Mulaqat (1)

The Nawab's haveli, the richest in Lahore, shimmered under the bright lights of the Eid celebration. 

The grand estate was alive with laughter, chatter, and guests dressed in their finest attire. Amidst the festive atmosphere, three best friends stood out.

Adil, known as the hawk of their trio, was sharp-eyed and always a step ahead, a master sniper and strategist. 

Next to him was Zaid, the politician of the family and the leader of his political party. At 27, Zaid was tall and muscular, exuding authority in a black, glimmering kurta. His gold and diamond watch caught the attention of every woman who dared to glance his way.

"Firse itni mehngi ghadi?" Rafiq's calm voice broke through, making Zaid smirk.

"Kya bhaijaan, sirf 2 crore ki hai. Itna toh aap ek mahine mei kama lete hai," Zaid teased, nudging his older cousin with a playful bump of their shoulders.

Adil chuckled, and they exchanged a bro-fist. Teasing Rafiq was routine, as he was the eldest and known for being the stern, responsible one.

"Arey dekho toh, mere bete ko. Ek dum chaand lag raha hai," Zaid's mother approached, blessing him with a kiss on his head.

"Bikul ammi jaan, ek hi toh chaand hai aapka, warna yeh beti aapki toh bandariya hai," Zaid said with a grin, only to be met with punches from his little sister, Anisa.

"Abbuuuuuu!" Anisa sing-songed, threatening to call their father.

"Arey chup kar, kam bhakt!" Zaid quickly covered her mouth, causing more laughter among the family.

"Chordo, huhhh!" Anisa wriggled in his grip, only to be saved by a pair of warm, calloused hands. 

"Shuk-riyaa..." Her voice faltered as her eyes met Adil's intense gaze. 

The playful smile faded from her face as his dark eyes, filled with desire, locked on hers.

"Yeh nok-jhok katam karo aur chalo, jashan manate hai," Zaid's mother said, pulling Adil and Zaid toward the dance floor.

 The men danced for a while before the energy shifted.

Suddenly, the dance floor transformed into a boxing ring, courtesy of Rafiq, who had a habit of making even the grandest celebrations dramatic.

 Zaid and Adil exchanged a knowing look; they were used to seeing Rafiq lose his temper, especially when it involved protecting his obsession, Dalia.

Zaid soon left the gathering for some fresh air, removing his coat and loosening the top buttons of his sweaty kurta. Leaning against the balcony, he lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply.

"Abhi aayi Jiji," a soft, frantic voice floated from behind him, and before he knew it, a small body crashed into his chest.

"Yah Allah!" the girl shrieked, her eyes shut tight in panic. Zaid’s gaze softened as he took in her delicate features.

"Aankhein kholo, Hoor (beautiful) ," Zaid whispered, dazed, as he gently tucked her hair behind her ear. 

Her eyes fluttered open, and she saw Zaid holding her, steadying her after the near fall.

"Aapne hume bacha liya," she whispered, making Zaid’s heart pound.

"Ji bibi," Zaid teased, feeling her stand upright on her own. 

Bibi means girl. 

"Shukriya," she smiled shyly, unaware of how enchanted Zaid was by her presence.

"Fiza! Fauran yahan aao!" A voice called from the kitchen, making her eyes widen in panic. 

She hurriedly began collecting the fallen boxes, but Zaid was too captivated to offer any help.

Unlike the other guests in their bright colors, she wore a simple pink saree, soft and understated, yet it left an indelible mark on his mind. 

As she scurried toward the kitchen, Zaid followed, his cigarette forgotten on the balcony.

Inside the kitchen, chaos unfolded.

"Koi kaam nahi hota tumse! Har waqt bas rona dhona hai tumhara!" The kitchen head scolded Fiza, who was now silently crying.

Zaid’s anger flared instantly. 

Without a second thought, he strode into the kitchen, his presence commanding attention. Everyone froze, bowing slightly as the Nawab approached.

"Kaam nahi karna hai toh nikal jao ------- Nawab Sahab?" The kitchen head stuttered, realizing who had just walked in.

"Aein da apni awaaz uchi na kare. Warna iss haveli se pehle apki vidai ho jayegi," Zaid warned coldly, making Fiza look up in shock.

"Jayein sab," Zaid ordered after a moment, and the kitchen staff quickly scurried out. Fiza, too, tried to slip away, but Zaid gently grabbed her wrist.

"Tum nahi," he said softly, making her gasp.

"Hume maaf kar dijiye, Wazir Sahib. Hume nahi pata tha ki aap nawab hai, warna hum aapko nahi chuhte," Fiza stammered, her voice breaking as she sobbed.

Zaid, stunned by her sudden breakdown, softened. "Aisa nahi hai. Hum tumse ruse nahi hai. Shaant ho jao bas," he said, trying to comfort her. 

When she didn’t stop, he pulled her into a comforting hug. Her small frame stiffened in his arms, but eventually, she quieted.

"Shhhh, shaant ho jao," he patted her hair, but Fiza remained distant, not daring to touch him, as if afraid.

When Zaid broke the hug, she avoided his gaze. 

"Naam kya hai tumhara?" he asked, feeling a bit intrusive.

"F-Fiza," she whispered without a smile.

"Hmmm," Zaid hummed, noticing her tear-streaked face.

"Aap hume janti hai?" he asked.

"Pehele nahi janti thi. Phir Zarin aunty ne bataya," she confessed.

Zaid smiled at her innocence. Before he could say more, his phone rang. It was Adil, calling for something urgent.

"Aapse fir milenge, Fiza," he promised, before leaving her with a lingering gaze, his eyes holding a silent vow.

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Fiza’s POV:

After a long day, I returned to my small servant's quarters in this massive haveli. I was an orphan, grateful for the job I had found in the kitchen here. 

But no one really liked me. They thought I was too young for this hard life, just 23 years old.

Today, I caught the eye of Wazir Sahib. I’d heard rumors about him and his cousins. These men were powerful—Rafiq, the eldest, an underworld don, and Zaid, the ruthless politician. 

And here I was, just a maid, a nobody. Yet, I couldn’t forget the way Zaid had looked at me, the promise in his voice.

As I lay down on my bed, exhausted, I dozed to sleep. 

"Fiza..." someone whispered.

"Lagta hai so gayi," the voice said again. 

"Tsk" a voice came

Then, a loud crash made me jump awake.

"Kon hai?" I yelled, seeing a large figure in the room.

"Main hoon. Light kahan hai?" The irritated voice was familiar, and my heart raced.

"Daai taraf," I gulped, realizing it was Wazir Sahib. 

He turned on the light, revealing a broken glass on the floor and a deep cut on his palm

"Maaf karna, deri ho gayi aane mei. Kaam mei mashruf ho gaya tha," Zaid said, sitting down on the edge of my bed, which creaked ominously under his weight.

"Wazir Sahib, bistar toot jayega!" I said in alarm.

"Yeh bekar bistar laya kaun?" he shot back, looking at me as if I were to blame.

He moved to sit on the floor instead.

"Nahi, wazir sahib! Aap neeche mat baithiye," I protested.

"Chinta mat karo, Fiza. Hum theek hai," he said, offering me his wounded hand. "Hamara zakm bhar do."

"Ji," I whispered, taking his hand in mine, gently cleaning the cut. His eyes stayed on my face the whole time.

As I sat there, gently cleaning the wound on his hand, I could feel his eyes on me. 

His dark, intense gaze sent a shiver down my spine, but I forced myself to focus on the task at hand. 

His hand was manly and kind of rough with cuts here and there, despite the strength I knew he carried.

"Bahut khubsurat ho tum, Fiza," he said softly, his voice low and intimate.

I glanced up at him in shock, my heart aching at the compliment. 

"Par hum sirf ek naukrani hai, Wazir Sahib," I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper. 

It was the truth—no matter how many times he looked at me like that, I was just a servant in his grand haveli. I wasn’t worthy of those words.

Zaid didn’t respond. Instead, he slowly started removing his black kurta, and I could feel my pulse quicken as he pulled the fabric over his head. 

I froze in place, not knowing what to do or where to look. 

His strong, muscular chest was now bare before me, the flickering light casting shadows over his sculpted abs. 

Each ridge of muscle looked hard, powerful, and defined. He wasn’t just fit—he was chiseled like one of those statues you see in old temples. 

His skin was glistening slightly, still warm from the day’s heat, and the way his muscles flexed as he moved made it hard to breathe.

"Yeh aap kya kar rahe hai?" I blurted out, my voice a little higher than I intended. 

My eyes flickered nervously between his face and his abs, which looked impossibly hard and perfect. 

I had never been this close to a man like him before, and it was overwhelming.

"So raha hoon," he replied, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, stretching out on the floor. 

"Bhot raat ho gayi."

I stood there, dumbfounded, my mind spinning. 

The sight of him, shirtless, lying on the floor of my tiny room felt so out of place—he was too grand, too powerful to be in a space like this. 

His broad shoulders, the taut muscles of his arms and torso, everything about him screamed power and control.

"Wazir Sahib, yeh galat hai!" I finally managed to say, my voice shaky. My eyes flicked back to his bare chest, quickly looking away again.

"Kyu?" His voice was soft, but there was a hint of amusement in it. 

"Yeh puri haveli hamari hai. Kahin par bhi so sakte hai hum."

I pressed my lips together, realizing I couldn’t argue with that. 

He was right. 

This was his haveli. 

But still... the way his abs rippled slightly as he adjusted on the floor, the casual way he lay there as if he wasn’t affecting me at all—it was too much.

"Keval aaj ke liye yahan so sakte hai aap," I whispered, trying to calm my pounding heart.

"Thik hai, Fiza," he murmured, and when I finally dared to glance at him, he was looking at me again, but differently this time. 

His dark eyes had softened, and there was a warmth in them, a promise of something I couldn’t quite understand.

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