to settle, reporters-those same ones who had once yelled accusations-then approached with hesitant microphones and stammered apologies. One of them, a young journalist with guilt written all over his face, dared to ask the question lingering in many minds, "Miss Afreen... how did you see what none of us could? How were you so sure?"
Afreen paused. The buzz of murmurs fell silent again. She did not blink. She did not falter. She just stepped slightly forward, met every gaze in the room, and said with calm, unshakable conviction, "I'm studying radiography." She smiled faintly. "It's my second nature to see what others can't."
Then she turned her head slightly toward Fahmid, her voice warming. "But more than that-I trust my Lion-ie. The man who never even looked at another woman with ill intent... let alone had the thought of touching one. I trust Hamza Baba and Sabrina Maa's upbringing. Most importantly, I trust him."
Her words did not echo. They settled into hearts, into bones, into the silence that followed. A truth so firm, it did not need to be defended. Fahmid did not speak. He could not. But a single tear slid down his cheek as he bowed his head-that time, not from fear or shame. But from the weight of being seen-truly seen-by someone who never stopped believing.
By the time the moon had shifted across the sky and they finally stepped outside into the cool breath of night, it felt like a lifetime had passed. Fahmid turned to her. His voice was broken glass wrapped in sincerity. "You saved me."
Afreen looked up at him, her gaze calm and warm-like a lighthouse guiding someone home from a storm. "No," she said softly, "you saved yourself by holding on to the truth. I just reminded the world how to see it."
And in that moment, under the streetlight glow, amidst everything that had fallen apart, something between them began to heal.