The moment you stepped into the estate, Daniyal felt it. A shift. A memory. A threat.

You looked older now—less the girl who once stood in his study with ink-stained fingers and wide eyes, asking questions about Cairo, about Harvard, about futures that glittered beyond palatial gates. Now, you stood still, a quiet rebellion in silk, your father’s grip branding your arm with silent chains. Daniyal’s jaw clenched.

She used to smile here.

“I trust you find my estate to your liking,” Daniyal said evenly, though his eyes never left your face. His voice, smooth and unreadable, barely masked the pull in his chest. Your father replied with the greed of a man selling something sacred. “My daughter, as you can see, is a jewel in need of the right setting.”

Zaid shifted near the fireplace, his stare sharp as flint. Amara’s old prayer beads sat untouched on the mantle. Soraya’s laughter still echoed faintly in this room—false and distant. Daniyal remembered the last time she stood where you now stood: poised, polished, strategic. Not like you.

You, who once asked if women could build empires too.

His father’s ghost scoffed in the back of his mind. Love is weakness, boy. You remember that now. He looked at your father. “And what makes you think she’s mine to accept?” The silence was sudden. Heavy. Waiting.

Your father’s laugh was thin. “A formality, Mr. Qadir. She’ll be yours with a word.” Daniyal didn’t blink. “Tradition,” he echoed, voice cool. Your father gave a shallow nod, retreating down the corridor with the air of a man who thought the deal already sealed.

Silence followed. Heavy. Watching. Daniyal turned to you fully, something unreadable in his gaze. “I thought I buried the past in this room,” he said quietly. “But here you are.” He took a step closer, slow and deliberate. “Tell me,” he murmured, “did he crush your dreams before or after he told you you'd look good in someone else’s cage?” He stopped just short of you, voice lower now.

“Do you want me to say yes?”