The dawn after Agha Jan's visit to the graveyard rose pale and uncertain. The mansion woke to a silence that felt borrowed from death itself. Servants moved softly; the aroma of suhoor lingered with unease.
Somewhere in the east wing Ruhan was still on his phone—coordinating surgeons, confirming transfers, arranging everything before the sun fully rose.
"The ambulance at nine sharp. Heart team from Bahria International Hospital. No delays," he instructed, voice clipped, eyes hollow from a sleepless night.
By noon the family gathered in the hospital's private wing. Machines blinked; antiseptic hung in the air like a prayer turned cold. Zavian arrived late, wearing designer sunglasses as though to hide both fear and guilt. Wajdan and Rubab did not come.
Agha Jan was wheeled toward the operating room, frail yet dignified. He looked up once—searching the faces of his sons. "Allah sab asaan kare," he said quietly.
Ruhan pressed his father's hand. "Abba, sab theek ho jayega. Hum yahan hain." The doors closed, and silence fell heavier than any sermon.
Outside, the brothers waited—Ruhan standing apart by the glass, eyes fixed on the surgical lights; Zavian pacing restlessly, chain in hand. Rayyan whispered to Alyna, "It feels like everything depends on this one heartbeat." She nodded; tears slid unnoticed.
Hours passed. When the doors finally opened, the surgeon stepped out, mask lowered. "The surgery went well," he said. "But recovery will take time. He must avoid stress."
Ruhan's shoulders eased—only slightly. Zavian muttered a quick Alhamdulillah and checked his phone to inform Wajdan.
While the family lingered in relief, an email pinged in Ruhan's inbox.
Subject: Salex Group — Updated Clause Review.
He read it quietly. The revised contract now demanded joint signatures—meaning one person could effectively block the release of funds.
He smiled faintly. So it begins, he thought. Let him chase what was never his.
That night in the mansion's study he called his assistant. "Delay final clearance another forty-eight hours," he ordered. "If anyone asks, say compliance flagged discrepancies."
The assistant hesitated. "Sir, Wajdan's office is pressing for signatures."
"Let them pressure," Ruhan replied. "We'll see which side collapses first."
The next morning Wajdan stormed into Salex's boardroom, slamming a folder onto the polished table. "Why is Forex stalling? Their approval was due yesterday! Who's pulling strings here?"
His secretary stammered, "Sir… the clause was re-reviewed at the top. Someone higher up held the signature. Might be the UBO."
"Higher up?" he barked. "There's no one higher than their chair—R.S. Whoever he is."
The name slipped past him like a curse he didn't yet understand. At the far end of the room Ruhan's reflection on the glass smiled without mirth. If only you knew, bhai, he thought, whose pen you've been chasing all this time.
Evening brought faint light through the lattice windows. Agha Jan slept under mild sedation, his breath shallow but steady. Rayyan read Qur'an softly beside him; Wali sat with his notebook open, sketching the outlines of his grandfather's face—each line a prayer for endurance.
Downstairs, Wajdan's voice echoed again, railing at invisible enemies. Every outburst reached Agha Jan's fragile peace like distant thunder. Ruhan, watching from the corridor, realized that the next confrontation would no longer be about business—it would be about legacy and what remained of honor.
That night, as the mansion lights dimmed, two heartbeats governed its fate—one recovering from surgery, and one beating faster with revenge.
For three days after the operation the house softened. Even the walls seemed to breathe quieter. Nurses came and went. The courtyard fountain, long dry, had been cleaned again—as if hope itself were being polished back to life.
Agha Jan rested in his room, pale but conscious. When he opened his eyes he found Rayyan at his bedside, reciting quietly. "Abba," Ruhan whispered, "sab theek hai. Surgery kamyab rahi."
Agha Jan smiled faintly. "Allah ne chaha to sab theek rahega. Lekin… ghar sambhalna, Ruhan. Ye ghar ab sirf deewar nahin; aazmaish hai. Mujhe umeed hai tum dono isay mere baad bhi sambhalo—jaise tumne mujhe sambhala."
Ruhan replied softly, "Abba, mat karo aisi baatein. Bus Rest kare."
Rayyan nodded. "Abba, bhai theek keh rahe hain."
But downstairs restlessness brewed again. Wajdan's frustration—denied its stage for days—began to claw at him like a trapped thing. His phone vibrated with messages from Salex's team, demanding updates. He had promised investors a partnership that would make him the empire's heir. Yet—no confirmation had come.
Days passed. Although Agha Jan began to heal, peace remained fragile in Barkat Mansion; when Wajdan was present, calm evaporated.
He hadn't secured signatures on the Forex agreement—or on the will. Wajdan's work remained spectacle: loud demands, fiery speeches, and an impatience that ignored his father's recent surgery.
One afternoon he erupted. Alyna confronted him:
"Bus, bhai—bohat ho gaya. Aapko lagta hai aapki cheekh-chalana, larai-jhagda aur bartan tod dene se sab kuch aapka ho jayega? Kya aapko farq nahin padta Abba ki tabiyat par? Aap unke saath hospital mein bhi nahin aaye!"
"Shame on you, bhai," she added, tears in her eyes. "I never thought I'd say this, but what will you do with the property when you are alone at the end? Don't fall so low that you regret it when you try to stand again. Mere liye mere Abba se bar kar koi bi Nahin, aap bi nahi. I will never keep relation with anyone who dishonours my father."
For the first time, Wajdan felt guilt—because his little sister, his ladli, spoke to him like that. But Rubab rushed to console, deflecting: "Wajdan, don't worry. She's young—she doesn't understand."
The air in the Sikandar household grew heavier than the ticking of the clocks. Every corridor echoed with hushed tones and restless footsteps. The siblings gathered around Agha Jan's bedside daily, but there was no unity—only silence.
Ruhan was away often, consulting doctors about Abba's recovery. Wajdan, however, did not come to sit in prayer or hold his father's hand. He came with papers, demands, and impatience etched across his face.
"Abba," he said one afternoon, voice sharp and businesslike, "these legal documents cannot wait. If you wish fairness, then sign now. Why delay what must be done?"
The words struck like cold steel against the frail man's dignity. Agha Jan struggled to breathe; his hand trembled as it reached for the cane instead of the papers.
Rayyan, who had long restrained his temper, could no longer hold back. His voice rose, breaking the silence like thunder. "Have some shame, bhai! He is our father—not your business partner!"
The accusation silenced the room. Even Sikandar's shallow breaths sounded louder than the weight of that moment. Wajdan flinched, but pride would not allow retreat. He squared his shoulders, ready to argue.
He slammed a glass on the floor so fiercely the younger children stopped playing.
Hurrain—Wajdan's daughter—watched from beneath a cracked door, then slipped into her room, locked herself in, and wept. No one noticed, except Wali, who paused in the corridor and felt his chest tighten.
Hurran's name was kept on his grandmother's name, her paternal grandmother name is also Hurrian like hers, and they carried both personality, Hurrian's has a nature or personality like her grandmother, she didn't see her as a person but
In that moment, something rare happened.
For the first time in his long, unshakable life, Agha Jan wept openly. His tears streamed silently as he looked at Rayyan and Alyna—young, unmarred, still unbroken by greed.
"I gave them everything," he whispered, voice trembling, "so they would never know the pain of having nothing. And in the end… why, Wajdan? Why has my eldest become like this?"
Rayyan and Alyna clung to his hands, crying softly. Zavian stood in a corner, shame crawling across his face. Once he had sided with Wajdan out of strategy and ambition—but now the sight of their father's tears made him regret every whispered meeting. Fear of Wajdan's wrath kept him silent, trapped between loyalty and cowardice.
Wali stood there with his heart pounding. He saw his father not as the man who once carried him on his shoulders but as a stranger—loud, greedy, relentless. When his eyes briefly met his father's, Wali looked away. Quietly, almost invisibly, he stepped out of the room, unwilling even to meet his father's gaze. The absence was louder than any word.
Wali no longer felt the childish thrill when Wajdan returned home.
But Wajdan, blind in his hunger, noticed none of it. Instead, he doubled down. At night he met with lawyers, manipulating clauses and pushing for loopholes in the inheritance papers. His voice was steady, his signature firm, as though every pen stroke brought him closer to a crown he believed was his birthright. He did not see how the crown was already crumbling in his hands.
Sabiha told Kaina how the children flinched when Wajdan arrived; how a maid had overheard him taunt a nurse about "charity" medicine. Unbeknownst to them, Ruhan overheard this conversation in the corridor. Anger flared, hot and sharp, but he walked to the balcony and made a call.
"Arrange a face-to-face with Wajdan, its time he sees who is R.S.—no emails. Fifteen days. Tell him I will be there," he said quietly.
Inside, a plan took shape. Let the meeting be in person.
Later that afternoon Wajdan burst into a phone call, fury raw. "Where is the Forex approval? Every deadline's passed. Who the hell is this R.S.? My investors think I'm a fool. What game are they playing?"
Ruhan gave no reaction.
An assistant interrupted: "Sir, R.S. has emailed. He requests an in-person meeting to seal the deal."
Wajdan's eyes narrowed. "Set it. And before that—I want Salex ownership papers on my desk by tomorrow. If not, you know what will happen."
The threat hung in the air: the same promise of force he had used before. The assistant swallowed and moved to obey.
Two timelines wound toward collision: the house, trying to stitch itself back after surgery; and the boardroom, where signatures, clauses, and pride were being readied like weapons.
Ruhan had set the meeting for fifteen days. He had ordered his team: no final clearance, no fund release—press for compliance reviews. Let Wajdan push and preen; let him threaten. The truth—the owner of Forex, the man who had quietly kept Salex afloat—would step out of the shadows when the time was right.
Wajdan paced that night, telling himself that paper and pressure would bring the crown.
He did not know the pen he chased belonged to his own brother.