raazi ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧ (rehman dakait x fem!oc)
chapter. iii ♡ masterlist.
summary : (angsty, fluffy and first love all at once. fem oc (zalak mehra) is an undercover spy playing a journalism student in lyari and hamza Ali mazari accompanies her throughout the mission as he watches zalak fall in love with the bastard king of lyari - rehman baloch, while being foolishly inlove with her ever since he was 13.)
warnings : angsty, fluffy banter, sad ending? not sure depends on what the reader chooses at the end :)
disclaimer: this is purely fiction & does not represnt anyone in real life & is against terrorism. so treat as is and enjoy. love, aashu
the next day (please read the author's note at the end)
Zalak woke up from barely 4 hours of sleep. She couldn't really sleep last night, busy calculating every move she'd make tomorrow, essential to accomplish the mission. She turned on the TV in her living room to listen to some morning news while she made coffee to keep her alive through the day. She tried to distract herself by staying up to date with the news. But miserably failed as the news only chanted about rehman dakait's transcendence. A part of her was excited? She couldn/t believe it. 4 months ago, she fought with her dad, refusing to go, and now that she was here, she was eager to see the man in real life, anticipation took over her.
This morning had slipped through her fingers like silk in warm water. One blink, one unfinished thought, and suddenly the sky outside her window was bruising into dusk. Five o’clock already.
She sat before the mirror at her bedside, the room washed in amber light, soft as vanilla. The ritual began slowly.
She dipped her fingers into rosewater cream and pressed it into her cheeks with reverence, as though waking ancient gold beneath her skin. The moisturiser left a luminous sheen, catching light along the high planes of her face, brow bone, cheekbone, collarbone - until she looked sculpted from dusk itself.
From a velvet pouch, she lifted jars and compacts in earthy jewel tones: burnt cinnamon, molten plum. Colours that did not hide her complexion but worshipped it.
A liquid foundation melted seamlessly into her skin, disappearing as though it had always belonged there. She traced concealer beneath her eyes like strokes of moonlight, blending until the brightness bloomed softly against the richness of her complexion.
She swept bronze shimmer across her lids, the pigment glowing against her dark skin like sunlight on river water. In the inner corners, she pressed flecks of antique gold that flashed every time she blinked. Her eyeliner curved sharp and elegantly, winged with the precision of calligraphy.
The blush was terracotta, sunbaked and warm, dusted high upon her cheeks. It looked less like makeup and more like heat rising naturally beneath her skin. She smiled faintly at her reflection.
Finally, the highlighter.
A molten amber glow swept across her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose, turning her skin ethereal, celestial, almost unreal. She looked kissed by lantern light, by firelight, by stars.
Outside, the warm golden hour rays fell softly onto her balcony creepers.
Inside, she sat in a silky pastel pink salwaar kameez that made her look even more ethereal, brushing gloss onto her lips. She smiled at her reflection, satisfied with the art she produced. She grabbed her books and the sample materials needed to teach Faizal. Once last look in the mirror. She was ready to leave.
As she stepped out of her apartment building, her eyes landed on a gleaming white Mustang parked by the curb. Surely, that couldn't be for her... could it?
The idea seemed ridiculous, yet she found herself indulging it as she walked closer and peered at the driver. "Yeh gaadi kisne mangwayi? Yahan toh kisi ke paas Mustang nahi hai."
The driver straightened immediately. "Memsaab, Dakait sahab ne bheji hai. Tuition teacher ke liye. Aap unhe jaanti hain kya?"
A smile tugged at her lips. He certainly knew how to make an entrance. Most people sent a text. This man apparently dispatched a Mustang. "Arey, woh toh main hi hoon," she replied, opening the door. "Chaliye phir."
The Mustang drew more than a few curious looks. Not that she was surprised. A white Mustang wasn't exactly subtle. Then again, subtlety had never seemed to be one of Dakait sahab's stronger qualities.
After nearly forty minutes, the cityscape began to change. Crowded markets gave way to wider roads, and eventually the towering gates of Baloch Mahal came into view.
The estate rose behind high stone walls, sprawling and imposing, its sandstone façade glowing softly under the afternoon sun. Ornate balconies projected from the upper floors, while fountains sparkled in the vast courtyard beyond the gates. It looked less like a residence and more like the sort of place where family feuds lasted three generations and every room contained at least one expensive chandelier.
The Mustang rolled to a smooth stop near the main entrance.
Before opening the door, she reached into her purse and pulled out a small bottle of vanilla perfume she always carried with her. A quick spray at her wrists, another lightly at her neck.
The familiar scent settled around her, warm and sweet. Especially when dealing with men who sent muscle cars instead of messages.
She slipped the perfume back into her purse, checked her reflection in the dark window for a second, and then stepped out.
A uniformed guard immediately moved forward and opened the grand wooden doors.
"Memsaab aa gayi hain," he announced into a walkie-talkie.
The statement travelled through the mansion like a royal proclamation.
She couldn't help smiling.
As she entered through the gates, a passageway with lush greenery on both sides and a white marble fountain with pink lotuses floating in it adorned the garden. She was led to the room by a female middle-aged housekeeper.
Rehman Dakait sat in the infamous swing-chair Hamza had told her about, occupying it with the effortless authority of a man who had never once needed to announce his importance. He wore a navy-blue pathani kurta, the top buttons undone, exposing tanned skin beneath.
Uzair stood at his right shoulder. Hamza rested against a pillar a few steps behind.
Zalak slowed as she approached.
The faint scent of vanilla perfume reached the room before she did, softening the otherwise masculine atmosphere.
She offered a measured nod.
Rehman turned toward her.
For a moment, neither spoke.
His eyes settled on her face.
The pastel pink salwar kameez.
The kohl framing her doe eyes.
The silver chand baaliyan that swayed gently as she moved.
The silk dupatta was draped loosely over her shoulders.
Something unreadable flickered across his expression.
His voice came low and rough.
As she lowered herself into the chair opposite him, his gaze returned to her again.
It dipped toward her lips before lifting back to her eyes.
Zalak pretended not to notice.
Her fingers tightened slightly around her books.
She sat gracefully, placing her notes on her lap.
Up close, she could feel three different gazes on her.
Uzair's was sharp enough to cut glass.
His attention seemed to wander back to her every few moments despite himself.
As though he were studying something he couldn't quite understand.
Then Rehman leaned back in the swing chair.
"Toh aap journalism padh rahi hain?"
"Journalism." A faint smirk touched his mouth. "Aaj kal ke journalists ko dekh kar toh lagta hai sach se zyada drama pasand hai."
The sound seemed to catch his attention immediately.
"Sir, drama toh aap log bhi kam nahi karte."
Hamza immediately looked down to hide a smile.
Even Uzair's eyebrow twitched.
Rehman let out a chuckle.
Zalak glanced toward the white Mustang visible through the window.
"Tuition teacher ke liye Mustang bhejna thoda dramatic nahi hai?"
A grin spread across Hamza's face.
"Toh aapko gaadi acchi nahi lagi?"
"Ji nahi, gaadi mast hai. Poora mohalla jaanta hai ab ki main kahan ja rahi hoon."
This time, even Uzair let out a quiet snort.
As the conversation continued, Zalak became increasingly aware of Rehman's eyes.
Whenever someone else spoke, she would occasionally find him already looking at her.
When she answered one of Uzair's questions without hesitation, Rehman's gaze sharpened slightly.
His eyes narrowed in thought.
Later, after Faizal had entered and turned the entire room upside down with his complaints about having a tutor, the atmosphere had shifted completely.
Laughter replaced suspicion.
Even Rehman seemed more relaxed.
"Abbu, aap aise kaise kar sakte ho? Maine bola main khud padhunga!"
Hamza burst out laughing.
A reluctant smile tugged at Zalak's lips.
"Faizal, mere samne yeh sab drama nahi chalenge."
"Abbu... main kaise dhyaan de paunga? Teacher, itni khoobsurat hai."
Hamza doubled over laughing.
And for the first time since she'd arrived, she saw Rehman genuinely caught off guard.
A breath escaped him through his nose.
The boy immediately shut up.
The room dissolved into quiet amusement.
A few minutes later, Rehman rose from the swing-chair.
"Faizal, teacher ko library dikhao. Wahi padhna."
As Faizal gathered his books, Rehman looked toward Zalak.
For a second longer than necessary.
Neither looked away immediately.
Something unreadable passed between them.
A question neither had asked.
"If Faizal zyada tang kare toh seedha mere paas complaint lekar aaiyega."
"Main bas teacher ki madad kar raha hoon."
"Main bachcha nahi hoon."
"Result dekh ke lagta toh nahi hai."
Hamza laughed so hard he nearly choked.
Zalak shook her head, smiling despite herself.
As she turned to leave with Faizal, she felt it again.
That sensation of being watched.
Her eyes lifted instinctively.
Across the room, Rehman was already looking at her.
The moment lasted barely a heartbeat.
Then she disappeared into the hallway.
And only after she was gone did Rehman finally look away.
The library was larger than some apartments Zalak had seen.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined every wall, their dark, polished wood accented with leather-bound volumes, history books, political memoirs, law journals, and novels from half a dozen languages. Tall arched windows overlooked the gardens outside, allowing ribbons of golden evening light to spill across the Persian rugs beneath their feet.
Faizal tossed his notebook onto a massive oak table.
"Good," Zalak replied, taking a seat.
"People who love maths don't need tutors."
The boy stared at her for two seconds before laughing.
"Abbu says people who hate studying become useless."
Faizal immediately grinned.
"I did not roast your father."
Zalak opened her notebook.
"Today we're doing fractions."
"I don't like you anymore."
The next hour passed surprisingly smoothly.
Faizal wasn't unintelligent.
The problem was that his attention span seemed to possess wings.
Every five minutes, he discovered a brand-new topic.
"Teacher, do journalists get shot?"
"Can journalists arrest people?"
That answer made him laugh so hard he nearly fell off his chair.
Eventually, she managed to drag him back toward fractions.
To her surprise, once he actually focused, he understood concepts quickly.
By the time they finished the chapter, he was solving problems without help.
Faizal looked down at his completed work.
Then immediately vanished.
Nearly two hours had passed when Faizal suddenly asked,
"Are you scared of my Abbu?"
The question arrived so unexpectedly that Zalak almost dropped her pen.
Children asked questions adults avoided.
Zalak considered her answer carefully.
Across the room, evening sunlight painted long shadows between the bookshelves.
"Apke abbu kaafi ache hai"
"Lyari mein school aur hospital unke funding ke waje se hi toh banne hai ."
"Funding? wo kya hota hai?"
"Wo topic kabhi aur padht hai, Abhi filal maths."
The boy thought about that seriously.
As though filing the information away.
Then he lowered his voice dramatically.
"Funding matlab paise de kar kisi cheez ko banwana"
"Wow, Abhi toh mein abbu se mere liye ek naye Mahal ke liye funding karwaunga"
Faizal nodded with absolute conviction.
A few minutes later, the library door opened.
Hamza appeared carrying a tray loaded with biscuits and juice.
"Teacher ne maara toh nahi?"
"Nahii Zalak did toh kitni pyaari."
"Aww Faizal zyada taareef karne se homework kam nahi milne wala"
"Didiii! Mein Abbu ko bulaungaaa"
Hamza was smiling from ear to ear. He was glad seeing Zalak get along well with Faizal. He adored her after all.
He then glanced at the notebook.
"Tumne itne saare question kar liye?"
Faizal immediately sat straighter.
The pride on the boy's face was impossible to miss.
And for a brief moment, something softened in his expression.
Because anyone who spent enough time in this house knew that Faizal's smiles had become increasingly rare after his parent’s separation.
Acting like a normal ten-year-old.
The realisation didn't escape Hamza.
Nor did it escape the man standing silently outside the partially open library door.
Rehman hadn't intended to stop.
He had merely been passing through the corridor.
Then he'd heard laughter.
From where he stood, he could see only part of the room.
She was explaining something using a pencil and a biscuit.
Apparently, fractions are now involved in baked goods.
Faizal seemed fascinated.
The boy's attention never lasted this long.
Yet he hadn't looked bored once.
A strange feeling settled somewhere in his chest.
Because for the first time in months, his son looked happy.
His gaze drifted toward Zalak.
She was listening to Faizal's endless questions with surprising patience.
Correcting him when necessary.
Never speaking down to him.
Which made her look ethereal.
Inside the library, Faizal suddenly got out of his chair and ran towards Rehman.
And tugged behind his legs.
"Abbuuu aap dekho toh maine kitne sawal kar liye"
Hamza immediately turned.
For a second, nobody spoke.
"Zara mujhe bhi dikhao toh"
Rehman was amused. He had never seen his son this concentrated before.
His gaze shifted toward the notebooks.
Before she could answer, Faizal jumped in.
"I am an excellent student."
Hamza barked out a laugh.
"But," she continued, "he learns fast."
The boy immediately brightened again.
And for a fraction of a second, genuine pride crossed his face.
Faizal pointed accusingly.
"Didi aap ko pata hai ki mein kitna accha baccha hu"
Hamza was laughing openly now.
Even Rehman looked dangerously close to smiling.
The atmosphere had shifted.
"Chaliye, aaj ke liye aapne bohot zyada mehnat kar li."
Rehman's voice cut through Faizal's dramatic complaints and half-finished homework.
The boy looked personally offended.
"Abbu, maine sirf do chapter kiye hain."
"Jo tumhare hisaab se poore saal ke barabar hain."
Zalak laughed, closing the notebook.
The evening sun spilled across the library windows, bathing everything in soft gold.
"Thoda chai pe charcha kar lete hain?" Rehman said finally.
But he looked like he had been considering them for several minutes.
"Sorry, par main chai nahi peeti."
"Phir coffee?" Rehman offered immediately. "Aap jo chahein."
A smile spread across her face.
"Chaliye phir. Faizal bete, ab kal milte hain."
Faizal threw his arms around her before darting out of the room with a football tucked under one arm.
His laughter echoed down the hallway.
For a moment, silence settled.
Then Rehman gestured toward the veranda.
The veranda overlooked the sprawling courtyard.
The sun was beginning to sink behind the trees, turning the sky shades of orange and pink.
A servant brought coffee and quietly disappeared.
Zalak settled into a wicker chair.
The conversation should have felt awkward.
Because comfort had arrived much too quickly.
For several seconds neither spoke.
A breeze lifted a loose strand of hair near Zalak's cheek.
Without thinking, she tucked it behind her ear.
Rehman's eyes followed the movement.
Then he looked away toward the garden.
"Faizal pehli baar kisi teacher ko pasand kar raha hai."
The corner of Zalak's mouth lifted.
"Mujhe lagta hai usse bas padhai pasand nahi hai."
"Usmein aur mujhmein yeh baat common hai."
The kind that reached her eyes.
Something shifted in Rehman's expression.
Yet suddenly, he seemed unable to look anywhere else.
As though every smile she gave caught his attention before he could stop it.
"Toh aap bachpan mein bhi itne hi mushkil student the?"
"Main student tha hi nahi."
"Bas..." A faint smile appeared. "Zindagi ne alag syllabus de diya."
For the first time since she'd met him, there was no humour behind the words.
And something in her expression softened.
Because once he noticed it, he couldn't stop noticing things.
The way she wrapped both hands around the coffee mug when she listened.
The way her eyebrows pulled together when she was concentrating.
The way she always gave people her full attention when they spoke.
The breeze grew stronger.
Her dupatta slipped slightly from one shoulder. Revealing the shape of her delicate torso.
She adjusted it absently while continuing the conversation.
Then, it was immediately lifted.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
The correction afterwards.
She hid her smile behind her coffee cup.
"Waise," she said casually, "aap generally sab teachers ko itni hospitality dete hain?"
A look crossed Rehman's face.
One that almost resembled being caught.
"Generally mere ghar mein teachers aati nahi."
"And generally..." his eyes briefly met hers, "Faizal kisi ko do din se zyada tikne nahi deta."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable.
More aware than either of them wanted.
Below them, Faizal yelled something incomprehensible from the football field.
Then Zalak broke eye contact first.
Because distance didn't help.
Now he could simply watch her without appearing to.
And somehow that was worse.
She was speaking about the university now.
Some story about a professor.
But part of him remained distracted by the simple fact that she looked completely at ease sitting across from him.
As though she belonged there.
The thought arrived unexpectedly.
And lingered far longer than it should have.
Across the table, Zalak paused mid-sentence.
"Aap sunhe mein interested nahi ho toh bata dijiye"
"Arey nahi waisa kuch nahi hai"
For the first time all evening, Hamza's voice floated from somewhere near the doorway.
Hamza stood there holding a cup of tea, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Hamza only grinned wider.
And Rehman found himself smiling because of it.
Because she was laughing.
The realisation was deeply inconvenient.
And judging by the amused look Hamza suddenly wore,
He wasn't the only one who had noticed.
authors note: anybody volunteering to co write this series lemme know. need help and advice asap. please dm me, need your creative juices, cuz meri ghee khatam hori hai bhenchod
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