chapter 16
Rain drummed gently on the wide veranda as Alya huddled beneath a plush throw, fingers woven into the soft wool. She stared at the glistening marble floor, watching droplets converge into tiny rivers that snaked toward the drain. The world felt muffled—sound reduced to the steady rhythm of rain.
Reyhan emerged from the arched doorway, holding a steaming mug of cardamom tea. His linen shirt was damp at the shoulders; his trousers bore dark patches where rain had splashed. He offered the cup without words.
Alya looked up, eyes wide with gratitude, and took it. Warmth spread through her palms.
He joined her at the edge of the veranda, settling just close enough that their legs brushed. The silence between them felt sacred.
Alya traced the rim of her mug with a fingertip, then tapped her chest: "Thank you."
Reyhan nodded once, voice hushed: "Anytime."
A stray gust rattled the glass panes. Reyhan draped the blanket over both their shoulders, and Alya leaned into him, the fabric cocooning them against the chill.
Inside, the house was hushed—servants had retreated, and the storm kept guests at bay. The only light came from an oil lamp on the veranda table, casting shadowed patterns across Alya's face.
Reyhan cleared his throat. "I'm sorry for dragging you into this world of storms." His hand hovered near hers.
Alya looked at him, then signed slowly: "I trust the storm if it brings me to you."
He exhaled, gaze softening. "You're braver than I deserve."
She offered a small, tentative smile. Then, shifting, she scooted closer, her shoulder resting against his upper arm.
Reyhan's free hand found hers, fingers lacing. The lamp flickered as the wind sighed.
He stared at their joined hands, as if marveling at the connection. Thunder rolled in the distance, and Alya's breath caught. She tapped the railing, then her chest: "Fear."
Reyhan squeezed her hand gently. "I know." He paused, voice steady: "But I'm here."
Alya looked up at him, eyes glistening. She signed: "I want to say more... but I can't." He nodded, understanding that some things lived beyond words.
He shifted to face her, blanket falling away but their proximity holding warmth. He brushed a raindrop from her hair. "You don't have to say anything."
She closed her eyes at the touch. When she opened them, she leaned forward, nestling against his chest. Reyhan wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
They sat there, listening to the rain—his steady heartbeat beneath her ear. Inside the study, a flicker of candlelight revealed Zaki reviewing financial reports when he noticed the email alert: a major shipment confiscated by authorities—an inside tip traced back to Victor Arman. He cursed under his breath, scanning the numbers.
He pushed away from the desk and stormed to the veranda, flashlight in hand. He stopped at the entrance, taking in the scene: Alya and Reyhan, silhouetted against the storm.
Zaki called softly: "Sir... Alya... it's urgent."
Reyhan's arm tightened around Alya, but he released her gently and stood. "I'll be right there, Zaki."
Alya watched him go, concern in her eyes. He paused to brush her hair back. "Stay here," he whispered.
She nodded. His silhouette vanished into the house.
Zaki approached, voice urgent: "They've seized the eastern port containers—valued at over ten million. It's crippling us."
Reyhan's jaw clenched. "Set a counter-plan. And find out who inside tipped them."
Zaki nodded, already tapping his phone. "I'll get it done."
Reyhan paused, then motioned him inside. Alya followed from the veranda, wrapping the throw around her shoulders once more. Inside the library, Reyhan shut the door behind them. Flames flickered in the hearth, casting golden warmth across leather chairs.
Alya settled into the nearest seat, still damp. Reyhan stood by the window, fists clenched.
He turned. "I'm sorry you had to watch that."
Alya rose, stepping over to him. She reached up, fingertips brushing his damp cheek, then tapped her chest: "I'm safe with you."
Reyhan drew her into a gentle embrace. "I will protect you—no matter what."
She buried her face in his shirt, and he hummed softly—a sound she realized was his comfort. They sank onto the large chaise longue. Rain pattered, drumming a lullaby. Reyhan lifted the blanket and draped it around both their shoulders. Alya curled into his side.
He smoothed her hair, voice quiet: "Tell me about your fears."
Alya hesitated, then signed: "I fear losing you."
Her confession struck him like a blow. He kissed her forehead: "You won't lose me."
Alya leaned forward, pressing her lips to his chest. He wrapped both arms around her, cradle-like.
In that balm of safety, she whispered her du'a: "Allah, bless him, bless us both." He closed his eyes, chest rising. Victor, in his high-rise office overlooking Jakarta, poured a glass of whisky. He watched the storm lash the city lights.
His phone buzzed: Zaki's encrypted message—Pratama's reprisal had already shipped shipments of rival cargo disguised as theirs. Victor's lips curled. He poured another glass.
"Keep them off-balance," he muttered. "Increasing the pressure will break him... and silence his bride."
Lightning flashed across the window. Back in the mansion, Alya stirred. Rain had subsided, leaving behind the scent of wet jasmine.
Reyhan lay beside her, still breathing steady. She traced the bracelet on her wrist—the intertwined hands link he had given her.
She signed softly in the darkness: "I love you."
Reyhan stirred, eyes fluttering open. He captured her hand. "I love you too," he whispered, voice raw.
Alya smiled against his chest. For a heartbeat, the dangers beyond these walls felt distant.
But in the shadowed recesses of the mansion, plans churned, and the storm outside had only just begun. Mid-morning sunlight filtered through the ornate windows of Pratama Mansion's breakfast hall. Laughter bubbled around the long table as plates clattered and conversations overlapped in joyful cacophony. Alya sat between Nisa and Tari, a stack of pancakes before her, but her attention was fixed on the lively banter.
Tari wielded a whipped-cream charger like a maestro's baton. "Nisa, you first!" she declared, charging a dollop of cream onto a fork and pointing it at her sister's nose.
Nisa squealed and ducked, cream smearing across her cheek. Alya's lips curved in a gentle smile—her first real giggle of the day.
Reyhan stood at the head of the table, slicing fruit with precise strokes. He surveyed the scene with a small, fond smile.
Zaki leaned forward. "Reyyaan, pass the syrup—don't hog the grill, or your sisters will revolt."
Reyhan's eyebrow lifted. "If the revolution involves less paperwork, count me in."
Nisa called out, wiping her cheek. "Brother, catch!" She flicked another glob of cream at him.
Without hesitation, Reyhan dropped his knife, raised his hand, and caught the whipped cream mid-air—then licked it off his palm. A collective gasp rose.
Alya covered her mouth in delight. Reyhan's protective gaze flicked to her,
Reyhan teased, "Alya, next time you see a flying dessert, be ready."
She touched her chest: "I will."
Laughter rippled across the table, and in that moment, Alya felt herself woven into the family tapestry: safe, accepted, cherished. After breakfast, the cousins declared an impromptu scavenger hunt through the mansion. Clues were passed in hushed whispers: "Find the hidden key in the library," "Solve Kakek's riddle in the study," and finally, "Bring Alya's favorite book to the balcony."
Reyhan stood by the grand staircase, arms crossed. When Tari and Nisa sprinted past him, he called, "Watch your steps!"
As they vanished, he spotted Alya hesitating at the foot of the stairs.
"Need help?" he asked quietly.
Alya signed: "I don't know the house well yet."
He knelt and pointed to decorative motifs on the banister: "Follow the jasmine carvings—they mark the family wing."
Her eyes lit. She pressed her palm to his arm in thanks.
Moments later, she raced off, and Reyhan exhaled. His gaze lingered on her retreating back. In this playful contest, his protectiveness deepened. The scavenger hunt led everyone to the terrace, where Alya found her favorite Qur'an translation lying atop a marble bench. She opened it, and the verses shimmered in the morning light.
Nisa announced, "Clue complete! Alya wins!" But Alya closed the book, holding it close, overwhelmed by the gesture.
Reyhan stepped forward, catching her hand in his. "You found the heart of our home," he said softly.
Alya looked up, signing: "Thank you for including me."
He pressed a thumb to her wrist. "Of course. You deserve to belong."
Behind them, Tari snapped a photo, and the cousins cheered. In the afternoon, Reyhan arranged a friendly cricket match on the lawn. The Pratama siblings and cousins paired off. Reyhan bowled first—fast, precise—then fielded near Alya, who cheered timidly from the boundary.
When Fadil stood at the crease, Nisa teased, "Try not to break a window this time!"
Fadil swung and missed, and the ball flew toward Alya. She caught it deftly, startling everyone.
"Alya, you're a natural!" Zaki called.
Reyhan jogged over, eyes wide. "Impressive catch."
Alya blushed, signing: "Sports help me feel free."
Reyhan nodded. "We should play more often. Together." He tossed the ball to her with a soft smile. Later, the family migrated indoors for tea and pastries. Dewi fussed over the teapot, while Linda fretted about the sugar levels. Rafi Rachman sat quietly, nodding approvingly at the camaraderie.
Victor Arman's reach struck again: a courier arrived with a tainted delivery—pastries laced with a mild sedative intended to render the Pratamas drowsy and vulnerable.
Reyhan spotted the courier and intercepted the box. Alarm flared in his eyes as he handed it to Zaki.
Zaki opened one pastry cautiously—sugar spilled, but it crumbled oddly. He frowned and nodded.
Reyhan declared, "Cancel dessert service. Everyone, fresh snacks from the kitchen." His glare at the courier sent a clear message.
Alya, watching the tension, slipped off her seat and approached him. She tapped his arm: "Danger."
Reyhan's jaw clenched. He wrapped the throw from his shoulders around her.
"Stay close," he murmured. That evening, as the storm clouds gathered once more, the family gathered for Maghrib prayer in the garden. Lanterns flickered; a gentle hush fell.
Alya knelt beside Reyhan. In the stillness, she whispered her du'a for their safety.
Reyhan's hand found hers, their fingers interlacing. He pressed her hand to his heart, and she signed: "I pray for us."
He replied softly: "Your prayers guard us more than any empire."
They rose in shared faith, the family's unity anchoring them against the chaos beyond. In the dead hours, Victor watched surveillance of the family praying. He slammed his fist on the desk.
"They grow closer," he spat. "He shields her, and she shields him. They feed off each other's strength. That ends now."
He summoned his lieutenants. "Target his financial backers. Freeze accounts. Create suspicion. Watch them crumble."
Lightning flashed, illuminating his ruthless resolve. Late at night, Alya slipped from her room to join Reyhan on the veranda. The storm broke—rain pounded, wind howled.
Reyhan wrapped her in the soft blanket again. She leaned in, silent courage radiating.
He held her close: "I wish this world didn't reach you."
She tapped her chest: "You reach me instead."
He drew back, meeting her gaze. "I will always reach you, Alya. No matter how dark." He kissed her forehead.
In the storm's embrace, their laughter—soft, genuine—rose above the thunder. In games of love and laughter, they found their truest defense: each other.