Chapter 3: Strong Hands

The night had not ended for her.

It had simply stretched into hours of silence and torment.

Liyana lay awake beneath the canopy of her bed, her eyes tracing the golden threads of fabric as if they could distract her from the memory that burned through her veins. My runner wife. The words echoed like chains, shackling her even as the storm outside slowly died.

By dawn, she had not slept a single moment. Every thought circled back to him — to the smirk, to the iron grip, to the way he had stood before her father with lowered eyes, playing the role of a humble guest when she knew the truth: he was a storm cloaked in silk.

How?

How had he found her so easily?

Eighteen months. That was all it had been since she fled. A year and a half of silence, of running, of burying herself beneath her father’s protection, believing the walls of the villa would keep the shadows out. And yet… Zayd had slipped through them. Not as an intruder, but as a welcomed son.

Her fingers tightened around the brush in her hand as she sat before the mirror. Her reflection stared back — pale, hollow-eyed, lips dry from fear. She set the brush down sharply. No disguise of silk or kohl could hide what she carried inside.

The storm had found her.

When she finally went downstairs, the villa was alive with the rhythm of morning. Maids moved through the hallways carrying trays of fruit and tea, their soft chatter blending with the clinking of dishes. To them, it was just another day. To her, it was the beginning of something she could not name.

At the foot of the staircase, her father rose at once. Sultan Ahmed, dignified and sharp even in age, crossed the room with a warmth that melted her fear, if only for a moment. He drew her into his arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Alhamdulillah,” he murmured, his voice deep with relief. “You look better today, my love.”

For a moment, her eyes closed. In his embrace, she felt warmth, safety — everything she had lost in the storm of the night before. For him, she forced herself to smile.

She wore a long flowing frock today, soft fabric brushing her ankles, her dupatta draped lightly across her shoulder. She hoped the gentle modesty of it would calm her father’s heart — and distract from the fear that still pulsed beneath her skin.

They sat together at the breakfast table, the sunlight spilling across polished wood, a tray of warm parathas and orange juice between them. For a moment, she thought perhaps the morning would pass quietly.

Until her father spoke.

“So,” Sultan said with a tender smile, pouring tea into her cup, “how do you find Zayd, Aliyana?”

The question struck her like a blade. Her hand froze on the glass of juice, and she turned slowly toward him. Her lips parted, but no words came. How could she tell him that Zayd was the storm she had run from? That his smile was a mask, his humility a lie?

She tried to swallow the rising panic, but her father’s warmth disarmed her. He looked at her not as a man speaking of business — but as a father speaking of hope.

Sultan smiled again, his voice softer, almost coaxing. “Aliyana, I chose Zayd for you. If you want to know him more, I can arrange meetings. There is no rush. But I want you to be happy.”

Her chest tightened, confusion swirling with dread. Chosen? For her?

She set her juice down carefully, her fingers trembling against the glass. Curiosity burned through her fear. She needed to understand. She needed answers.

“Dad…” she began slowly, her voice low, careful not to betray the storm in her chest. “How did you meet Zayd?”

Her father’s eyes softened further, pride radiating from his face. Trust. Absolute trust.

“He is my business partner,” Sultan said, his voice calm, certain. “For the last one year, he has stood beside me like a son.”

The words slammed into her like lightning.

She almost choked on her drink, coughing sharply. Juice burned down her throat as her hand flew to her chest.

“Aliyana!” Sultan’s voice was alarmed, his hand reaching for hers. “Careful, beta!”

“I’m fine,” she croaked, forcing her lips into a quick smile. Anything to calm him, anything to keep him from seeing the terror in her eyes.

But inside, her world shattered.

One year. He had been here for one year.

Inside her father’s walls.

Inside her life.

And she hadn’t known.

Desperation laced her voice as she said softly, lovingly — so he wouldn’t doubt her, so he wouldn’t see. “Please, Baba… continue. Tell me more.”

Her heart pounded as he did.

Because with every word her father spoke, she realized the truth.

Zayd hadn’t just found her.

He had planted himself into the very heart of her world — and her father’s trust was his sharpest weapon

Aliyana’s lips trembled as she set her glass down. Her chest rose and fell quickly, her voice breaking through the tension.

“Dad,” she whispered, her words sharp with desperation. “I just met you after so many years. It’s been barely a year that we’ve been living together again, and you’re already thinking about sending me away?”

The words struck Sultan like an arrow. For a heartbeat, silence lingered between them — only the soft clinking of cutlery from the kitchen carried through.

Then he laughed gently. Not the laughter of joy, but the fragile chuckle of a man who used humor to mask pain. His eyes, warm yet heavy, locked onto hers.

“No, beta,” he said softly, shaking his head. “I could never send you away. Don’t ever think that.”

He reached across the table, taking her hand in his. His touch was warm, grounding, but his next words trembled with the weight of his own fears.

“But… I don’t know how much life I have left. After your mother’s death, I learned something, Aliyana. Life is unpredictable. You never know when it will be stolen from you. That is why I want to see you in strong hands before Allah calls me.”

The mention of her mother made Aliyana’s throat tighten. A sigh escaped her lips, heavy and wounded. The wound of her mother’s loss had never healed; it was a scar that both of them carried.

Her mother — the woman who could silence an entire room with a single glance. She had been elegance and fire in one breath. Her steps were sharp, dangerous, commanding, yet so beautiful that Sultan Ahmed had once called her “the storm I chose to chase.”

He had fallen in love with her the moment he saw her. For five long years, he pursued her with relentless devotion, and at last she had agreed to marry him. Ten years they shared together — ten years of fire, of passion, of battles and peace. Until one day, she walked away, taking their daughter with her.

For sixteen years, Sultan searched. Across cities, across countries. Every shadow, every rumor, he followed. Yet he never found her. She was gone, untouchable, like smoke between his fingers.

And then — a year ago. Aliyana had come to him on her own. Standing in his doorway after all that time, her face carrying the fire of her mother but the innocence of the girl he had once held as a child. He had been in shock, unable to breathe. Anger, yes — for her mother’s betrayal, for the years stolen from him. But above all, joy. Joy that his daughter had returned, that Allah had given him a second chance.

It was hope. Hope to live again.

But just when he thought the storm had finally calmed, the call came. A voice on the other end, cold and merciless. His wife — his love, his storm, his enemy and his salvation — had died in a car accident.

Sultan had dropped the phone that day. His knees had hit the floor. The world had spun until he could no longer tell what was real. Even now, even as he sat across from his daughter, a part of him refused to believe it. How could a woman so alive, so fierce, so unstoppable — simply be gone?

His voice cracked as he whispered, “She left too soon, beta. Too soon. Sometimes… I still feel she will walk through the door. That her death was a lie.”

Aliyana’s eyes blurred with tears. Her father’s pain was a weight she couldn’t carry, yet she felt every ounce of it press against her chest. She had never seen him so vulnerable, never heard his voice break in such a way.

And in that moment, she understood why he trusted Zayd so blindly. Why he clung to the idea of “strong hands.”

It wasn’t business. It wasn’t pride.

It was fear.

Fear of losing her the way he had lost his wife.

But Aliyana knew the truth. The hands her father trusted were not strong.

They were chains.

And they were already closing around her.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***