"So that's what bothers you?" Zainab's lips were trembling as she tried to hold her breath steady, "Not what you did — not the way you played with people's lives — you just want to know who told me? You're not even guilty, Ibi. You're just… angry that someone ruined your little plan. Did it ever cross your mind how I'd feel when I found out my own brother was deciding who I should love, who I should marry? You think I'm some child you can guide like a puppet? Did you ever stop to think that I might hate you for this?"
Ibrahim stepped one step closer, "Zainab. Listen to me first. You're misunderstanding—"
But she cut him off sharply, "No. Don't come any closer. You'll stay right where you are and you'll listen. For once in your life, you'll listen, Ibi."
He stopped. "I always have reasons for what I do. Maybe not the ones you understand, but they're not cruel. Everything I've ever done — even the things that look wrong — I did them to protect you. You're young, Zainab. You don't see the kind of people that come close with wrong intentions. I've seen what happens when you trust the wrong ones. I didn't plan your life. I was just trying to make you safe."
Zainab wiped her tears roughly with the back of her hand, though more kept falling, making her effort useless. "I swear sometimes I regret being born in this house. Every time I think I can finally breathe, there's always another secret… another plan you made. You all talk about protecting me, but no one ever asks what I want. I wish… I wish I wasn't born in this house at all. I hate that I have to call you my brother.
The room fell silent — painfully silent — except for her quiet, uneven breathing.
That wasn't the anger of one evening; it was years of hurt that had found its voice at last. The kind she buried under fake smiles and quiet obedience, now spilling out like a storm that refused to stop.
All the years of fighting, all the power, all the walls he had built—they meant nothing. The one person he had built it all for was saying the one thing he could never fix: she wished he did not exist in this life. The ground beneath him, which had always felt solid, suddenly felt like ash.
She wished she wasn't born in this house?
Ibrahim stared at her, disbelief burning in his eyes. What was she saying? What hadn't he given her? She had comfort, safety, every luxury a person could dream of. He made sure she never saw hunger, never saw pain. And yet… she was standing right in front of him, looking at him like he was the reason for her misery.
"What exactly is your problem? That I kept an eye on Aqil? Or that I thought—maybe—you two could have a future someday? If you really want the truth, I did this to secure Aqil's path. The boy was slipping, falling into bad hands. I didn't want him to waste his life doing illegal work just to survive."
"Oh really? And what about Yusuf? He's selling drugs behind everyone's back. Did you ever think of saving him too? Or does he not fit your idea of who deserves help?"
"Yes, Yusuf isn't worth saving," Ibrahim said flatly. "He made his choice. I'm not here to clean up after every fool. Aqil still has a chance to fix his — that's the difference. But Yusuf? He sold himself long before anyone could save him. I'm won't waste my time on someone who already threw his life away."
Amir sat silently. There it is again, he thought bitterly. That god-complex tone of his. Always deciding who deserves to live clean and who doesn't. Always playing judge and savior in the same breath. Huh.
"You're manipulating me with your reasons, twisting it all so it sounds noble." Zainab's eyes glistened again, but she didn't blink — she let the tears gather, "If your motive was really to save Aqil, then you would've saved Yusuf too. But no, you didn't want that. You just wanted to prove Aqil is good for me. You wanted to change my mind about him — to make me see him the way you want me to."
The noise from inside the private theatre had already reached the corridors. The servants were whispering near the stairs, pretending to polish tables or carry trays while clearly listening.
Aliya stepped out of her room and noticed the servants clustered like moths drawn to scandal. "Is this what I pay you for? Go back to your work. Every word you hear today will turn into poison for you tomorrow — remember that before you start whispering."
The tone in her voice made everyone scatter immediately. Some rushed toward the kitchen, others toward the garden, pretending to find new duties that suddenly seemed urgent. The grand corridor fell silent again.
Aliya took a long breath and entered the theatre. The moment she closed the door, she twisted the lock firmly. The muffled sound of the latch made both Ibrahim and Zainab look up for a split second, their argument interrupted. But continued again the next second.
"What happened here?" Aliya looked at Amir.
Amir started to explain and Aliya's gaze had already shifted to the two people at the center of the chaos — her children.
Ibrahim was holding both of Zainab's wrist, trying to calm her. He looked stressed, like someone forcing himself to stay patient. Zainab, on the other hand, looked completely broken and angry.
Aliya had to step in now. She couldn't just stand and watch her children fight like this. Being a mother, that was her job — to keep her family together, no matter how hard it got. Her whole life revolved around her children. But keeping everyone under one roof didn't always mean peace. Sometimes, love meant choosing a side. And for Aliya, that side had always been Ibrahim.
She marched forward, grabbed Zainab by the elbow, and yanked her aside. The sudden pull made Zainab stumble slightly.
"Stop acting like a spoiled brat, Zainab! I've been watching you for months now — your attitude, your tone, your behavior — everything's changed! What has gotten into you? If Ibrahim has done something for your good, then learn to appreciate it instead of throwing tantrums! He's your elder brother, not your enemy! You don't even understand the world you live in. Every decision he makes, he makes to protect you. And instead of trusting him, you stand here screaming like he's done something unforgivable?"
"Mom, please." Ibrahim stepped forward quickly, "I'm handling this." He didn't want Aliya to interfere. This was between siblings, and her presence only made Zainab's anger burn hotter.
"A brat?!" Zainab repeated, staring at Aliya with wide eyes. "You think I'm a brat because I asked what's happening in my own life? Because I questioned something that's about me.... Every time I try to speak, you call it misbehavior. Every time I try to understand, you call it drama. Maybe I am a brat then… because I can't keep quiet while my life is being decided for me."
She jerked her arm free from Aliya's grip — the force of it sent a few of Aliya's bangles crashing onto the floor.
Ibrahim pressed his lips together, helpless. A man could conquer cities, build empires, end lives — but sometimes, he couldn't win a war inside his own home.
Then Zainab ran out of the theatre.
"Do you see what she's becoming?" Aliya turned to Ibrahim, "This attitude, this defiance — it's getting worse every day. Send her away — to boarding school, far from this house. Next term, she goes. Before she loses every bit of respect for us."
Ibrahim's eyes were fixed on the door Zainab had just left through. He clenched his jaw and finally turned to his mother, "She's not going anywhere. You already made one decision for her life — and because of that, everything's falling apart. You told me not to disclose that she's a Rahman. You said it was safer this way. That one decision is haunting me now. If that one choice hadn't been made, I wouldn't be here taking decisions I hate. I wouldn't be forced to act like her enemy.
Zainab pushed open her bedroom door and stumbled inside. The door slammed shut behind her with force. She ripped off her earrings and threw them across the room — they clattered against the mirror and fell to the floor. Then went her hairband, her purse, her bracelet — every little thing that once made her look graceful now scattered across the floor like broken pieces of her patience.
She never looked like this before. Whenever she dressed up, she made sure every little thing — from her shoes to her lipstick — looked perfect.
Her beautiful floral dress got crushed as she slid down to the floor beside her bed. She didn't even care that it was getting wrinkled. Her purse was lying a few feet away, where she had thrown it earlier. The phone was ringing from inside it.
For a second, she hesitated — but then she reached for the purse, unzipped it roughly, and pulled the phone out. The cracked display flashing Aqil's name.
He was the one who always stood by her, the one who listened, the one she trusted more than anyone even more than Nayla. But now, knowing he had feelings for her, everything felt fake. Every small kindness… was it all because he liked her? Did he ever really see her as a friend? Or was she just someone he hoped to have one day?
Zainab threw the phone again, harder this time. It hit the wall and fell to the carpet with a dull thud. She let her head fall between her knees. The silence kept pulling her back to all those moments with Aqil, the ones that once made her smile.
She could almost smell the air of Jalan Alor again — that famous food street.
Jalan Alor was always alive, even after the sun went down. Long rows of stalls stretched on both sides of the road, their bright signboards glowing in red and yellow. The air was filled with the smell of grilled meat, garlic, and spicy sauces. Smoke from barbecues mixed with the steam of noodle soups. Tourists, families, and students crowded the narrow path, talking, laughing, clicking photos. Every few steps, someone would call out — "Satay! Fried rice! Durian!" It was noisy and full of life.
Zainab never liked that place much. The smell of oil, the sticky air, and the thought of unclean plates always made her uncomfortable. But Aqil loved it there. He said the street had a soul. So she often walked beside him, pretending not to wrinkle her nose when someone fried seafood too close. He'd laugh, saying she looked like she was holding her breath just to survive the walk.
One evening, they went there again. She was hungry but refused to eat. The food stalls looked too messy for her. Then, without saying anything, Aqil talked to one of the vendors — an old man with a small stall and a pan so blackened with use that Zainab didn't even want to look at it. Aqil had spoken to him for a while, explaining something. She watched from a distance, curious.
A few minutes later, to her shock, he was standing behind the stall — apron tied, sleeves rolled up, holding a new pan he had just bought from a nearby utensil shop. He'd paid extra for it without even blinking. The vendor stood beside him, amused and cheering him on, while Aqil tried to fry the kebabs himself. The fire flared too high once, and he stepped back quickly, laughing, his hair sticking to his forehead from the heat. He wasn't good at it — the first batch nearly burned — but he kept going until he made a plate just for her.
She remembered him walking toward her with that plate like it was something precious, "Now it's clean."
Aqil could sense her moods without her saying a word. When she lost her sketchbook in school, he spent the entire evening searching the classrooms until he found it.
Once, during sports day, her favorite bracelet broke while she was running. The tiny blue beads scattered across the dusty ground, and she'd simply sighed and walked away. But Aqil didn't. He quietly picked up every single bead, one by one. Two days later, he handed her a new bracelet — clumsy, uneven, but made with his own hands. He'd even learned how to tie it properly by watching videos late at night.
There were countless little things like that — moments that used to make her heart feel light. When they went out together and it started to rain, he would always walk on the side where the water splashed from passing cars.
He had always been Zainab's comfort zone — that one person she could turn to without thinking twice. With him, she never had to pretend. It wasn't about big gestures or fancy words; it was the quiet understanding between them — a bond that didn't need explanations. But sadly, life doesn't always stay the way you want it to. She never noticed Aqil's feelings. Maybe she didn't want to. Maybe she was too comfortable believing that some relationships could stay pure — untouched by the complications of love. And now, the thought that all their good memories might have meant something more for him…
Zainab's thoughts broke when she heard a soft knock — Ibrahim's voice from outside her door. He was asking her to open up, to talk, but she couldn't bring herself to move. She sat still, staring at the floor as tears rolled silently down her cheeks. After a while, his voice faded. The knocking stopped.
Then came the silence. It felt like the world outside had forgotten she existed. Would people forget her that easily if she stopped responding?
Would they just… stop knocking one day?