chapter 18
Rain lashed the marble courtyard in sheets, turning every surface slick and reflective. Alya Rachman stood beneath the covered walkway, drenched despite her shawl, shoulders trembling. Each thunderclap felt like a judgment, each gust of wind a cruel reminder of nights spent hiding from storms both inside and out.
Reyhan Pratama burst through the carved teak doors, eyes wide at the downpour. He sprinted to her side, hands outstretched. "Alya!" he called, voice hoarse with worry. "Come inside—now!"
Her lips parted, but no sound escaped. She shook her head, water dripping from her hair into her eyes. Reyhan closed the distance and wrapped her in his arms, the world of rain and thunder vanishing in the warmth of his coat.
He pressed her face against his chest, feeling her body quake. "It's okay," he whispered, stroking her hair. "I'm here."
Alya clung to him until her tears blended with the rain, silent sobs ripping through the barrier she had held around her heart. Reyhan carried her through the courtyard, dripping water onto the polished floor, and into the sanctuary of the grand foyer. He laid her gently on the Persian rug before the roaring hearth. Alya curled into herself, shivering in the aftermath of her breakdown. Reyhan knelt beside her, removing his coat and draping it over her shoulders like a shield.
"Tell me," he demanded softly, brushing rain from her face with trembling fingers. "What haunted you out there?"
Alya's eyes glistened with unshed pain. She tapped her chest sharply—"Memories." Then she drew trembling circles over her head: "Fear." And then her lips pressed together, the world again sealed in silence.
Reyhan's heart clenched. He rose and crossed to the nearest table, snatching a soft blanket and a cup of steaming ginger tea prepared by Bu Rina. Returning, he settled beside her and wrapped the blanket around both of them. He pressed the tea into her hands. "Drink," he urged. She sipped, warmth spreading through her limbs.
He sat in silence for a heartbeat, then pressed his forehead to hers. "I swear," he murmured, voice raw, "no one will ever hurt you again." He led her to his private study, lit by a single lamp against the storm's darkness. He draped her on the chaise longue and sat across, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight.
"I grew up in storms of business deals and threats," he said, tone hardening. "But I never knew real terror until now." He clenched his fists. "Whoever caused you pain—I will find them."
Alya watched his face—determined, vengeful, her own anguish etched into every line. She tapped his wrist: "Please—no more violence." Her plea, though silent, pierced him.
He exhaled slowly. "Not more violence—justice." He rose, moving to the desk. He opened a drawer and retrieved a photograph: Alya as a child, bruised, silent. He crushed the paper in his hand. "I should have been stronger for you."
Alya crept forward and placed her small hand atop his. He looked down, meeting her eyes for the first time since the storm. In the flicker of lamplight, they shared a vow beyond words. He took out his phone. "Zaki," he barked. "Pull every file on Rafi Rachman's associates. Trace every transaction. Who benefited from those records? Who threatened this family before?"
As he spoke, Alya folded herself into the chaise's curve, pressing her head to Reyhan's side. He paused, voice softening. "Stay here," he said, brushing her hair back. "I'll handle this."
But Alya shook her head, drawing his shirt with a gentle tug. She tapped her chest: "Together." Moments later, he ushered her into the adjoining library—floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with volumes of law, poetry, and holy text. He closed the door and retrieved two prayer mats from under a side table.
"Pray with me," he said quietly, laying one mat beside the other. Alya's trembling eased at the familiar ritual. They knelt side by side, rain's roar outside muffled by the thick walls.
She began her Tahajjud in whispered Arabic—each sujood a shield, each du'a a plea for peace. Reyhan followed, stumbling over the words but steady in resolve. As they rose together, their hands found each other's on the prayer mat.
He looked at her, tears in his eyes. "Your faith… it saves me." After prayer, he lifted her gently and carried her into the master suite. He lit a warm bath, dropping lavender petals into the water. Alya sat on the edge, staring at her reflection in the water—bruised, fragile, yet beloved.
Reyhan knelt to remove her sandals, then stood to undress. She watched him, heart pounding. He turned on the tap, steam filling the room.
"Please," he said, voice cracking, "let me help you wash away the storm."
She dipped a toe in the water, then slid in, shivering. Reyhan knelt beside the tub, pouring warm water over her back with a brass pitcher, each stream a cleansing baptism.
When her shoulders relaxed, he spoke: "You don't have to bear this alone anymore."
Alya closed her eyes, nodding—her silent confession stronger than any word. He toweled her dry and wrapped her in a silk robe. She climbed onto the bed, curling under the duvet. Reyhan sat on the edge, brushing a lock of wet hair from her face.
"I will find those who hurt you," he vowed. "Victor Arman won't get away with this."
Alya reached up, touching his jaw—steadying him with her gentle strength. She tapped her chest: "Not yet. First—rest."
He nodded, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her temple. That night, Alya slept at last—her breathing deep and even under the weight of a single word sealed between them: safety.
Reyhan watched her for hours, resolve forging like tempered steel. Outside, the storm still raged. Inside, a man shaped by vengeance found new purpose: to shield the silent heart he had vowed to protect, and to make the world safe for the woman whose unspoken courage had become his own.
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In the tempest of business betrayals and underworld schemes, the greatest storm lay within Alya's heart. Reyhan's arms became her harbor, his faith her anchor—and together, their unspoken bond promised that no darkness, no enemy, could ever break the vow they had sealed in silence and sorrow.