Chapter 4: The Wolf in the Harem
The Afridi haveli's most opulent guest suite, traditionally reserved for male dignitaries, had been transformed into a gilded cage. Bushra had overseen the preparations herself. The room was a masterclass in subtle domination—luxurious yet cold, filled with dark woods and deep blues, colors she knew Jasim favored, but arranged in a way that felt like a display, not a home.
Jasim stood in the center of it, his single bag at his feet, feeling the walls close in. The scent of lemon polish and old rosewater couldn't mask the stifling air of captivity. The door opened, and Bushra entered, followed by Gul carrying a tray with a tea set.
"Your accommodations are satisfactory, I hope," Bushra said, her tone that of a hotel manager, not a bride.
Jasim turned slowly, the fury he'd banked at the jirga now a smoldering coal in his gut. "You have exquisite taste in prison decor."
A faint, humorless smile touched her lips. She dismissed Gul with a nod. When they were alone, the polite facade dropped.
"Let us understand each other, Jasim Karani. This room, this marriage, is a transaction. You are the living proof of my family's loss and your family's guilt. You will be present at meals. You will show respect to my grandmother. You will not leave the haveli grounds without my permission. In return, I will not humiliate you publicly. We will maintain the illusion of a… civil arrangement."
Jasim took a step closer, invading the careful distance she maintained. "And what of my wife? Hurma? Or does your concept of justice involve destroying two women's lives?"
A flicker of something—not guilt, but recognition—passed through Bushra's eyes. "Hurma's situation is a tragedy your family created, not me. She remains your wife in the eyes of your family. What you do within the walls of the Karani haveli is not my concern. My concern is you. Here."
"How magnanimous," he sneered. "And what is your ultimate goal, Bushra? To see me broken? To watch me beg?"
She met his gaze squarely. "My goal is for Zaron to face justice. Every day you are here is a day your father feels the weight of his son's crime. You are the leverage. The moment Zaron is in chains, you are free to annul this farce and return to your life."
"And you believe my father will betray his own son to save me from this… inconvenience?"
"Not at first," she admitted. "But pressure has a way of reshaping loyalties. The shame of having his heir serve as a compensation bride will eat at him. The elders will talk. The business community will whisper. Sooner or later, the cost of protecting a murderer will outweigh the cost of surrendering him."
Her strategy was laid bare, and it was brutally astute. She was using social and economic pressure as a vise, with Jasim as the turning screw.
"You are playing a dangerous game with forces you don't understand," Jasim warned, his voice low.
"I understand that my brother is dead," she replied, her own voice finally cracking with a sliver of the immense grief she held at bay. "And I understand that your world's rules failed to protect him. So, I am making new rules."
She turned to leave, but at the door, she paused. "Dinner is at eight. Do not be late."
The door shut with a soft, definitive click. Jasim was alone. He walked to the window, which overlooked the inner courtyard. He saw the spot where Imran's body had lain just days before. He saw Bushra crossing the courtyard below, her spine straight, heading not to the family quarters, but to the wing that housed her office—the NGO she ran for oppressed women, "The Guardian."
Even in her grief, in the midst of orchestrating this revenge, she was working. The contradiction fascinated and infuriated him. She was a crusader for women's rights who had just enslaved a man. A sister mourning a brother she had possibly failed to protect. A woman of terrifying principle and breathtaking hypocrisy.
He unpacked his bag, his mind racing. He was a prisoner, yes. But prisoners had time to think. To observe. To find weaknesses.
His first move came sooner than expected. At dinner, he arrived precisely at eight. The family dining hall was tense. Miana ate in silence, her eyes red-rimmed. Sohail and Yazan glowered at him from the head of the table. Bushra presided from the other end.
Jasim took the seat left for him—not beside Bushra, but opposite her, next to Miana. He turned to the old woman and, in a voice gentle enough to be heard by all, said, "Miana Sahiba, the rose garden outside my window is beautiful. Imran used to tell me at university how much he loved helping you tend to it in the summers. He spoke of you often. With great love."
The effect was electric. Sohail choked on his water. Yazan's fork clattered to his plate. Miana looked up, her eyes flooding with fresh tears, but also with a bewildered gratitude. In this house of rage and revenge, someone had spoken her grandson's name with simple affection.
Bushra, who had been taking a sip of water, went perfectly still. Her knuckles whitened around her glass. Jasim had not attacked. He had not defied. He had weaponized a memory. He had found a crack in her armor—her love for her grandmother and the raw, un-vengeful memory of Imran.
He met Bushra's gaze across the table. A silent message passed between them:
*You own my situation. You do not own my mind. And you certainly do not own the past.*
The war within the haveli had begun. And Jasim Karani had just fired the first, devastatingly subtle shot.