Sleep had left the chat.
It started slowly, right after Nafisa's death. In the beginning, Ibrahim didn't even notice. He thought it was just stress. But soon, sleep became a stranger.
The insomnia began.
The first time it happened, he had drifted halfway to sleep. His breathing had just begun to slow down when a voice called his name.
"Ibrahim…"
He opened his eyes instantly. The room was dark except for the faint blue light slipping in through the curtains. He sat up, breathing heavily, scanning the corners. No one was there. But the voice… it was hers. Nafisa's.
He ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake it off. "You're losing it," he muttered to himself, turning on the bedside lamp. The golden light filled the room, and for a moment he felt safe — until he saw her.
She was standing by the window. Wearing the same clothe she had on the day she died. Her arms crossed, a calm, almost sad smile on her face.
"I didn't destroy your family, Ibrahim. Your father did."
He blinked — and she was gone.
He sat frozen for several minutes before dragging his hand across his face. Sweat dripped from his temple. His breathing turned ragged. He couldn't go back to sleep that night — or the next.
From then on, the hallucinations grew bolder. He'd see her reflection in glass doors, even in car windows. She'd appear in crowded places, standing silently at a distance. Sometimes she'd vanish when he blinked, sometimes she'd walk past him as if she were still alive.
Once, during a meeting with his investors, he froze mid-sentence. Just for a second, he saw her reflection in the glass wall—Nafisa, standing with her arms crossed, smiling faintly as if mocking him. The pen slipped from his fingers. The men around the table looked at him, confused. He stood up abruptly,
"Meeting's over."
No one dared to question him. He walked out, loosened his tie, and stepped outside to breathe. His assistant found him standing near his car, his eyes blank, staring at nothing — like he was somewhere else entirely.
He tried to drown her out with work, but his concentration slipped easily. Sometimes he caught himself staring at the door for minutes, waiting for her to appear. He'd shake his head, whispering under his breath, "You're gone. You're gone, Nafisa." But his mind didn't believe it.
He started lighting cigarettes one after another. The ashtray on his desk always full. The smell of smoke clung to his clothes, to his hands. When he walked past the mirror, he sometimes caught her standing behind him, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder — and his chest would tighten until he punched the glass.
"You shouldn't have blamed me, Ibrahim. I didn't take him from your mother. He came to me willingly."
He had shouted back at her, "You should've left! You knew what you were doing!"
"Then why didn't your father stop me? your father opened the door for me. He was the one who invited me in. I didn't take him from your mother… he came to me."
Days turned into weeks, and Ibrahim's insomnia worsened. He'd lie down only to wake up minutes later, startled by footsteps or whispers that didn't exist. Sometimes he walked out to the balcony, wondering how everyone else could sleep so easily.
He had killed before — men, rivals, enemies. But none of them came back to haunt him. He slept well after every kill. Until Nafisa. It had been more than a year since her death, yet she refused to leave him alone.
He hadn't visited Nayla once since then. He couldn't. Every time he thought about her, his chest tightened — because she had Nafisa's eyes. And those eyes reminded him of everything he destroyed. He couldn't bear to witness the girl he had affected.
Through Zainab or Faisal, he always asked about her — how she was doing, what she needed. Nayla was growing up well, seemingly happy, and well looked after by her maternal uncles. What she didn't know, though, was that Ibrahim was behind it all. Every bit of comfort — her clothes, her food, even the way her maternal relatives treated her kindly — came from Ibrahim's money.
Her family didn't lack for resources either; Ibrahim made sure their businesses prospered so they could take good care of her. Nayla, innocent and unaware, never realized that her smooth life was being quietly funded by the very man who haunted her mother's memory before death.
It was nothing new — Ibrahim always tried to fix things after ruining them. It was his habit, his own way to feel less guilty. But did it really lessen the guilt? Or was he just lying to himself, convincing his mind that everything he did was for the good of his family?
He often repeated that lie in his head — "It was necessary." But the more he said it, the louder his thoughts became. Because deep down, he knew what he did to Nafisa wasn't just about control — it was about fear. She could walk in any day, stand in front of him and demand what she believed was hers — her share of the wealth, of the house, of the Rahman property that once connected her to Zafar.
The thought alone made Ibrahim restless. Legally, Nafisa's name wasn't in Zafar's will, but money and power always found their way through lies. Ibrahim knew how the world worked — one clever lawyer, one emotional speech in court, one hidden document, and everything could fall apart.
If Nafisa had ever stepped forward, claiming that Zafar had promised her something, that she had letters or records, what would happen then? The media would tear the Rahman family apart. His mother would find out that her husband wasn't faithful. Zafar's name, the name that built their empire, would become a scandal. And Zainab — the girl hidden behind their walls — would no longer be a secret. That all made her the most dangerous woman in Ibrahim's life. And he couldn't risk someone like her having that kind of power over him.
Rahman Mansion was glowing softly under the evening lights, looking calm and peaceful from the outside. But inside, in the private theatre the air was thick with cigarette smoke.
The private theatre was like something out of a luxury magazine — a wide room with dark velvet walls that made every sound disappear, a soft carpet underfoot, and big recliner chairs that could almost swallow a person whole. Golden lights ran along the ceiling edges, making the space look warm, but the atmosphere wasn't warm at all.
Ibrahim lay back on his recliner like a man too tired to move. His black shirt was slightly open at the collar, and one of his hands rested on his eyes as if even the light from the screen hurt him. The other hand held a half-burnt cigarette. The ashtray on the table beside him was already half full — proof that he'd been here for hours.
Amir, on the other hand, looked completely at ease. He sat cross-legged on the next recliner, one hand buried in a big bowl of popcorn that was supposed to be for both of them but was clearly only his now. He had come after weeks — after hearing from Aliya that something was wrong with her son, and she didn't know why. That's why she wanted Amir to come and check on Ibrahim.
The movie played in the background.
"So let me get this straight," Amir spoke, "You're saying… you're seeing Nafisa in your dreams?" He paused, shaking his head as if trying to process it. "Bro, I swear I would've believed it if you said you're seeing any woman — like some random actress or someone else — but your stepmother? That's a new level of weird."
"Amir," Ibrahim warned.
But Amir ignored, "What? You can't expect me to stay quiet after hearing that. I mean, you're the man of control and yet you can't control what your brain shows you while you sleep? You just saw her twice in real life. Hilarious."
Slowly, Ibrahim pulled his hand from his eyes. His gaze landed on Amir, "If you joke one more time, Mia will be a widow before marriage."
Amir leaned forward and put the bowl down, "You need help. You should go for therapy."
Ibrahim let out a sharp breath and sat up a little, "Stop talking nonsense. I don't need to sit in front of some stranger who'll write in a notebook and pretend to understand my life. That I'm stressed? That I should forgive myself? You think I haven't tried? You think I don't know what's wrong with me? I do. I just don't need someone else telling me that my mind is broken. I've lived through worse — betrayal, blood, loss — and I've handled it on my own. So don't tell me I need therapy like I'm some weak man who can't control his thoughts. I'm not losing my mind. I'm... I'm just tired. That's all. And no therapist can fix that."
Amir looked at him quietly for a moment, then said, "You know what the problem is with people like you? You think therapy is only for the insane. It's not. It's for people who are too exhausted to fight their own thoughts anymore. It's for people who wake up every morning pretending they're fine when they're falling apart inside. It's for the ones who can't sleep because the moment they close their eyes, their past starts screaming back at them. You think being strong means keeping everything locked inside, but that's not strength — that's slow destruction. You don't talk. You don't share. You just bury things — guilt, anger, memories — and call it control. But it's not control. It's poison. And one day, it's going to eat through you completely. Therapy isn't about confessing your sins. It's about finding a way to stop punishing yourself for them."
Amir tried his best for a couple of minutes, throwing in logic — but looking at Ibrahim, he knew the whole lecture about therapy had gone straight to hell. The man wasn't even pretending to listen anymore. Ibrahim was just sitting there, eyes fixed on the screen like the movie had suddenly become more important than his sanity, lazily flicking ash into the tray and smoking like a man who'd already given up on redemption. "Yeah," Amir whispered to himself, "why go to therapy when you've got insomnia, nicotine, and guilt to keep you company?"
The heavy door of the private theatre burst open, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.
Zainab stormed in, rubbing her swollen, teary eyes. With a trembling hand, she slammed the switch, and in seconds, the entire theatre flooded with light.
Her mascara smudged down her cheeks like black tears. It looked like she'd been crying for hours. The sparkle in her eyes was gone.
Ibrahim, startled, stood up immediately, his cigarette falling to the floor. Amir was unsure whether to stand or keep pretending to be invisible.
Ibrahim's voice broke the heavy silence first. "Who made you cry like this, Zainab?"
Zainab stepped in front of him, "Why did you hide it from me that Aqil's been taking tuition from Samir for a whole year, Ibi? Why? Do you even realize how it feels to find out things about my own family from someone else? You could've just told me once—just once! But no, you had to keep it a secret, like everything else you do." Her breath hitched as she continued, "You didn't do it to help him, did you? You did it because you wanted to dig around, to find out what I talk about, who I meet, what I hide. You're using Aqil as some sort of spy, aren't you? Can't you stop controlling every single person around me?"
Ibrahim's brows furrowed deeply, "Watch your tone, Zainab. Aqil was falling into bad company—I asked Samir to keep an eye on him, that's all. I didn't want him getting dragged into the wrong crowd like others his age. He's learning something useful, and I trusted Samir with that. I was helping him, not spying on you."
"Helping him?" She took a step closer, "No, you were using him! You wanted Samir to watch him because you knew he liked me, didn't you? You think I wouldn't find out that you want Aqil to marry me someday? You've been playing puppet master again, planning our lives without even asking us! You help people so they'll owe you later — that's what this is about, right? You want Aqil to feel grateful, so he'll do whatever you say… marry your little sister, live under your roof, and stay in your shadow forever."
Ibrahim looked at her - the kind of stare that spoke of too many sleepless nights and too much pride to admit guilt.
Amir shifted uneasily in his chair. He cleared his throat softly and murmured, "This… this seems like a family matter. Maybe I should—"
Before he could finish, Zainab snapped her head toward him, "You're not going anywhere. You've watched him do this again and again. You sit there and stay quiet every time he crosses the line. You let him play with people's lives like it's nothing! Why? Why don't you ever stop him? Or are you too scared to?"
Amir froze for a second. Then, with a resigned sigh, he turned back and sat heavily in his chair again. He rubbed his temple, "Zainab… I tried. God knows I tried. But your brother — he doesn't listen to anyone. You think I didn't warn him?"
He looked between Zainab and Ibrahim, "Every day I see what he's doing. He's too used to being obeyed. He sees people like pieces on a chessboard even when they bleed, he moves them again."
Ibrahim's eyes lifted to Amir as if he could kill him just by staring long enough and then back to Zainab, "You went out with your friends. Then what happened all of a sudden? Why are you standing here crying and throwing accusations at me? Who filled your head with all this nonsense?"