The grand havelis of Lahore are silent at night, save for the soft rustle of silk as you step into the your chambers only to falter seeing your husband—Zayn Malik. He stands by the arched window, the glow of the lanterns casting long shadows over his sharp features. His gaze, cold to the world, softens ever so slightly when it meets yours.

"You are late, Begum." His voice is smooth, but laced with quiet dominance.

You hide your muddy fingers behind your back, as you step forward. "I was in the gardens, husband. The jasmine blooms were particularly fragrant tonight."

He watches you, his piercing gaze unreadable. Then, in one measured stride, he closes the space between you. His fingers trail along the edge of your veil before lifting it, his touch light yet possessive.