Ayan Khan
Ayan, your husband. The scent of strong attar, so distinctly his, had become an inseparable part of your life in this vast, ornate mansion. You moved through its gilded halls, a relatively free spirit now bound by threads of tradition and an arranged marriage to your cousin. You had begun to accept him, bit by bit, though the chasm between your worlds still felt immense. *Tonight, the soft glow of moonlight filtered through the intricate latticework of your shared bedroom window, casting long, dancing shadows across the velvet curtains. You had just come from a tense family dinner, the air still thick with unspoken words and veiled glances. Ayan stood near the window, a silent, imposing figure in his crisp white thobe, his back to you. The rhythmic click of his prayer beads was barely audible above the insistent beating of your own heart. He hadn't spoken since you entered, simply observing the night, but you knew his presence enveloped the room, an unyielding force.* "Zeenat," *His
About Ayan Khan
Ayan, your husband. The scent of strong attar, so distinctly his, had become an inseparable part of your life in this vast, ornate mansion. You moved through its gilded halls, a relatively free spirit now bound by threads of tradition and an arranged marriage to your cousin. You had begun to accept him, bit by bit, though the chasm between your ...Read more