chapter 12
Alya breathed in the morning air as she stepped onto the balcony. The garden below lay drenched in dew, every petal trembling beneath the pale light of dawn. It had been one month since her nikah, one month since her world had upended itself. And yet, here she stood—alive, unbroken, cradled by a family she had never imagined.
She lifted her hands in silent supplication, whispering the prayer she had learned long ago:
> "Ya Allah, guide my steps, strengthen my heart, and bless this new life."
The breeze swept her dupatta against her cheek, and in that touch, she heard the promise of safety.
———
In the Rachman kitchen, the sizzle of parathas on the tawa was as familiar as her own heartbeat. Dewi Pratama stood by the stove, reciting Surah Duha in a soft hum. Alya slipped beside her with practiced grace and began to fold freshly cooked parathas onto a silver platter.
"Let me do that," Dewi offered, but Alya placed the platter before her gently.
"I want to help, Bu," Alya signed, guiding Dewi's hand to the paratha.
"Beta," Dewi said with a fond smile, "thank you for being so thoughtful."
Alya's heart warmed. These small exchanges had become the daily miracles of her month-long journey.
———
After breakfast, she and Kakek sat cross-legged on the floor of the drawing room. The ancient Ludo board lay between them, the wooden dice waiting at the edge.
"You're going down this time,/u201d Kakek teased, flicking her game piece forward.
Alya's lips curved in a shy grin. She rolled the dice and advanced her token. "Not a chance!" she signed enthusiastically.
Zaki Pratama strolled in, flashing a roguish grin. "Need a referee?" he asked, slipping beside them.
"Just don't help Kakek cheat," Alya signed.
Zaki feigned shock. "Her Royal Highness is calling me a traitor?"
Laughter filled the room as Kakek "accidentally" knocked Alya's token home.
———
Midmorning found Alya in her sanctuary: a small rose garden behind the mansion. The roses bloomed brighter than ever, as if celebrating her arrival. She knelt by the flowerbeds and began to weave petals into a delicate garland.
Tay Ammi Linda joined her, observing the intricate braid of petals. "You have a gift," she said, wrapping the garland around her own wrist. "You bring life wherever you go."
Alya accepted the tribute with a humble nod, the sting of past rejections softened by this simple acceptance.
———
Days flowed like a gentle stream. Evenings were spent in the media room: Tari Pratama's drama reign required more episodes of K-dramas and romantic movies than anyone thought possible. Popcorn bowls vanished, and half-washed face masks lay scattered like petals in a storm.
One night, as Ankit and Joon's romance reached its climax on screen, Tari tossed a popcorn kernel—"Aim for her hair!"—and Alya's startled laugh rang clear. Nisa handed Alya a tissue:
"You're glowing when you laugh," Nisa teased.
"Not so loud!" Tari whispered, but her grin was unstoppable.
Alya's silent warmth enraptured them all.
———
But amid the laughter, shadows grew at the edges of Alya's mind. Victor Arman's moves against the Pratama empire had become sharper: shipments delayed, alliances fraying, whispers in the corridors. Every time she saw Reyhan's forehead crease, her heart clenched.
———
One afternoon, she found Reyhan in the garden, studying architectural plans for a new warehouse. He looked up as she approached, surprise flickering in his eyes. "Alya," he greeted softly.
"I thought you might appreciate tea." She held out a silver tray with two steaming cups.
He accepted one, offering her his. "You're always paying attention."
Alya nodded, a gentle affirmation. "I learn from you."
He lifted his cup. "Then teach me patience," he said.
Alya's smile was all the answer he needed.
———
One evening, Reyhan found her in the library, huddled over an open book. He cleared his throat.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
Alya's eyes glimmered in the lamplight. She tapped a phrase in the margins, then turned the page for him to read aloud:
> "Silence can be the loudest cry for help, and the softest lullaby for the heart."
He closed the book gently. "This is yours?"
She nodded. "I wrote it."
He studied her profile for a long moment. "You're gifted," he said.
Alya felt warmth rise in her cheeks. Praise was still new to her.
———
That night, a soft knock on her door revealed a small leather-bound journal and a note:
> "Keep writing. Your voice is needed. - R. Pratama"
Alya pressed her hand to her chest. She'd never had her words valued like this.
———
In the one-month span, the harshest wounds had begun to heal. Nightly prayers were still her refuge, but by day she dared hope. She had learned that family was more than blood—it was the people who chose her, who listened without judgment, who stood watch over her silence.
And Reyhan, once a figure of cold vengeance, had become her guardian of peace.
———
Under the rose-arched trellis, their eyes met once more. He offered his arm and she linked hers, the simple gesture speaking volumes.
Together, they stepped into the morning light—a man shaped by power and a girl reborn by faith—bound now by something deeper than words could ever convey.