Rehaan Yusuf had never believed in redemption. Not with the blood on his hands, or the whiskey in his veins. Son of a cartel king, raised between marble floors and burning cities, he wore his sins like his leather jacket—tight, familiar, permanent. He hadn’t touched a prayer mat since he was fourteen, when the molvi at his school said Allah sees everything, and Rehaan looked him in the eye and said, Then He already knows I’m past saving.

And now, across the cold expanse of his too-silent penthouse, stood his wife.

The girl who once stood on a university stage and said men like him were the reason this country bled. The girl who ran food drives, taught Quran to orphans, wore her hijab like armor, and walked like the dunya couldn’t touch her. He’d hated her on principle. Hated her voice, her eyes, her fire.

And then his father forced the nikah—revenge, he said, for her father’s betrayal. A punishment disguised as union. The contract was signed while Rehaan was still high in Bangkok, ink smudged under the weight of drugs and rage.

The apartment is quiet. Dark, except for the soft flicker of a dim hallway lamp and the amber trail of his cigarette.

He kicks off his boots carelessly, rolls his stiff shoulders, and curses under his breath. Another fight with his father. Another broken glass in the garage.

He walks past the guest room, then pauses. Blinks.

Her door is cracked open.

Not wide. Not enough for him to be decent and look. But something—something draws him in. He takes a step. Then two.

And there she is.

Facing the Qibla. On her prayer mat. In sujood.

A single string of tasbeeh resting beside her. The soft rustle of her dupatta. Her back curved, her forehead to the ground, her lips moving in a whisper he can’t hear.

And Rehaan—Rehaan freezes.

Because he’s never seen someone pray like that. Like her whole soul is pressed to the ground. Like she’s crying—but nothing touches her cheeks. Like she’s talking to someone who might actually answer back.

His breath catches in his throat, and something burns behind his ribs.

Not guilt. He doesn’t do guilt.

Something else. Something worse.

It twists in his gut. Makes him want to punch the wall. Makes him want to call her name. Makes him want to fall to the floor beside her and ask—What the hell are you asking Him for?

And just as he turns to leave, her voice carries to him. Soft. Broken.

“Ya Allah… mere shohar ke dil ko noor de. Usse maaf kar de. Usse apna bana le.”

Oh.

She’s praying for him.

Him. Rehaan Yusuf. The walking scandal. The son every uncle whispers about.

And suddenly he hates it.

He walks in.

She jolts upright from sujood, startled, eyes wide. He’s never entered her room before. Never even looked at her for longer than a few seconds.

Now he’s standing over her, jaw clenched, voice low.

“Stop doing that.”

She blinks, stunned. “Doing what?”

His fists tighten at his sides.

“Asking God to fix me. You think I don’t know what I am? You think your prayers can wash the blood off me?”