91.

Murad’s father, Ibrahim Sheikh was a man whose presence filled any room he entered, commanding attention with a quiet but undeniable authority. He was the kind of person who wore power as easily as others wore a suit—effortlessly, naturally. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a sharp jawline and silver-streaked hair that only seemed to add to his air of authority, Ibrahim had an intensity that made people wary. His eyes, a cold, calculating shade of grey, missed nothing; they had the ability to strip a person down to their core with just a glance.

As he sat behind his desk, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the polished mahogany, he exuded a calm confidence that Murad had grown up both admiring and fearing. Ibrahim Khan was a master manipulator, the kind who rarely needed to raise his voice or resort to threats to get his way. Words were his weapons, and he wielded them with a precision that left little room for argument. He understood people’s weaknesses and had a knack for bending others to his will without them even realizing it.

To Murad, his father had always been an enigma. Growing up, Ibrahim had been both distant and overbearing, often present only when it served a purpose or when he needed to instill a lesson in Murad. Conversations were more like monologues, lectures on discipline, loyalty, and obedience. Emotions had little place in Ibrahim’s world, and he’d raised Murad to believe that vulnerability was a weakness. Murad had once idolized him, seeing him as a pillar of strength. But as he grew older, he began to realize that his father’s “strength” was often little more than a mask for control.

Tonight, that mask seemed to slip just a little. As Murad stood before him, questioning the choices Ibrahim had made, he noticed the subtle tightening of his father’s jaw, the brief flicker of irritation in his eyes. It was rare to see Ibrahim caught off guard, and Murad almost relished the moment—seeing his father’s composed facade crack, even if only for a heartbeat.

The silence in the study grew oppressive as Murad waited, watching his father’s calculating gaze. There was something unsettling in the way his father spoke, a practiced calmness that felt too perfect. It wasn’t the first time Murad had sensed it, but tonight, it seemed more pointed, like his father was guiding him down a particular path.

With a sigh, his father clasped his hands, leaning back in his chair. "Murad, you have to understand," he began, his tone deliberate, almost too smooth, “Faraz isn’t someone who deserves your sympathy. He’s always been trouble. That’s why I kept him away. He’d only drag you down.”

Murad narrowed his eyes, an uneasy feeling twisting in his gut. "How do you know that for sure? Maybe he had his reasons for leaving.”

His father tilted his head, a faint, almost pitying smile playing at his lips. “Oh, he had his reasons all right. He’s always resented this family, Murad. Even your mother tried to help him when he was young, but nothing ever satisfied him. He wanted more, always more—and when he couldn’t have it, he walked away without looking back.”

Murad’s hands tightened into fists at his sides. It was almost too much to believe. Faraz had been painted as an antagonist, a selfish figure who had willingly abandoned them. But the nagging thought that there might be more to the story refused to leave him. His father had a way with words, a way of making everything he said sound like the truth, even when it was only part of it.

“So, you’re saying he’s just… selfish?” Murad asked carefully, testing the waters.

“Precisely,” his father replied smoothly, his tone almost too quick, too eager to dismiss. “Faraz is only interested in himself. That’s why I kept you sheltered from him; I couldn’t allow him to poison you with his bitterness. I’ve done everything I can to protect you from his influence.”

Murad’s eyes flickered with doubt as he watched his father. He’d heard these carefully crafted explanations before, in other situations, always veiling some deeper motive. The way his father’s words slid so effortlessly into place made him feel as if he were being led, one step at a time, to a conclusion his father wanted him to reach.

“What about my mother?” Murad asked, his voice colder. “If she loved him like you say she did, why didn’t she tell me herself? Why all this secrecy?”

A flicker of annoyance crossed his father’s face, but he quickly concealed it, his mask slipping back into place. “Your mother… she was too soft-hearted. She couldn’t see him for what he truly was. She would have allowed his toxicity to touch your life without realizing the damage he could cause.”

Murad could feel his father’s words pulling him in, framing Faraz as the villain in their story. But a small voice in the back of his mind whispered warnings, urging him to question the truth of it all. The memories he had of his father—the cold dismissals, the occasional harsh reprimands—seemed to paint a different picture, one that made him wonder if his father’s true motivations had less to do with protecting him and more to do with control.

"Maybe I want to judge him for myself," Murad said finally, his voice laced with defiance.

A shadow passed over his father’s face, his eyes narrowing with a hint of something darker, something possessive. “You’re making a mistake, Murad. You’re going to ruin everything I’ve built for you if you follow down that path.”

Murad felt a surge of indignation rise within him. This wasn’t about protecting him—it was about power. Control. His father didn’t want him to seek out Faraz because he feared losing his influence over him.

“Maybe what you built isn’t what I want,” Murad said, his tone sharp, his chest tightening as he felt the weight of the decision before him.

His father’s voice grew cold. “Fine,” he said, a hardened edge creeping into his words. “Go seek him out, then. But don’t come running back to me when you realize that he’s every bit the disappointment I said he is.”

Murad met his father’s gaze, his mind a storm of questions and distrust. The man before him was no protector, no father looking out for his son. He was a manipulator, spinning the truth to fit his own agenda. With one last glance, Murad turned and left the room, each step taking him closer to discovering the truth about Faraz—and distancing him from the man he’d once called his father.

But Ibrahim was quick to recover. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands thoughtfully as he considered Murad’s questions. “You’re naïve, Murad,” he began, his voice carrying a note of disappointment. “You think this world operates on loyalty and trust, but it’s survival and power that matter most.”

His words were calm, calculated, every syllable chosen to draw Murad back under his influence. “I’ve shielded you from Faraz for a reason. He’s selfish, ungrateful… a boy who was given every advantage but squandered it on foolish dreams. And now you want to follow in his footsteps?”

The accusation lingered in the air, but Murad refused to back down. Ibrahim’s eyes darkened, and he leaned forward, his fingers steepled as he regarded his son with an unsettling, unblinking gaze. “Do you really think he’ll welcome you with open arms?” he asked, his tone chillingly quiet. “You’re nothing to him, Murad. I know men like him—men who act like victims to win sympathy, to pull people into their misery. He doesn’t deserve your loyalty.”

Murad’s heart hammered in his chest, a simmering anger rising beneath his skin as his father’s words burrowed into his mind. He wanted to believe Ibrahim’s version of events, to trust that his father was looking out for him, but a part of him knew better. He had seen glimpses of Ibrahim’s ruthlessness over the years, the way he discarded people who no longer served his purpose. And now, Murad couldn’t shake the feeling that his father was doing the same with Faraz, manipulating him into seeing his brother as an enemy.

The more Ibrahim spoke, the more certain Murad became that he needed to know the truth for himself. His father’s words, once gospel, now felt like chains binding him to a reality he no longer accepted.

Ibrahim noticed the determination in Murad’s gaze, and his lips curved into a thin smile, as though amused by his son’s defiance. “If you want to chase after shadows, be my guest,” he said smoothly.

“But remember this, Murad—once you step into Faraz’s world, there’s no coming back. You’ll be choosing sides. And family isn’t as forgiving as you might think.”

Murad’s jaw clenched, but he remained silent. He knew that Ibrahim’s words were a warning, an attempt to keep him under control, yet his father’s threat only fueled his resolve. As he turned to leave, Murad felt his father’s gaze on his back, a cold reminder that Ibrahim Khan wasn’t accustomed to losing—and Murad suspected he wouldn’t let his son go without a fight.