The Sikandar house was never silent, but in the days after Wajdan's outburst, silence clung to its corridors like smoke. Servants moved cautiously, lowering their voices; the grandchildren whispered in corners, sensing a storm they could not name.
Agha Jan spent long hours in his study, his cane tapping the floor in slow, restless rhythms. His once-proud shoulders seemed to stoop further with each passing day. Beside him, his sister Bee Ama prayed in hushed tones, tears slipping down her face when she thought no one was watching.
But in the drawing room and behind closed doors, the siblings began to choose their sides.
Sania, the elder sister, had always been diplomatic, the one who soothed tempers and mended quarrels. After their mother's death, she had become the quiet glue of the family. Yet, when she visited Wajdan in his private lounge, her words surprised even herself.
"Bhai," she said softly, pouring him tea, "you are the eldest. From the beginning, our family has looked to you. It is only natural that you should lead. But one thing must be done—the property must be divided."
Her tone was calm, but her words fanned the flames.
Wajdan leaned back in his chair, pride flickering in his eyes.
"At least someone understands. These others—they forget who carried Baba's name in society, who represented him in business gatherings."
Sania hesitated, her fingers tightening around the teacup. "I only want peace. If giving you control brings it, then so be it."
Her voice wavered, betraying something she herself had not admitted: in choosing sides, she had chosen survival, not loyalty.
Wajdan smiled, but it was the smile of victory, not gratitude.
Zavian, the second brother, saw the matter differently. Two nights later, he met Wajdan—not with tea, but with accounts.
"You want control, Bhai?" Zavian said, laying a folder of figures on the table. "Fine. But control requires alliances. You cannot stand alone against Baba, and Ruhan will never let you. If I support you, I will expect my share of influence."
Wajdan's eyes narrowed. "Influence?"
Zavian smirked. "Decisions. Authority. A voice in every deal. My venture must be sponsored by you. When we two Sikandar's stand together, we outweigh the others."
The demand stung Wajdan, who had always imagined himself the unquestioned leader. But he needed allies. He nodded—though a seed of resentment quietly took root in his chest.
Already, unspoken betrayal lay between them.
In contrast, the youngest siblings—Rayyan and Alyna—sat together one evening in the study room, their hearts heavy with bitterness.
"Wajdan Bhai is destroying everything," Alyna whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. "All this wealth… it is not worth seeing Baba humiliated."
Rayyan's fists clenched. "I don't want a single rupee, not even a paisa. Let Wajdan bhai have it all if it keeps the family together. What is money compared to Baba's izzat? He even disrespected our marhoom Ami! If this continues, I fear I will no longer respect him—or call him bhai."
Later, the two went directly to their father. Kneeling by his chair, Alyna pressed her forehead against Agha Jan's hand.
"Abba, we don't want anything. Just stop this war. Let the family be whole again."
Agha Jan, weary and broken, touched her head gently. "Allah tere naseeb ache kare, beti. But sometimes, the greed of one poison the hearts of many. Pray your brother remembers the honor he has forgotten."
But in his heart, he feared the truth: greed rarely remembers.
Meanwhile, Ruhan carried the heaviest burden of all. He visited his father daily, assuring him that justice would prevail. But at night, he poured his frustrations into Kaina's patient ears.
"I will never allow Wajdan bhai to humiliate our parents," he said, pacing the floor. "But nor will I let anyone's rights be stolen. Equality—that is what Baba taught us. I don't want a single penny for myself, but I want fairness for Alyna and Rayyan. And I want Wajdan questioned for every failed venture. Baba gave him business after business, and he destroyed them all. If division is to come, then let it be equal. Let accountability come with it."
Kaina, seated calmly on the bed, folded her hands in her lap. "And when Wajdan refuses equality? When he poisons your family against you? What then? Don't lose yourself, Ruhan. Have faith. Insha'Allah, things will settle with Baba's decision."
Ruhan's steps faltered. His silence was answer enough. In that silence, Kaina heard more than his words: the fear that one day, blood may be spilled over what should have been love.
Wajdan, meanwhile, was far from idle. In his private office away from the house, he surrounded himself with advisors and old friends. Their whispers filled the room.
"File a legal claim."
"Pressure your father publicly."
"Use the media. The eldest son inherits—it will gain sympathy."
"Break them before they unite."
One even urged, "Humiliate him in front of collaborators. Make the world side with you. Respect can be bought, Wajdan—but power must be taken."
Wajdan listened, a cold gleam in his eyes. He no longer spoke of family—only of empire, control, and legacy. And in his silence, even his friends felt the chill of a man who might sacrifice blood for power.
In the grand house of Sikandar, doors still opened, children still laughed, meals were still served. But beneath the routines of life, the heart of the family had begun to rot.
And though the walls were tall and the chandeliers bright, cracks now ran through every corner of the mansion—cracks that no one could mend.
Somewhere in those cracks, betrayal waited.
A few days later, Ruhan's phone rang. An unknown number. He stepped outside to answer.
"Boss," a voice said on the other end. "Your brother is collaborating with the group's allies. Do you want me to stop this?"
Ruhan's voice was steady. "No. Just keep your eyes on him. If you sense anything suspicious, call me immediately."
The call ended. Ruhan lifted his gaze to the sky, his mind heavy with the question of how to stop Wajdan before it was too late.
For the first time, he felt the chill of a thought he dared not speak aloud:
If Wajdan was not stopped, it would not be the courts that decided their fate—
it would be war within the family itself.