Aap toh raat ko waise bhi kafi thak gaye the.
The words echoed in Hamza ears like a bomb going off in a closed vault. He sat frozen, his gaze glued to that plum-colored bruise on Gurbaaz neck. Every memory of his own time in that bedroom—every time Uzair hands had pinned him down, every time those rough lips had left identical, burning marks on his own collarbone—flashed before his eyes like a cruel, mocking slideshow.
And now, this stranger from India is sitting here, feeding Uzair, wearing Uzair mark, and talking about how "tired" Uzair is from the night.
Hamza hands began to shake that the silverware on his empty plate began to rattle. A wave of rage rushed from the depths of his chest straight to his head, burning away the last remaining shred of his pride, his dignity, and his carefully constructed composure.
Hamza slammed his palms down onto the table, standing up so fast his heavy dining chair flew backward, crashing loudly against the marble floor.
"Bas!" Hamza shrieked, his voice cracking, entirely stripped of its usual refined, soft cadence. It's a scream of jealousy that echoed off the high ceilings of the haveli.
The entire dining room went dead silent. Ulfat hid her face behind her napkin to conceal the grin spreading across her lips. Rehman calmly took a sip of his tea, while Gurbaaz instantly froze, keeping his eyes wide and innocent, though his heart is secretly cheering.
But Uzair—Uzair looked up, his eyes wide with a desperate hope as he stared at his wild trembling hamza.
Hamza isn't looking at Ulfat. He isn't looking at Gurbaaz. His burning, tear-filled, hazel-green eyes were locked entirely onto Uzair. He is breathing in short, ragged gasps,
"tum..." Hamza choked out, pointing a trembling, accusing finger directly at Uzair face, ignoring all family protocol. "Tumne... tumne use mere kamre mein rehne diya? Tumne use apne paas bithaya?! Aur yeh..." He gestured toward Gurbaaz neck, his voice trembling with a furious agony. "Yeh sab kya hai, Uzair Baloch?! Tumhara himmat kaise hua kisi aur ko haath lagane ki?!"
Uzair heart gave a thud. He began to push his chair back to stand up, his lips parting to speak, but Hamza didn't give him the chance.
Driven insane by the silence, Hamza took a sharp step around the table, storming straight toward them. He grabbed Gurbaaz by the shoulder, his fingers digging in with a strength, and violently shoved his rival away from Uzair side.
"Utho yahan se!" Hamza yelled right into Gurbaaz face, his tears overflowing and racing down his flushed cheeks. "Yeh tumhara shohar nahi hai! Yeh tumhara kamra nahi hai! Yeh mard... yeh jagah... yeh sab kuch mera hai! Tumhare paas India ka passport hai na? Toh dafa ho jao yahan se wapas! Chale jao mere ghar se!"
The words hung in the air of the dining hall, vibrating with the force of a year's worth of suppressed love and bleeding jealousy.
Yeh mard... yeh jagah... yeh sab kuch mera hai!
Then, the finality of the silence hit him. Hamza fingers slowly loosened their desperate, grip on Gurbaaz. His hand dropped to his side, heavy as lead. He looked around the room, and the sudden, freezing realization of what he had just done—what he had just screamed in front of the entire Baloch family—crashed down on his sanity.
He had completely stripped away his Mazari armor. He had stood in the middle of Lyari and thrown a tantrum over a man who had divorced him. He had laid his entire, bleeding heart bare on the dining table for everyone to see.
Hamza eyes widened in horror. The burning crimson on his cheeks instantly drained away, leaving him a deathly pale. He took a step backward, his breath catching in his throat as he looked at Gurbaaz, knowing look, and then at Ulfat, whose eyes were glittering with victory.
Finally, his gaze landed on Uzair.
Uzair had already stood up, his frame casting a long shadow over the table. But he wasn't angry. He isn't looking at Hamza with the distance of a stranger. His eyes are wide, his hands trembling at his sides as if he is trying to restrain himself from leaping across the short distance between them.
"Hamza..." Uzair rasped, his voice a deep, rough vibration that carried the weight of a man who had just been handed his soul back.
"Nahi," Hamza choked out, a fresh wave of humiliation flooding his chest. He shook his head wildly, his hands flying to his face as a sob escaped his lips. "Nahi... main... mujhe maaf kar dein. Mujhse ghalti hui. Main ja raha hoon."
He couldn't stay here for another second. The weight of his own confession is crushing him. Turning on his heel, Hamza didn't just walk—he fled, his kurta fluttering behind him as he ran blindly out of the dining hall, heading straight toward the front courtyard of the haveli to escape the suffocating walls.
But the moment Hamza feet hit the veranda steps, Uzair didn't care about Ulfat plan anymore. He didn't care about promises, protocol, or the fake mark on Gurbaaz neck.
"Hamza!" Uzair roared, a sound that shook the very foundation of the courtyard. He sprinted out of the dining room, his boots thundering against the marble as he gave chase after his fleeing prince.
Inside the dining hall, the echo of Uzair thundering boots had barely faded before the tension broke
Gurbaaz let out a long, low whistle, reaching up to rub the back of his neck where Hamza fingers had just been digging in. A grin split across his face. "Yaar, bhabhi... sach mein, bacha toh darr gaya. Par kya acting ki hai maine! Ek dam real jaisi jalan dikhayi hai bhabhi humare hamza bhai ne!"
Rehman stepped out toward the veranda doors, watching the distant figures of his younger brother and the Quetta prince in the sprawling courtyard. Uzair had reached Hamza, his arms wrapping tightly around the smaller man waist from behind, pinning him to his chest while Hamza thrashed and sobbed against the restraint.
"Uzair toh toot gaya hai," Rehman murmured, shaking his head with a quiet sigh of relief. "Woh ab zyada der door nahi reh payega, Ulfat. Woh sach batane hi wala hai use."
"Nahi batayega!" Ulfat voice cut through the room,
She walked over to the edge of the dining table, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she watched the dramatic struggle unfolding outside. Her eyes were calculating, focused on the endgame. She knew Hamza Ali Mazari far better than the men did. She knew that right now, Hamza is reacting out of shock. The moment he went back into a room and his pride reassembled itself, he would construct a defensive wall so high that Uzair would never pierce it again.
"Lagta hai itna jaldi nahi manega," Ulfat said, a smirk returning to her lips as she turned back to face Rehman and Gurbaaz. "Abhi toh sirf iska ghuroor hila hai. Agar abhi Uzair ne ise sach bata diya, toh Hamza phir se zidd par add jayega ke tum sab ne mera mazaak udaya. Yeh baat ko nikaah tak le jana hi padega!"
Gurbaaz eyes widened, a sudden laugh bursting from his throat. "Oye hoye! Bhabhi... matlab aap sach mein mere saath iska nikaah padhwayengi? Meri mummy toh dhoondti reh jayegi Punjab mein dulhan!"
"Nikaah hoga... par nikaah ke mandap par dulha badal jayega," Ulfat whispered, She leaned forward, pinning Gurbaaz with a look. "Gurbaaz, tum maulvi sahab ke saamne baithoge. Kapde badal kar, sehra pehan kar. Aur nikaah se thandak pehle, jab Hamza ka dil poori tarah phatne wala hoga... tab Uzair tumhara jagah baithega."
She turned back to the window, watching Uzair forcefully lifting a weeping, struggling Hamza into his arms to carry him back toward the privacy of the guest wing.
"Iske paas koi rasta nahi chhorna," Ulfat murmured. "Ise nikaah ki dahliz par khada kar ke poori duniya ka samna karne par majboor karenge. Tabhi yeh mere bhai ka hath hamesha ke liye thamega."
The bright morning sun was blinding, but Hamza couldn't see any of it. His vision is blurred by stinging tears as he fought like a wild animal against the arms wrapped around his waist.
"Chhorho mujhe! Haath mat lagao mujhe, Uzair!" Hamza shrieked, He kicked, he thrashed, his elbows striking against Uzair chest, but it was like fighting a stone mountain.
Uzair didn't say a single word. He couldn't let him go. If he let him go now, Hamza would run straight out of the Lyari gates and vanish into the dust of Balochistan forever.
With a single, effortless heave, Uzair shifted his weight, hooking his arm under Hamza knees and lifting the prince off his feet. Hamza gasped, his hands instantly flying to Uzair shoulders for balance despite his fury. He beat his fists against Uzair chest, sobbing hysterically as the Sardar strode back up the veranda steps, ignoring the servants who hurriedly looked away in respect.
Uzair kicked the door of the guest suite open, stepped inside the cool, shaded room, and slammed it shut with his boot, locking it from the inside with a click.
The moment his feet touched the floor, Hamza shoved himself away from Uzair, stumbling backward until his knees hit the edge of the bed. He stood there, his kurta wrinkled, his hair chaotic, his chest heaving as he stared at his ex-husband through a thick veil of tears.
"Kyun laye ho mujhe yahan?!" Hamza wept, "Tohfe mein chahiye hoon tumhein?! Ke tum apna nikaah uske saath parho aur main... main yahan baith kar tumhara intezar karoon?! Tum badal gaye ho, Uzair... tum sach mein kisi aur ke ho gaye..."
The words were a dagger straight to Uzair soul. He took a step forward, his frame blocking out the light from the window. The agony of keeping Ulfat secret is burning him alive, but the sight of Hamza pride—the fact that his rounak had just screamed to the world that Uzair belonged to him—sent a thrill through his veins.
Uzair reached out, his hands grabbing Hamza by the upper arms and pulling him forward until their chests slammed together.
"Tumhein lagta hai main kisi aur ka ho sakta hoon?!" Uzair growled, his voice dropping into that deep, terrifyingly low gravelly pitch that used to make Hamza knees go weak. His eyes burned into Hamza hazel ones "Tumne kal raat upar mere kamre ke bahar khade hokar kya suna? Tumhe kya laga... main us larke ke saath...?"
Hamza flinched, his heart stopping as Uzair revealed he knew about his midnight visit. "Tumne use... tumne use apna nishani di hai," Hamza whispered, a fresh sob breaking his voice as he thought of the plum bruise on Gurbaaz neck. "Maine dekha... nashte par..."
Uzair grip on his arms tightened until it was nearly bruising, He couldn't tell him the truth about the makeup—Ulfat warning about the actual Nikaah arrangement is ringing in his head—but he could not let Hamza believe he had been touched by anyone else.
"Suno mera baat," Uzair hissed, leaning down until his lips were mere inches from Hamza trembling mouth, "Is dunya mein koi paida nahi hua jo is Sardar ko haath laga sake. Mere jism par, meri jaan par, aur mere is daagh-daar dil par... sirf ek hi bande ka haq hai. Aur agar tumne abhi bhi apna haq nahi maanga, Hamza...."
Hamza chin tilted up, his blood forcing a shield of icy indifference to freeze over his burning heart. He stared straight up into Uzair eyes, his own hazel-green gaze hardening despite the tear tracks staining his cheeks.
"Kariye jo karna hai," Hamza whispered, "Mujhe kuch nahi kehna aap se. Kuch nahi."
Uzair grip on Hamza arms loosened. He looked down at his rounak, his eyes searching that beautiful face for even a fraction of the wild, screaming passion Hamza had just displayed in the dining hall. But Hamza had withdrawn behind his walls. The sudden silence from the smaller man is terrifying than any tantrum.
Uzair stood entirely quiet for a long,
"Theek hai," Uzair said softly, He stepped backward, his towering frame releasing Hamza from his shadow. "Toh nikaah tak yahin rehna. Nikaah dekh ke tab jaana."
Without waiting for a response, without giving away a single hint of the trap Ulfat is spinning for the altar, Uzair turned on his heel. He strode toward the door, unlocked it with a twist, and walked out, slamming the door shut behind him.
The heavy thud of the door echoed through the room like a final sentence.
Hamza knees gave out. He sank onto the edge of the guest bed, his fingers clutching the cold sheets as he stared blankly at the locked door. Nikaah dekh ke tab jaana. The words repeated in his head, tearing through his remaining sanity. Uzair is actually going through with it. He is going to let Hamza sit in the audience and watch him bind his life to Gurbaaz.
Upstairs, the moment Uzair reached the top of the grand staircase, Ulfat and Gurbaaz were already waiting in the shadows of the corridor.
"Suna tumne?" Ulfat whispered, "Maine kaha tha na... ab yeh ghar se nahi bhaagega. Iska ghuroor ab ise nikaah ke mandap tak kheench kar layega."
Uzair didn't look at either of them. He walked straight past his best friend and his sister-in-law, his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Tayaari karo, Bhabhi," Uzair growled, "Maulvi ko bulao. Kapde tayaar karo. Mujhe yeh tamasha ab do din mein khatam chahiye."
The door stayed shut, but the silence it left behind was a mocking, living thing.
Hamza collapsed onto the sheets of the guest bed, curling into a tight ball as the dam inside him broke. A sob ripped from his throat, muffled only by the unfamiliar velvet pillow he pressed desperately against his face.
The thought clawed at his chest, drawing blood from his heart. No matter what papers had been signed in a moment of pride, no matter what daggers they had thrown at each other in the dust of Lyari, Uzair is his husband. The Sardar belonged to Hamza. Every line on Uzair palms, the weight of his shadow, the growl of his voice—it's all supposed to be Hamza sanctuary.
"Mera hai..." Hamza choked out into the dark fabric, his shoulders shaking, his fingers clawing at the mattress. "Woh sirf... sirf mera hai..."
The image of the dark, plum-colored mark on Gurbaaz neck flashed behind his closed eyelids like an unholy branding. It's a visual execution. Uzair touch isn't gentle; it's a consuming, bruising fire. Hamza knew exactly how those marks felt—how they burned into the skin, how they demanded submission, how they stayed for days as a silent testament to who owned him.
To see that exact same mark on another man skin—on a stranger who smiled so softly and glided through the haveli with such unearned confidence—is a humiliation that made Hamza feel like he is dying. Uzair is giving his body away. He is letting someone else feel the heat of that chest, letting someone else claim the intimacy that used to be Hamza entire world.
The thought that those marks, those claims of ownership that belonged only to him, are being painted onto someone else drove Hamza into a state of madness.
He is being erased from the only heart he had ever truly crawled inside.
The entire day dissolved into a blur of suffocating heat and distant, mocking sounds. Outside the doors of the guest wing, the haveli was alive with the low hum of servants moving furniture, the faint rustle of marigold garlands being delivered, and the terrifying, steady ticking of the clock in the courtyard.
Hamza hadn't moved from the bed. He hadn't touched a single drop of water, let alone unpack his clothes. He sat curled up, his knees pulled tightly to his chest, his linen kurta wrinkled and stained with the salt of his endless tears. His hazel-green eyes were red-rimmed and hollow, staring blankly at the wall. The exhaustion of his own grief had slowed his sobs into quiet, occasional tremors that shook his shoulders every few minutes.
The sharp turn of the key inside the lock cut through the dead silence of the room.
Hamza didn't even turn his head. He remained frozen, expecting Ulfat to come in with another polite dagger, or Gurbaaz to mock him with his soft-spoken grace.
But the footsteps that entered the room were slow, and carried a familiar weight that made the floorboards beneath the rug vibrate.
Uzair stepped into the dim room, shutting the door behind him with his elbow. In his hands, he is holding a silver tray. On it sat a plate of warm, fresh pulao, a bowl of spiced yogurt, and a glass of water. The Sardar face is drained of color, dark shadows under his eyes showing that he hadn't slept a single second either.
Uzair walked over to the bedside table, setting the tray down with a quiet clink. He stood there for a long moment, his frame casting a shadow over the curled-up prince. His chest heaved as he looked down at Hamza face, his heart shattering into a thousand pieces at the sight of the tear tracks on his cheeks.
"Khaana khao, Hamza," Uzair rasped, He stepped closer, sitting down on the edge of the mattress, the bed dipping under his weight. "Subah se ek niwaala nahi gaya tumhare andar. Apni jaan nikaloge kya?"
Hamza slowly turned his head, his eyes locking onto Uzair face. He looked at the man who is supposed to be preparing for a wedding tomorrow, the man whose touch belonged to another.
"Kyun aaye ho yahan?" Hamza whispered, He didn't look at the food. "Apne dulhe ke paas jao, Uzair... mujhe bhook nahi hai. Mujhe mere haal par chhorh do."
"Chalo, thoda sa toh khaana padega," Uzair murmured, ignoring Hamza words, Uzair reached down toward the silver tray. His fingers moved with an care as he poured the rich, spiced gravy over the pulao. He mixed a perfect bite of the flavorful pulao with his own hands, ensuring it isn't too hot, before lifting it up.
Uzair leaned closer, his frame enveloping Hamza space, and held the bite against hamza trembling lips.
"Mera sar khane ke liye bhi toh jaan chahiye na?" Uzair whispered, a faint smile touching the corner of his lips. "Chalo, munh kholo."
Hamza stared at the hand holding the food. His heart gave a twist. This is the same hand he believed had left those dark marks on Gurbaaz just hours ago. He wanted to turn his face away, he wanted to slap the plate out of Uzair grip and scream at him to go back to his new love—but the proximity of his husband, the familiar scent radiating from Uzair skin, paralyzed his resistance.
A tear spilled over Hamza lashes and tracked down his cheek. His lips parted just a fraction, a quiet, breath escaping him as he finally gave in, leaning forward to take the bite from Uzair fingers.
The familiar taste of the food did nothing to soothe the burning ache in his chest. As he chewed slowly, his eyes never left Uzair face, searching the features of the Sardar for any sign of regret, any sign that the man standing before him still belonged to him.
Uzair watched him swallow, a sigh of relief escaping his chest. Without a word, he began forming the next bite, his thumb gently brushing away the wet tear from Hamza cheek before bringing the food back to his lips. "Aise hi... chup chaap saara plate khatam karo. Jab tak tum poora nahi khaoge, main is kamre se ek qadam bahar nahi rakhunga."
Hamza took the second bite, but the food felt like ash in his throat. He couldn't chew, he couldn't swallow, and he couldn't take the weight of Uzair gentle touch anymore.
"Achha... kya hua? Itna ro kyun rahe ho?"
The question slipped from Uzair lips, his voice carrying a soft quiet tone as he looked at the fresh tears tracking down his hamza cheeks. He genuinely wanted Hamza to say it. He wanted him to spit the fire out, to scream his right, to shatter the fake wedding before the dawn arrived.
But to Hamza, the question sounded like the mockery. Itna ro kyun rahe ho? As if his heart isn't being torn out of his chest, as if the whole haveli isn't whispering about the Sardar new groom upstairs, as if Uzair hadn't just marked another man skin with his own lips.
Hamza violently turned his head away, refusing the next bite. He brought his hands up to his face, his shoulders shaking as a sob broke through his iron restraint.
"Aap... aap mujhse pooch rahe hain?!" Hamza choked out through his fingers, He dropped his hands, staring up at Uzair with "Mera sab kuch chheen kar... mujhe is andhere kamre mein phenk kar... aap mujhse pooch rahe hain ke main kyun ro raha hoon?!"
He pointed a finger toward the door, toward the upper wing where Gurbaaz is supposed to be.
"Kal aapka nikaah hai, Uzair Baloch! Kal aap kisi aur ke naam ka kalma padhenge! Kisi aur ko us kamre mein lekar aayenge, kisi aur ko... kisi aur ko wahi nishaniyan denge jo sirf mera tha!" Hamza yelled, his voice cracking as his chest heaved. "Aur aap keh rahe hain ke kya hua?! Mera mard mujhse chheen raha hai... aur main ro bhi nahi sakta?!"
Uzair froze, his hand holding the food remaining suspended in mid-air. The bleeding in Hamza scream hit him right in the chest, knocking the breath clean out of his frame. Mera mard. The words echoed through the silent guest suite like thunder.
Uzair slowly set the plate back onto the silver tray, He leaned in closer, his eyes locking onto Hamza flushed, as he set his hands flat on the mattress on either side of the hamza thighs, trapping him. His eyes narrowed into a calculating stare that burned right through Hamza defense.
"Tumhein kisne kaha main tumhara hoon?" Uzair asked, "Humara toh talaq ho chuka hai na?"
The breathing in his chest instantly trapped itself in his throat. His lips remained slightly parted, his trembling, tear-stained face locking in a state of sudden paralysis. The words hit him like a bucket of freezing water, washing away the fury of his jealousy and leaving behind the reality of the legal, bitter truth.
The word sounded so ugly, so final, spoken aloud in Uzair voice. It was the very monster Hamza had constructed out of his own pride a year ago. He had signed those papers. He had packed his bags. He had demanded his freedom from the life of Lyari. He had broken the bond with his own hands—and now, the legal cage he had built to protect his pride had turned into an executioner block.
Hamza eyes widened, swimming in a fresh glaze of tears as he stared at his ex-husband. He looked at Uzair lips—the lips that had just reminded him that legally, rightfully, Uzair owed him nothing. Legally, Uzair had every right to marry Gurbaaz tomorrow. Legally, Hamza is nothing but an uninvited stranger crying in a downstairs guest room.
The realization broke something fundamental inside the his bearing. His trembling hands slowly dropped back onto the bed sheets , his fingers curling into the fabric , He had no right to scream. He had no right to throw tantrums. He had thrown his ownership away, and now he is begging for crumbs at the table of a man he had rejected.
Uzair watched the fire in Hamza eyes instantly fracture into a state of pure, helpless devastation. It took every single ounce of the Sardar strength not to rip his own chest open right there to show the prince that the divorce papers were nothing but worthless, burnt ash in his heart.
"Bolo," Uzair whispered "Jab rishta hi tod diya tumne... toh aaj is Sardar ke jism par apna haq kyun jata rahe ho? "
Hamza gaze broke. The defiance in his eyes completely shattered, and he slowly lowered his head, his chin dropping toward his chest.
He didn't say a word. He couldn't.
The weight of the word talaq had effectively choked out whatever desperate arguments were left in his throat. He sat entirely frozen under Uzair shadow, his fingers tightly knotting into the ivory linen of his own kurta. A tear escaped his lashes, dropping silently onto the fabric between his knees, quickly followed by another.
He had no answer. To admit that the divorce is a mistake meant completely burying his pride in the dirt of Lyari. But to agree with Uzair meant accepting that tomorrow morning, he would have to watch the man he loved bind his soul to someone else. Caught between the execution block of his pride and the suicide of his heart, he chose the only defense he had left: weeping silence.
Uzair stared down at the top of Hamza head, watching the silent, rhythm of his shoulders. The defeat radiating from hamza is a physical ache in the Sardar own chest. He had pushed him to the edge, but Hamza pride is still a stubborn, bleeding wall holding him back from making the final confession.
Uzair slowly pulled his hands back from the mattress, his frame straightening up. The distance returned to his features, hiding the desperate love that was tearing him apart from the inside.
"Theek hai," Uzair murmured, "Jab kuch kehne ko bacha hi nahi... toh phir kal subah tayaar rehna. Mera nikaah dekh kar hi tumhara is haveli se safar shuru hoga."
He turned on his heel, his boots making a dull, definitive sound against the rug as he walked toward the door. He didn't look back. He slipped out into the corridor, shutting the door behind him with a sharp click that signaled the arrival of the final, fateful night before the wedding.
The heavy drapes of night fell over Lyari, but the haveli didn't sleep. Instead, the sprawling courtyard and grand halls burst into life. The air grew thick with the scent of burning jasmine incense, rosewater, and the faint, rhythmic beat of a traditional dhol echoing from the outer gates. Guests—prominent Baloch elders, distant cousins, and powerful political allies—had already started pouring through the arched entrance, filling the air with loud greetings and celebratory laughter.
In the center of the main hall, Gurbaaz is the man of the hour. He is dressed in a stunning, heavily embroidered cream-colored sherwani, looking every bit the blushing, soft-spoken groom. He stood close to Uzair and Rehman, politely nodding and shaking hands with the arriving elders. Uzair stood beside him like a mountain of ice, his eyes fixed on the entrance, his mind detached from the chaos around him.
Suddenly, a commotion at the main gates drew everyone's attention. The Mazari guard had arrived.
Walking through the threshold with a commanding, regal stride was Hamza Mamu—the fierce, highly respected chief of the Shirani clan. His graying beard is sharply trimmed, his traditional turban immaculate, and his presence immediately commanded a quiet respect from everyone in the room, including Rehman and Uzair.
From the shadows of the corridor, a broken figure emerged. Hamza hadn't changed into wedding clothes; he was still in a simple, creased kurta, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow. The moment his hazel-green eyes landed on his uncle, the last remaining wall of his dignity dissolved into nothing.
"Mamu..." Hamza gasped, his voice cracking like a hurt child's.
Completely ignoring the crowded hall, the watching guests, and the strict protocols of the Mazari family, Hamza practically ran across the marble floor. He threw himself into his uncle's arms, burying his face deep into the older man's heavy wool shawl. His shoulders shook violently as he clung to the Shirani, sobbing quietly, spent from twenty-four hours of torture.
Right now, Hamza isn't a proud prince. He is a helpless child running to his protector. In his mind, he wanted his Mamu to roar at the Baloch family. He wanted this powerful man to scold Uzair, to slap Gurbaaz, and to demand why they were torturing him like this—to tear up this entire wedding with a single command.
"Mamu, inhein rokein... please inhein rokein..." Hamza wept softly into the fabric, his fingers clutching his uncle back.
From across the room, Ulfat stood near the staircase, watching the heartbreaking scene unfold. A soft smile touched her lips. She didn't look angry; she looked like a mother watching the final pieces of a puzzle fall into place.
The Sherani chief slowly raised his ring-adorned hand, gently patting Hamza head. He looked up, his eyes scanning the room until they met Ulfat gaze.
Over the top of Hamza weeping head, Shirani and the tactical matriarch of the Baloch house exchanged a long, silent, and deeply knowing smile. The uncle knew exactly what game is being played. He knew about the stage makeup, he knew about Gurbaaz, and he knew about the altar switch. He had agreed to let his nephew's pride burn a little longer, just so the boy would never run away from his true home again.
"Shh... chup ho jao, mere bache," Shirani murmured softly, as he stroked Hamza hair, keeping the secret safe. "Sab theek ho jayega. Kal subah sab kuch saaf ho jayega."
The courtyard is transformed into a sea of glittering fairy lights, plush carpets, and low velvet diwans. The air was thick with the scent of crushed red roses and burning agarbatti. The Dholki night had officially begun, and the musicians at the center of the gathering struck the harmonium, their voices soaring into the humid night air with a melody that felt like a beautiful, mocking torture.
Hamza sat on a low diwan, sandwiched tightly beside Ulfat. He looked impossibly fragile, his fingers tightly laced together in his lap, his hazel-green eyes fixed staring blankly at the musicians. But his focus isn't on the music. It is drawn, like a magnet to steel, to the diwan directly across the floor.
There sat Uzair, looking like a devastatingly handsome king in a dark shadow-black kurta. And right beside him, practically attached to his side, is Gurbaaz in his cream sherwani.
To the outside world, they looked like the perfect, striking couple. But what made Hamza throat tighten until he could barely breathe was Uzair position. The Sardar arm is thrown over the back of the diwan, his hand resting against Gurbaaz waist, pulling the other man intimately close into his space.
The lead singer closed his eyes, his voice echoing passionately through the speakers:
"Kabhi usey noor noor kehta hoon...
Kabhi main hoor hoor kehta hoon...
Ishq mein choor choor rehta hoon...
Every single lyric felt like a physical slap to Hamza' face. Ishq mein choor choor rehta hoon. He remembered when Uzair used to whisper those exact, raw words against his own throat in the dark of their bedroom, calling him his light, his noor. And now, Uzair is sitting right there, his hand on another man waist, listening to song as if Hamza didn't even exist in the same universe.
"Na ja aankhon aankhon mein hi rehna...
Aankhon aankhon mein hi rehna...
Aankhon aankhon mein hi rehna..."
As the chorus hit, Uzair suddenly tilted his head. His eyes cut sharply through the crowded courtyard, looking past the guests, past the flowers, until his gaze locked onto Hamza tear-stained face. The intensity in Uzair eyes is suffocating, He didn't break the stare. Even with his hand still resting on Gurbaaz waist, his eyes devouring his prince.
Hamza breath hitched, a soft, broken whimper dying in his throat. He wanted to look away, but he is completely trapped by that gaze.
Beside him, Ulfat gently placed her hand over Hamza freezing fingers, passing another quick, glance over toward the Shirani chief sitting nearby. The trap is fully set, the music is playing, and the madness of love is driving the prince to the exact brink of surrender.
The harmonium swelled, the deep, mournful drone of the strings cutting through the festive chatter of the Lyari courtyard. The lead singer’s voice rose to a shattering crescendo, delivering the verses like a direct judgment upon the two men staring at each other across the crowded floor.
"Gin ke dekh badan pe neel diye hain ishq ne...
Pade jo haath pe chhaale chheel diye hain ishq ne...
Ve main saare dukh sehna, tainu nahi dassna..."
Count them. Count the bruises love has left upon the body.
The lyric struck Hamza like a physical blow. His eyes dropped instantly to Uzair hand, which is still resting against Gurbaaz waist. He thought of the plum-colored mark he had seen on Gurbaaz neck that morning. He thought of his own heart, which felt flayed, covered in unseen, bleeding welts from a year. I will bear every pain, but I won't tell you. That was exactly what he had done. He had stayed silent, he had signed the papers, and now he is drowning in the consequence.
Across the space, Uzair fingers tightened against Gurbaaz side, though his eyes never left Hamza face. The Sardar’s chest heaved. He heard the lyrics, and every single beat of the dhol reminded him of the agony he had endured watching Hamza walk away a year ago. If he had to burn the prince pride to the ground to keep him from ever leaving again, he would do it.
"O laggiyan ishq di baajiyan...
The guests around them clapped along, completely oblivious to the silent, lethal war being fought through glances. Gurbaaz tilted his head toward Uzair, playing his part beautifully, a soft smile on his lips as if the song were meant for them.
Hamza lower lip trembled. The sight of Uzair gaze, paired with the casual intimacy he is showing the stranger, is stripping the last shred of sanity from his bones.
"Kabhi usey noor noor kehta hoon...
Kabhi main hoor hoor kehta hoon...
Ishq mein choor choor rehta hoon...
As the final, lingering note of "Door naa jaa" faded into the night air, Hamza abruptly pulled his hand away from Ulfat grasp. He couldn't do this anymore. The music, the lights, the weight of Uzair hand on another man—it's a visual execution he could not survive until morning.
Without a word to his Mamu or Ulfat, Hamza stood up from the velvet diwan, his face a mask of weeping devastation, and fled the courtyard toward the dark, silent corridors of the guest wing.
Watching his prince break and run, Uzair jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his cheek. He let his hand drop from Gurbaaz waist, his eyes burning with an uncontrollable impatience.
The door had barely clicked shut behind Hamza before the lock rattled again.
Hamza was buried face-down in the pillows, his shoulders shaking with the breathless sobs he had been holding back through every line of that song. He felt hollowed out, ruined by the image of Uzair hand on another man’s waist.
But the footsteps didn't wait for permission. Uzair strode into the dim guest room, his dark shadow cutting off the light from the corridor as he slammed the door shut behind him. The cool, quiet sanctuary of the room is instantly filled with the scent of tobacco and desperation.
Uzair stood at the foot of the bed, his chest heaving under his black kurta. He looked down at the curled-up, weeping prince,
"Meri rounak..." Uzair rasped, his voice breaking into a rough, agonizing whisper that carried the raw truth of the last twelve months. "Kya hua?"
The endearment—the private, sacred name Uzair used to whisper against his skin when the world outside didn't exist—struck Hamza like a lightning bolt. Meri rounak.
Something inside Hamza's mind snapped entirely. The legal papers, the pride, the fake wedding, the presence of the guests, the crushing humiliation—everything is instantly incinerated by a hot, wild wave of possessiveness.
Hamza pushed himself up from the bed, his hazel-green eyes wide, bloodshot, and manic with jealousy. He didn't say a word. He didn't complain. With the energy of a starving man, Hamza threw himself off the mattress and crashed directly into Uzair chest.
Before Uzair could even breathe, Hamza reached up, his fingers clawing desperately into the collar of Uzair black kurta, and pulled the Sardar down, crashing their lips together in a collision that is more a war than a kiss.
It was a bruising, frantic claim. Hamza tasted the salt of his own tears, his lips moving with a biting fury against Uzair mouth, his teeth catching the Sardar lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood. He is marking him back. He is clawing at him, trying to erase the very memory of Gurbaaz, trying to force his way back into the only palace he had ever truly owned.
Uzair let out a growl from the back of his throat—a sound of surrender. He didn't pull back from the bite; instead, his hands flew to Hamza waist, his grip turning to iron as he pinned the smaller man body flush against his chest. He lifted Hamza slightly off his feet, anchoring him down, his mouth responding with an equal, consuming ferocity that threatened to steal the very breath from the hamza lungs.
They crashed onto the mattress together, the frame creaking under Uzair weight as he fell back, taking Hamza down with him. The world outside vanished. The guests, the upcoming dawn, the suffocating rules of the Mazari and Baloch clans—everything is incinerated in the white-hot fire of their reunion.
Hamza didn't waste a single second. Straddling Uzair lap, his fingers are trembling with a desperate urgency as he ripped open the buttons of Uzair black shadow kurta. The fabric parted, revealing the broad muscled chest covered in familiar, rugged scars.
A ragged, broken sob escaped Hamza throat as he buried his face against Uzair neck, his lips biting, kissing, and marking the skin. He is marking his territory, erasing every ghost, reclaiming every inch of the man who belonged only to him. Uzair hands locked onto Hamza waist, his grip bruisingly tight as he arched his chest up into the hamza touch, returning the bruising kisses with a fierce, primal hunger.
Through the open transom window above the veranda doors, the distant, echoing strains of the dholki night drifted down from the rooftop, the singer voice carrying a haunting, soulful weight into the shadowed guest room:
"Tere bin, bin tere sufiyon ke dere...
Dekh maine kitne lagaaye phere adiye...
Ho chhod ke bhi jaana ho toh
Hari bhari bairi tale challa chhad jaayin ni mundya..."
Uzair hands slid up from Hamza waist, tangling deeply into rounak long, chaotic hair, forcing Hamza to tilt his head back. Uzair eyes burned into Hamza tear-blurred hazel ones. There is no mockery left in the Sardar—only a bleeding devotion that had survived a year of pure hell.
"Mera jism... mera jaan... sab tera hai, rounak," Uzair growled against Hamza lips, his breath flaring between them as he pulled him down for another deep, consuming kiss.
"Yaad aa jaaye toh tera naam leke jhoom lun...
Shaam aa jaaye toh uth ke chand ka maatha choom lun...
Ve main sare dukh sehna tainu nahi dassna..."
They lay locked together on the bed, breathless, sweaty, and consumed by each other as the lyrics washed over them. The pain of the past year, the secrets, the endless lonely nights—it all bled into the mattress. Hamza collapsed against Uzair chest, his fingers clutching the torn fabric of the black kurta, his frantic breathing slowing down as he listened to the steady, thundering beat of Uzair heart.
He is home. He is sitting on his husband lap, his lips bruised from their war.......
(Every song have two sides first when you enjoy it second when you realise it that was the first song uzair mind have played when he first see hamza and fall in love)
