It began with silence.
The kind of silence that follows explosions — where dust still hangs in the air and even breathing feels like trespass.
The morning after the unmasking, Barkat Mansion looked unchanged from the outside — its iron gates still gleamed, its flags still fluttered.
But inside, the air had shifted.
The house had lost its center.
Wajdan's voice no longer echoed through the corridors. Servants moved like ghosts, avoiding the study where papers still lay torn and ashtray embers refused to die. The celebratory lights from the night before blinked faintly, mocking him.
By the forty-eighth day, the markets reacted.
When investors learned that Salex had fallen fully under Wajdan's control, the reaction was swift — and brutal.
"Saad Sikandar's Salex Enterprises Faces Internal Turmoil,"
The Nation headlined.
Phones in Wajdan's office rang without pause. Some calls he ignored; others he answered with forced calm, repeating, "Everything's under control."
But the world could smell blood.
Rumors spread like contagion — whispers of forged signatures, of a dying father coerced. Leaked emails and audio clips flooded business groups.
By the end of the week, two major investors had withdrawn.
"Due to internal instability and compliance inconsistencies,"
read a joint statement,
"we are suspending future collaboration until clarity is provided."
Wajdan's fist came down hard on the desk, cracking the glass.
"Clarity? I'll give them clarity!" he barked. "Get PR on the line — say someone tricked us!"
But even he knew it was futile. The footage of Ruhan's calm reveal had gone viral; the world had already chosen its hero.
Across the city, in the modest house where Ruhan had moved his family, peace — though laced with exhaustion — had begun to settle.
Agha Jan sat near the window, sunlight soft on his face. Kaina tended to him quietly, while Rayyan recited verses from Surah Yusuf — the chapter of betrayal, patience, and truth.
On the balcony, Ruhan spoke softly into his phone.
"Yes… divert all active funds into the trust account. Keep the legacy projects under Abba's name. No statements for now — let the noise die on its own."
He ended the call, exhaling deeply.
The war was over, but its cost lingered in his bones.
Kaina joined him. "You haven't slept."
"Neither has he," Ruhan murmured, glancing toward the distant mansion.
"Do you pity him?" she asked.
Ruhan's silence stretched before he finally said,
"Pity isn't the word. I mourn him. The brother I knew died long before this, when he decided to insult Abba just for a few pennies and lands. The man left is wearing his ghost."
Back at Barkat Mansion, the empire rotted from within.
Rubab's once-proud smile had hardened into silence. Servants whispered. Old aides resigned quietly. Even the children had stopped asking questions.
Only Wali watched closely — the hollow dinners, the trembling hands, the father who now mistook pride for strength.
His journal entries turned bitter:
"Abba is still building towers, but I think he knows now that the foundation is sand."
That evening, he overheard Rubab pleading,
"End this before it kills you."
"End what?" Wajdan laughed. "He stole everything."
"He didn't steal," she said. "He just succeeded where you couldn't."
Wajdan's only reply was another drag of his cigarette.
The media tore through the story like wildfire.
"Ruhan Sikandar — The Silent Heir."
"A Brother's Betrayal or a Father's Redemption?"
#ForexTruth trended for fifteen days straight.
By the fourth month, inquiries froze Wajdan's accounts. Partners stopped taking his calls.
When Rubab entered his office late one night, he sat in the dark, phone screen dim against his face.
"They think I forged Abba's signature," he whispered. "They've opened an audit."
"Then tell them the truth," she urged.
He laughed bitterly. "And say what — that I forced an old man's hand to feed my ego?"
I forced him to give me shares in everything.
The call tone was dead before he finished.
In a quiet memory that haunted Wali, a week before Agha Jan's surgery, he had crept into his grandfather's room.
"Agha Jan," he whispered.
Agha Jan looked up, prayer beads in hand. "Come, beta."
"Do you hate him now? Baba?"
Agha Jan shook his head. "No. I fear for his soul. Pride burns faster than fire and leaves colder ash."
"I think I'll end up like him," Wali murmured.
"Then write better endings than he did," Agha Jan said softly.
Wali smiled faintly. "You know about my notebook?"
"I was young once too," he chuckled. "We all write our pain before we speak it.
Remember, beta — learn from ruin, don't repeat it."
That night, Wali tore out every page of admiration and began a new chapter titled The Rise from Fall.
The house had grown colder after the unmasking. Even the walls seemed to distance themselves from Wajdan, hollowing the corridors, echoing only his own failures.
Later, suspicion consumed Wajdan.
He turned on Zaviyan — the brother who had stood by him the longest.
He found Zaviyan in the library, alone, sitting cross-legged on the floor, the dim lamplight casting long shadows across his face.
Wajdan's steps were heavy, deliberate, each one a drumbeat of authority that now sounded hollow even to him.
"Zaviyan," Wajdan said, voice low but taut, "you were behind all of this, weren't you?"
Zaviyan looked up, eyes calm, steady. For a moment, silence stretched between them — long enough for Wajdan to taste the bitterness of his own suspicion.
"I… what do you mean?" Zaviyan asked, his tone measured, almost weary.
"You know what I mean!" Wajdan's voice cracked, a mixture of fury and disbelief. "R.S., the leaks, the stalling, the whole Salex fiasco — someone set this up! And I know it was you!"
Zaviyan rose slowly, meeting Wajdan's gaze. "Me?" he said softly. "You really believe I would betray you…?"
"You've been quiet," Wajdan spat. "Too quiet. Always watching. Smiling while I — while we all — struggled. Don't lie to me, Zaviyan. I've seen enough to know. You were part of it."
Zaviyan's jaw tightened. His eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and sorrow. "Part of it? No, Wajdan. I was silent because I watched… and I waited for the moment you would see yourself as you truly are."
Wajdan laughed harshly, a bitter, cracked sound. "See myself? Don't give me riddles. You've been plotting, scheming — everything turned against me, and you've been a shadow at my side."
Zaviyan's voice grew sharper. "Shadow? I am your younger brother, Wajdan. Not your accomplice. I waited… for you to realize what pride and greed had done — not just to you, but to all of us. Every lie you told, every corner you cut, every debt unpaid… it all comes home, not to you, but to us, to our children."
Zaviyaan: I regret being with your decision
Wajdan's voice grew louder, sharper. "Regret?"
By the time everyone came to the library, Wajdan snapped, "Regret! So I will give you the chance to regret your decisions rightfully. Leave my house. I don't want you here anymore!"
The family was shocked.
Zaviyan said quietly, "I'm warning you. You are destroying everyone you claim to protect. Every step you take pushes your family away. Do you understand? One day, you'll look around, and no one will be left… and then, Wajdan… you will realize you are utterly alone."
Wajdan's breath came fast, chest heaving. He swung his hand as if to strike, but Zaviyan didn't flinch. He met the gesture with steady eyes.
"You'll regret this," Wajdan hissed. "I built this empire. I am its center. You will see —"
"I already see," Zaviyan interrupted, voice firm, unyielding. "I see a man who chases power while his children, his own blood, slip through his fingers. I see a father who taught his sons fear, not respect, and pride, not love. And I see a choice you still have the chance to make. Change your path… before it's too late."
Zaviyan shook his head slowly. "But remember this, Wajdan: every action has its consequence. Every lie, every cruelty, every betrayal… it comes back. Makāfat does not wait forever. Remember this night, Wajdan. You're driving everyone away — one by one. A day will come when you'll reach for someone and find no one left."
Then he walked out.
And the house grew emptier still.
The words hung in the room, heavy and final. Wajdan's eyes glistened, but no tears came. For the first time, he saw himself as others saw him — isolated, fragile, a man teetering on the edge of ruin.
Zaviyan turned toward the door, retreating into the hallway's darkness. "I hope… one day, you remember who your family is before it's too late," he said over his shoulder.
Wajdan's lips moved, but no sound emerged. Silence settled like dust in the air, and for the first time, he understood that the walls of Barkat Mansion were closing in — not from enemies outside, but from the truths within.
Weeks turned into months, and months into years.
Agha Sikandar's health returned. Under Ruhan's care, the family trust thrived again — not as an empire, but as a legacy. No statements, no revenge — just quiet dignity.
That night, thunder rolled once more.
In Barkat Mansion, Wali stood by the window, whispering,
"The house didn't fall in a day.
It cracked when pride replaced prayer."
While in Ruhan's house, named Mannat, Agha Jan murmured his nightly prayer:
"Ya Allah, let my sons find peace before they find my grave."
The Sikandar family no longer shared one roof.
Five years drifted past like slow shadows.
In Wajdan's home, darkness deepened. His ventures crumbled one by one. He kept spending, pretending nothing was wrong — until the truth surfaced at a family dinner.
It was during a family meal, meant to rekindle fragile unity, that the final verdict came.
The table gleamed with crystal and silver, yet the air was heavy, almost oppressive.
Hafza, his gentle daughter, broke the silence first. Her small voice trembled but carried more truth than any of Wajdan's defenses.
"You have burned everything Agha Jan built," she said. "Don't you see? You're not protecting his legacy — you're destroying it."
Wajdan's face hardened. "Enough, Hafza. You speak like children do — without understanding. Sit down and stay silent."
But silence did not return.
Hurrain, bolder and sharper, stood next. "You want respect, Baba?" she said, locking eyes on him. "Earn it. Respect isn't your inheritance. It's your reflection."
The words struck him like a hammer. Even Rubab's attempts at defense faltered. Wajdan's pride, the one thing he had believed unshakable, began to crack.
And then, his eldest son spoke.
Wali, who had once idolized him, kept his gaze low. His hands trembled in his lap.
When he finally spoke, the words rang with finality:
"A son respects his father… if the father respects his own."
The glass in Wajdan's hand hovered midair, his face paling. Around the table, the room felt smaller, tighter — shadows of judgment pressing in.
Wali's voice carried more than just defiance — it carried memory.
He saw it again, unbidden: five years ago. Sahil, his younger brother, laughing as he ran through the garden. The venture Wajdan had backed had gone wrong. Money was owed. Promises broken.
Wali remembered the kidnapping. He remembered the terror of not being able to protect Sahil.
The accident on the road, the twisted metal, the news that had come later as if it were just fate — a tragic mishap. Only Wali and Wajdan had known the truth. Only Wali had known how a father's pride and failure had taken his own son.
The memory hit him like fire.
And now, looking across the table at the man who had caused it all, Wali felt something inside him shatter. The boy who had loved his father, who had once believed in his guidance, no longer recognized the man before him.
"You…" Wali's voice broke slightly. "…you took everything from me. From all of us. Sahil… my brother… he would still be here if you had thought beyond your ego."
Wajdan recoiled as if struck. His face went pale, his eyes wild. "Wali… it was… it was an accident! A mistake — nothing I —"
"No!" Wali snapped, finally raising his gaze. "It was everything you are. Pride. Greed. Carelessness. And now, you want respect? You want obedience? You will not have it. Not from me. Not from anyone in this house who still has eyes to see and a heart to feel."
The room fell into a hollow, suffocating silence. Rubab's lips trembled. Hafza's hand covered her mouth. Hurrain's small fists clenched at her sides. Wajdan's own rage faltered under the weight of truth.
The table fell silent.
Pride, at last, met its mirror.