Kais's Pov
Aubrey Ardel — a name that carried the kind of power that made even silence bow in respect. The surname alone could bring half of New York to its knees. And yet, I often wondered — did Aubrey hold any power of his own, or was he merely a shadow of Ardel — a name gilded in glory and curse alike?
As the eldest son of the Ferdous family — a man built on tradition, pride, and the instinct to protect — these questions gnawed at me more than I'd ever admit.
Seven years ago, my baby sister called me — her voice sparkling through the receiver like laughter caught in sunlight. She'd met someone, she said. A peculiar young man who intrigued her in ways she couldn't quite explain.
Intrigued her?
Those two words sent a chill through my veins. The idea that some stranger had managed to capture her attention — my sister's attention — made my blood boil. I was ready to board the first flight to New York and put an end to that fascination by any means necessary.
But Ayah, ever quick to sense my anger, had tried to soothe me.
"Nothing's happening, Kais," she had said softly. "He's not even my friend. Just… someone I met for a moment."
And yet, that moment — that fleeting encounter — changed everything.
I'll give the man sitting across from me now some credit. It takes courage — or insanity — to decide after one meeting that my sister was meant to be his.
When I met Aubrey Ardel seven years ago, I finally understood what Ayah meant. He wasn't loud, nor did he need to be. He was the calm before the storm — and the storm was his surname. Together, Aubrey Ardel was a paradox — a fragile balance between tenderness and terror, light and shadow, faith and fury.
But after Ayah's death, the balance shattered. The storm broke loose.
The man vanished, and only Ardel remained — hollow, merciless, unstoppable.
He became something else entirely. Something darker. Something unpredictable.
People like to call me unhinged — a man who hides his madness behind reason. But the difference between Aubrey and me is simple: when I strike, you see it coming. With him, you never do.
One moment, he's silent. The next, you realize you've been standing in the lion's cage all along.
Aubrey doesn't just command fear — he breathes it in, and exhales it like art.
Even now, as he sits before me — calm, polite, a faint smirk ghosting his lips — every instinct in me is screaming run.
And I can tell Hayat feels it too.
We all see it.
Seven years have passed, and we still haven't figured him out. The only person who ever could is buried beneath six feet of earth.
The air between us felt thick — too still, too aware of the ghosts sitting at this table. So, to cut through it — or maybe to breathe through it — I asked the question that had haunted me for years.
Ayah was many things: stubborn, impulsive, infuriatingly reckless. She wasn't the kind of woman who turned heads. Not the way others did.
So what could a man like Aubrey — composed, brilliant, painfully in control — have possibly seen in her?
I had to know.
He lowered his gaze for a moment, his long fingers tracing the rim of his cup. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the kind of weight that quiets a room.
"When people find something they truly want," he said, "they'll do anything to hold onto it — even if they know they can never really have it. That's what Ayah was to me."
His eyes softened, his voice lowering to a near whisper.
"She was… precious beyond words. From the moment I saw her, something inside me woke up — something I'd forgotten even existed. Happiness. It had been so long since I'd felt it that I didn't recognize it at first. But when she was near, I smiled — not the kind I'd perfected for cameras or crowds. A real one."
He stopped, as if tasting the memory. "She brought warmth back into my world. Made me remember what it felt like to want a tomorrow. To paint, to breathe, to live. Before Ayah, there was no one I could truly call mine."
I swallowed hard. Damn it. Was I actually tearing up?
I blinked quickly, staring at the chandelier above us as if it could distract me from the ache building behind my eyes. Hayat wasn't even pretending to hide it — her shoulders trembled as she cried softly into her palms.
Then Aubrey looked at me — that sharp, knowing glint returning to his eyes. "Kais," he said, his tone threaded with quiet amusement, "are you crying?"
I turned away, clearing my throat. "Nah, man," I muttered, forcing a grin. "It's just… the ceiling. It's so damn beautiful. Who designed it? I need their number."
Aubrey chuckled — a low, velvety sound that filled the silence like a sigh. I could tell he saw right through me, but for once, he didn't press. The smirk stayed — soft, not mocking.
"Dinner's ready!" Kennedy's voice rang through the hall, warm and grounding.
I glanced at my watch — 10:25 p.m. Time had slipped away unnoticed. Aubrey rose gracefully, stretching, the quiet pop of his joints breaking the hush. Hayat wiped her tears quickly, heading into the kitchen to help Kennedy, her face flushed and weary.
I began packing my things — notes, recorder, pens — the rhythm oddly calming. Outside, snow blanketed the city in silver stillness. The world beyond the glass glowed faintly under the moonlight — white, endless, peaceful.
When I turned back, the dining table was already set — and for a moment, I forgot every dark thought I'd had that night.
The spread was magnificent. Golden roast beef glistening with butter, glazed lamb shimmering under herbs, steaming bowls of mashed potatoes drowning in gravy, warm loaves of bread still breathing out the scent of the oven. It wasn't just food; it was comfort made tangible.
I sat down, fork in hand, smiling despite myself. "Now this," I murmured, "is how you resurrect a soul."
Aubrey poured water into crystal glasses, the deep red catching the light like blood and velvet. "Eat first," he said quietly. "There'll be time for the world later."
I was halfway to my first bite when the doorbell chimed.
It wasn't sharp — not startling. Just a soft, echoing sound that rolled through the hall like a polite interruption.
Hayat peeked from the kitchen doorway, brow arched. "Expecting someone?"
Aubrey looked toward the door, pausing only briefly. "No," he said simply. His voice was calm — too calm — but not tense. More… curious.
He set his napkin down, the faintest smile touching his lips. "I'll get it."
The snow outside pressed against the windows in gentle waves of white. The smell of cinnamon, roasted lamb, and winter pine filled the room. And as Aubrey crossed the hall toward the entryway, his footsteps soft against the marble, I watched the way the light followed him — tall, poised, unhurried.
The sound of the latch turned.
And somewhere between the hush and the warmth of the dining room, I couldn't help but think — maybe the past had just knocked on our door.