Aashiq (1)

 

Story starts before Zaid and Fiza. Because Zaid met Fiza on Eid. 

Age of Dalia = 18+ Years old 

Age of Rafiq = 29 years old 

**Dalia’s POV**  

I cupped my hand over my mouth, muffling my screams, my cries for help dying in the hollow silence of the room.  

“Saali manhoos kahi ki!” The vile woman screamed, thrashing the leather belt on my legs with brutal force. I yelped, curling into a ball on the cold, grey floor, my body trembling in silent agony.  

“Pehle apni maa ko kha gayi aur phir apne abba ka paisa!” Her voice pierced through the suffocating air, spitting blame for crimes I never committed. But I took it all—the whip lashing, the venomous words—without protest.  

The small room around me was a prison in itself. The walls were painted in a dull grey that mirrored my existence, stripped of light and warmth. 

The single window, covered with a broken net, allowed a sliver of moonlight to fall onto the floor littered with bloodied rags and discarded belongings. The bed in the corner was nothing but a thin mattress atop a rusted frame, and the air carried the metallic scent of blood and antiseptic.  

Yelling would only bring more belt marks, deeper scars, and sharper pain. I had learned that lesson over the past five months of abuse from my so-called stepmother. 

So I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood, refusing to give her the satisfaction of hearing my cries.  

“Kal muhi ladki! Apni maa ki tarah badsurat aur bad haya aurat hai tu!” Her voice echoed as she hurled more vile words. The hatred in her tone weighed heavily on my already fractured spirit. Tears spilled silently down my cheeks, but I made no sound, only praying for this nightmare to end.  

I knew by now—I was cursed, unlucky. I deserved this abuse, didn’t I? I couldn’t save my mother from a fatal heart attack at the age of ten. Nor could I save my abbu’s business from collapsing.  

"Ammi! Khaana laao na yaar. Bhookh lagi hai!" The voice of her beloved son, Ursh, rang out from downstairs.  

At once, her hand froze midair. Of course, Ursh, her precious son, had returned from his coaching. For him, she would run through fire and mountains. For my half-brother, she was the perfect mother.  

Before leaving, she grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking me upright, her face inches from mine. “Kisi ko kuch kaha toh tere jism se yeh rooh nikal lungi, kuttiya!” She hissed and slapped me hard, my head snapping back and slamming against the floor.  

When she finally left the room, slamming the door behind her, I broke into sobs. I punched the cold, hard floor, releasing the pain I had bottled up for so long.  

The bathroom was the only place I could escape, even briefly. 

The mirror reflected a battered image: hollow eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, and arms covered in scars—faint lines that told a story of silent suffering. My stomach ached, and my back throbbed where fresh wounds bled. I tore a soft cotton dupatta, using the fabric to clean myself up. This was the hundredth dupatta I had ruined for the same purpose.  

Wrapping a shawl tightly around my frail body, I limped toward the door. Suddenly, it burst open, and I gasped, clutching my shawl to my chest. But instead of another slap or insult, I saw a panicked Dilroz.  

“Beghairat! Yeh le, jaldi pehen isse. Aur neeche aa ja,” she commanded, thrusting a light blue dress into my hands. Her eyes darted nervously, an unusual fear clouding her expression.  

Confused, I hesitated, but then I heard the voice that made my blood run cold.  

“Dilroz?! Dalia?! Kahan gaye sab?” my abbu called but the small voice of the other man made me froze. 

Rafiq Ali Zaveri.  

The Don of Lahore.  

His presence was suffocating yet electrifying. A towering figure, his muscular build radiated raw power. His sharp features—dark, piercing eyes that could command obedience, a strong jawline adorned with a well-groomed beard, and a faint scar running across his cheek—added to his menacing aura. He was a man who could make anyone bow with a single glance.  

People feared Rafiq like they feared death itself. He was a man whose name alone could silence a room. His gaze held the promise of pain, his hands capable of taking the last breath of anyone who dared angerhim.  

He had returned after three months, his dominant presence now under the same roof as mine.  

I didn't notice when dilroz had pushed me inside bathroom and had left me to get ready. 

Controlling urge to look at my ugly skin, I got dresseed.  

When I finally mustered the courage to step downstairs, my heart pounded in my chest. Each step was agonizing, every movement a reminder of the fresh wounds hidden beneath the fabric of my new dress.  

“Dalia beta, aao. Baitho yahan. Dekho toh kaun aya hai Dubai se!” Dilroz’s voice dripped with fake affection, her smile a poor attempt to mask her fear.

As I walked toward the small sofa in the beautifully decorated room, I felt his eyes on me, heavy and intense. 

I forced a smile and murmured, “Salam,” my voice trembling as I moved my gaze from his polished black shoes upward. When our eyes finally met, my breath hitched.  

Rafiq’s dark, intense eyes were fixed on me, holding me captive in their gaze. His face was a perfect blend of danger and allure, his every movement deliberate, his aura commanding respect and fear.  

He was big and commanding, a man who seemed to fill the room with his presence. 

Rafiq didn’t just inherit the title of underworld don; he fought for it. He was ruthless in his looks too and had proven himself in a world where respect came from fear. Everyone in Lahore knew not to cross him.

“Salam,” he replied, his deep, gravelly voice rumbling like distant thunder.  

I felt his eyes follow me throughout the conversation between father and him. It was as if he could see past the facade, past the forced smiles and the scars hidden beneath my clothing.  

Everything else fell silent. I fidgeted with my dupatta, my fingers nervously tracing its delicate fabric, while Abbu engaged in small talk with Rafiq.

Ursh sat stiffly, discomfort etched on his face as he noticed the black metal gun tucked in pant of Rafiq, and he made a hasty excuse to leave. Dilroz, ever the actress, painted a picture of a happy family, her smile wide and forced.

Rafiq Ali Zaveri belonged to the wealthiest family in Lahore, a name that everyone knew. 

My mother was a Zaveri too, which was why that family still had ties to us, even after all these years. The Zaveris were not just rich; they were powerful, and Rafiq was the strongest of them all.

Rafiq and I had never exchanged many words. Since childhood, he had been the quiet yet intelligent boy, destined to inherit the underworld throne after Ali Jaan, our grandfather (Nana in Hindi). He had completed his studies at a prestigious university in Dubai and had went for three months for his final exams.

My closest bond had been with Anisa, but after school ended, our conversations dwindled to nothing.

"Aapke loan ka kya hua hai... phupha jaan?" Rafiq asked, his gaze fixed on me as he lounged like a king on the small sofa that struggled to contain his large figure.

His eyes barely left mine, and I felt a shiver run down my spine.

"Woh hum chuka rahe..." Abbu began, but Dilroz cut him off desperately.

"Humse nahi diya jaa raha loan!!!" she exclaimed, her voice sharp and accusatory. I looked at her, shocked.

It was a sensitive topic for my father. He had always prided himself on being self-sufficient, which was why he had sold our old house, despite the countless memories it held.

"Dekho na beta, kuch nahi ab humare paas. Nah ghar raha aur na hi paise," she said, wiping away fake tears that I knew were nothing but a performance.

Abbu's face flushed with shame; Rafiq had warned him about investing in risky ventures, but he had chosen to ignore the advice.

Rafiq hummed softly, his gaze still locked on me.

"Dalia ki padhai?" he asked, his voice smooth, sending my heart racing.

"Dalia ki padhai ke liye paise nahi hai, Rafiq beta. Bechari meri bachi. Unpadh gavar hi rahe jayegi," Dilroz lamented, patting my hair. I shuddered involuntarily, bracing for a slap that never came.

She displayed her false affection in front of everyone, and I longed to escape her grasp, but I felt trapped.

"Tum hi kuch kahao apne phuphi se. Yeh kisi ki madad lete hi nahi," she urged, removing her hand. I glanced at Rafiq, my cheeks flushing as I caught him still watching me.

At that moment, I wondered if he had lost his mind to be looking at me. I felt like an ugly duckling, and perhaps he found me amusing after being surrounded by the beautiful girls of Dubai.

He responded with more than just a hum, and Dilroz beamed, pleased that he had acknowledged her.

I wrapped my dupatta tighter around my wrist, trying to shield myself from the scrutiny.

"Jaao beta, khaana laga do. Rafiq aaj humare saath hi khayega," Dilroz instructed, and I nodded, biting my lip to suppress the painful sounds that threatened to escape as I struggled to stand.

"Ghar ke naukar kahan gaye?" Rafiq asked suddenly, rising swiftly, causing the sofa to topple backward.

Dilroz and Abbu stood up as well, and she replied, "Itne paise nahi humare paas, Rafiq beta, ki naukar rakh sake. Isliye toh meri bechari beti ko kaam karna padta hai."

She touched my back, where fresh marks lingered, and I fought back tears.

Rafiq grumbled something under his breath, clearly irritated.

"Filhal chalta hu. Aata rahunga," he muttered, his gaze lingering on me, filling me with a flicker of hope. He would return, and perhaps that meant I would be treated with some semblance of kindness.

"Khaana toh khaatd jaao, Nawab," my father called out politely, addressing him by his title.

"Kisi aur din, Phupho," Rafiq replied casually, moving closer to me, and my heart raced with each step he took.

"Ammi kheti hai ki kisi ke ghar khaali haath jana acha nahi hota," he said, and I was enveloped in his musky perfume, which momentarily dulled my worries as our eyes met.

In that instant, the world around us faded. His dark eyes held a depth that made my heart thud painfully in my chest, and I felt as if time had stopped.

He pocketed his tailored black suit jacket, revealing a key in his hand.

"Dalia ke liye tohfe mei haveli laya hu," he announced, and gasps filled the room.

He had bought the haveli—my mother's house, a sanctuary of my childhood memories.

Tears welled in my eyes, blurring his face, but he looked at me with an intensity that was both maddening and comforting.

"Rona mat, Dalia," he commanded softly, catching a tear before it could fall.

"Tumhare aasu ke nafrat hai mujhe," he said, his voice laced with anger that made Dilroz instinctively step back in fear.

If only Rafiq Ali Zaveri knew how many tears I had shed over the past five months.

"Nawab, hume yeh nahi le sakte," my Abbu interjected, refusing to take the key from Rafiq's hand.

"Yeh mere taraf se hai, Phupho. Aur yeh aapke liye nahi, sirf Dalia ke liye. Aap mujhe Dalia ko tohfa dene se nahi rok sakte," he said, playing his mind games with my father.

Abbu hesitated, then turned to me.

"Thik hai. Ispe sirf Dalia ka haq hai. Jaise meri bachi ki marzi, woh mujhe manzoor," he said, patting my hair with a smile that warmed my heart. My favorite Abbu.

But it was time to face Rafiq. His dark eyes were enough to make me shudder as I accepted the keys. It was the only thing that held my mother's memories, and I couldn't refuse it.

Rafiq's expression softened, a hint of happiness breaking through, but he merely nodded at my father before turning to leave.

Dilroz clapped her hands, her joy palpable as she tried to snatch the key from me, but my father intervened, reminding her that it was my gift alone.

"Ohhh dekho toh... Nawab sahab apna phone bhul gaye. Jaao Dalia, jaldi de aao unhe," Dilroz said, handing me the phone before heading to the dining room with my father.

I walked slowly, my heart racing as I approached the door. Rafiq stood by his car, waiting for me, as if he had been expecting this moment.

In our simple neighborhood, his sleek Range Rover stood out, drawing the attention of passersby—some fearful of his aura, while others, particularly girls, giggled, hoping to catch his eye.

But his gaze was fixed solely on me.

He towered over me, shielding my small frame with his presence.

I extended the phone toward him, but he grasped the end of my blue dupatta, inhaling its scent as if it were the air he needed to breathe.

I was mesmerized, caught in a trance.

"Tumhari khushboo," he murmured, and I felt a blush creep up my cheeks, his raw desire evident in his eyes.

"Babydoll," he called me, the nickname sending a thrill through me. I thought he had forgotten the nickname, but he remembered.

"Kuch chupa rahi hu mujhse," he said, and a wave of fear washed over me.

"Bolo," he insisted, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I couldn't let him see my pain. My father's happiness mattered more than my own.

"Na...hi. A..mmi ki yaad aati hai. Aur koi baat nahi hai," I whispered, but his eyes darkened, and a smirk played on his lips.

"Jhuth," he accused, his voice low and dangerous.

"Jane do. Mai khud dhund lunga. Aur fir tumhe jhuth bolne ki saza dunga," he warned, moving so close that our lips were almost touching.

"Kai..si saz..a?" I stuttered, and he smiled, a wicked glint in his eyes.

"Jald hi pata chalega, babydoll. Have patience," he teased, and then, to my shock, he pressed his lips to my forehead, leaving me gasping.

He had never done that before.

"Fuck... you are finally eighteen, babydoll. The things I will do to you," he murmured, and before I could process his words, he was gone, leaving me breathless and confused.

Dilroz emerged from the house, oblivious to the moment that had just transpired. She ushered me inside, and I joined the others for dinner, but I couldn't eat.

I had developed an eating disorder over the past year, a result of Dilroz's meager portions and my own struggles. My stomach had grown accustomed to hunger, and I could barely manage a single roti without feeling need to vomit. 

As I retreated to my room, dread settled in my chest, anticipating the familiar cycle of abuse from Dilroz. When she entered, her expression was a mix of anger and disdain, and I braced myself for the worst.

"Teri kismat achi hai aaj, kamini. Woh Nawab aa gaya tujhe bachane," she sneered after locking the door, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Par yaad rakhna, woh teri jaise badsurat ladki se kabhi koi rishta nahi rakhega. Aakhir tujhme hai bhi kya aesa?" she mocked, laughter escaping her lips as I stared at my scarred arms, feeling the weight of her words.

She wasn't wrong.

"Jab tak woh Nawab tujhe dekhne aata rahega, tab tak tu zinda hi rakhna padega," she said, her eyes narrowing as if I were nothing more than an insect beneath her heel.

I knew she feared him. Who wouldn't? He held the power to control Lahore, and I wished I could possess even a fraction of that strength to escape this life. But not all wishes come true.

With no dreams in my eyes, I closed them, hoping for a better tomorrow, and drifted off to sleep, sensing a dark shadow looming over me like a cloud. But I was too exhausted to notice, and soon, I succumbed to the darkness.

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