Lut Gaye || لٹ گۓ

ONE | Tender is the Night

"mainay jab dekha tha tujhko, raat bhi wo yaad hai mujhko."

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RED was the colour of sorrow she was immersed in.

In a pristine and opulently furnished hotel room, her frame was perched on the king-sized bed with the flare of her bridal ensemble touching the sheeny tiled flooring.

Iman Bakhtiyar looked nothing less than a quintessential eastern bride; decked in a painstakingly handcrafted vermilion rose lehnga adorned with lavish gold details. The delicate net dupatta rested on her head and the fine jewellery hugging her creamy skin scintillated around her exquisitely dolled up form.

But, in contrast to her vibrant accoutre, her features were sombre; her ash grey eyes oozed despair and a tyrannical weight crushed her spirits.

"Why are you sitting there looking... dead inside?" A loud feminine voice made her head swerved to the left and her eyes fell on her cousin seated on the leather couch.

Sameera, attired in a heavy embroidered green anarkali dress with her angled brows stitched in a scowl and thin arms crossed over her chest stared at her.

"Because, that's exactly how I feel," Iman riposted scathingly.

"Oh, lighten up a little. It's your wedding," Sameera exclaimed, stressing on the last word that only seemed to trigger her exasperation.

"A wedding I never agreed for."

"You didn't deny either."

"Because I was given an order, not options," she hissed, swallowing a thousand protests burning in her throat.

Sameera's willowy frame rose from the couch and she advanced towards her. "If you're following the order anyway,"―she plopped down next to her―"then do it with a smile, not with that long face."

Iman mentally grimaced at the nonchalance of her statement. It was easy for her cousin to say that because she hadn't tasted the bitterness of suppression Iman had all her life. Heaving a perturbed sigh, she chose to seal her lips and stay quiet.

"And seriously, I don't understand why you wouldn't want to marry Haider. Haider! He's literally the definition of perfection!" Sameera gushed, making Iman dug her painted nails into her palm as her mind wandered to the man she was ill-fated to spend her life with.

Haider Ali Khan was a man desired by many and disliked by her.

Knowing him for more than three years as he was the son of her father's close friend, she had assessed his disposition and he was, undoubtedly, pleasing to the eye; an accomplished businessman, but his imperious and volatile nature was forbidding.

He wore his pride like a badge of honour and Iman loathed how he was unaware of setting it aside for the welfare of others. Whenever she saw him, he provided her with different reasons to never get involved with him.

But here she was, only few hours away from becoming the wife of the perfect man.

"Perfection is a nasty illusion, Sameera," Iman said in a small voice.

The imprudent roll of her cousin's ebony eyes made Iman lament wasting her already feeble energy on answering her.

Sameera opened her mouth again―probably to continue singing the Haider-anthem―when she was thankfully interrupted by the clicking sound of the door.