Dil Ka Safar or Arranged in Ashes

Crystal chandeliers bathed the grand hall of the Sivras' farmhouse in amber light. Two long tables stretched before the massive wooden doors, divided by tradition—men to one side, women to the other. Silk rustled against china, servers gliding between guests as summer air carried jasmine scent through tall windows.

Across the room at the men's table, a servant adjusted the nameplate near her Chacha-ji (paternal uncle). Shayan Sivra. Her fingers twisted in her lap as she stared at the empty seat. Every corner of this place whispered of old money, older traditions.

"Sit straight, Chhoti Sunshine (little sunshine)," her mother whispered, adjusting the dupatta (scarf) yet again. "They appreciate good posture." Layani's voice tightened as it always did when facing their obvious superiority—no matter her family's wealth, they were still outsiders here.

Rimsha fought the urge to slouch, memories of Shayan in school hallways surfacing—always standing tall, drawing every eye. The women's table glittered before her, silver and crystal catching light while servants refreshed elaborate dishes. Across the room, dark suits mixed with traditional wear, wealth woven in imported wool and fine linen.

"Maa," she murmured, lips barely moving, "you're fussing so much my dupatta will wear thin."

Her gaze kept returning to the empty chair. Only a year since she'd been a sophomore stealing glances at him in school hallways, the charismatic senior planning his departure abroad. Now whispers filled every corner—the Azairi (clan name) heir and the bright Verjari girl. Memories of his confident stride through school made her heart betray her, even as instinct murmured warnings.

Time stretched. Under the table, her mother's fingers flew across her phone. Moments later, across the room, her father's jaw tightened as he read the message.

"Papa says everything is fine," Maa whispered, but her eyes tracked his tense shoulders. That familiar smile appeared—the one meant to keep her Chhoti Sunshine from breaking.

"Kitni sundar jodi banegi (What a beautiful couple they'll make)," Mami-ji (maternal uncle's wife) announced over the conversations. The words landed like a challenge. An aunty checked her watch, mouth tight. Across the tables, mothers traded glances, their smiles wearing thin.

Zoya Sivra's return after thirty minutes drew every eye. Her usual grace faltered—hands trembling slightly, tension pulling at her eyes. She approached their table with a warm smile that didn't quite reach her gaze. "Such a lovely celebration." Her hand settled on Rimsha's shoulder. "You know, when my son was small—"

The massive doors burst open. The world condensed to a single image: Shayan in the doorway, Western suit and loose tie declaring his defiance. Beside him stood a beautiful young woman, her Anarkali suit flowing to hide what only knowing eyes would catch. Conversations withered. Her gaze found Rimsha's, lips curving in quiet victory.

The impact struck with cruel precision. The Sivra heir's eyes swept the room, cold and deliberate. He strode toward where the fathers discussed empire mergers, each footstep echoing through the hush. His maternal uncle walked beside him, a steady presence at his shoulder.

His partner matched his stride, head high. Her Anarkali suit flowed perfectly, yet couldn't quite conceal what knowing eyes had already caught—the subtle curve that changed everything.

"Father." The word sliced through conversation. "Honored elders." His gaze swept the gathering, never touching the women's table. "Meet my wife Dilisha."

The announcement dropped like lead. Gasps rippled through the hall. An invisible line carved the room in two, leaving servants frozen between, trays suspended. Summer air turned to ice.

A crystal glass tilted, slipped, fell. Rimsha tracked its descent toward marble, time stretching between one heartbeat and the next.

Her father's fingers crushed crystal. Blood welled between them, but his eyes never left Shayan's face, betrayal burning in his gaze. Across from him, Arshad's words died unspoken, the business proposal forgotten.

Silk whispered against marble as Zoya moved toward her son. Twenty-four hours of hidden knowledge weighted each step—her son's marriage, Dilisha's secret. "Shayan," her voice carried years of careful training, "this is not how we raised you to handle things."

Dilisha's gaze flickered to her mother-in-law before dropping, one hand settling over her abdomen. Chairs scraped marble as elderly guests stood. Children's whispers faded toward garden doors.

"Beta..." Arshad's voice shook with fury. He stepped forward, but his wife glided between them, turning first to Layani.

"I am so sorry," she whispered, years of friendship cracking in her voice. Then to Raj, whose blood still dripped onto pristine marble: "Please forgive us." Finally, she placed a gentle hand on her husband's arm.

The words seemed to pull him from his rage. He blinked, seeing his wife like he was noticing her for the first time.

zoya's fingers tightened on his arm, her mask slipping for just a moment. "Let's discuss this privately," she murmured, but the damage was done.

"You knew," Arshad repeated, louder this time. His face had gone ashen. Then, his features hardening: "Beta." His voice turned to steel. "Do you understand what you've done? The agreements, the alliances-"

"The chains," Shayan cut in, his jaw set. ''I grasp everything, Baba.''

A drop of blood from Raj's palm hit the marble floor. Rimsha watched the crimson stain spread, her body stone-still as her fiance's fingers wove through those of the woman he called his wife—their casual intimacy sharper than any dramatic gesture.

Around them, the careful order dissolved. Elderly aunties clutched their hearts, prayers mixing with shocked whispers. Servants hovered between tables, silver trays trembling. Years of friendship evaporated as guests shifted away from each other, drawing invisible lines.

"How dare you," Arshad's voice shook. "In our home, before our guests—"

"Let him speak." Zoya's hand stayed on his arm even as tears gathered. "The damage is done."

Dilisha stepped forward. "Uncle, please. We didn't mean for it to happen this way, but—" Her hand drifted to her stomach, the gesture small but unmistakable.

Sharp breaths rippled through the women's table. Whispers changed tone, spreading like fire. Her mother's fingers trembled at her elbow, trying to draw her away. But Rimsha couldn't move, couldn't tear her eyes from the scene.

"Beta." Her father's voice cut through the chaos, addressing Shayan with unfamiliar coldness. "You dishonor two families. My sixteen-year-old daughter—"

"I'm sorry," he interrupted, his gaze fixed somewhere above the abandoned fiancée's head. "But I won't apologize for following my heart."

Ice spread through Rimsha's veins at his words. The betrayed fiancée rose, each movement measured and precise. The room stilled, all eyes turning to her. Their pity pressed against her skin—the shocked aunties, the whispering cousins, the servants frozen mid-step.

She kept her spine straight, her mother's lessons in dignity flowing through her blood. Without a word, she turned toward the door. Behind her, soft footsteps followed—her mother, always her shield. Her father's sharp commands gathered their family, his authority cutting through the chaos.

The sculpted dreams of two empires lay shattered on marble, mixed with traces of blood and broken crystal. She didn't look back. Pride, at least, was still hers to keep.