Chapter 19
The rain hammered the windows of Reyhan's home office in relentless torrents, each drop a reminder of the storm he'd unleashed by probing Alya's past. He worked late into the night, poring over ledgers and security logs, chasing threads of Victor Arman's treachery. Ignored messages blinked on his phone, unanswered calls waiting in the queue. Even here, in his sanctum of power, he could not escape the tempest.
A soft rustle drew his gaze to the armchair by the bay window. There sat Alya, slumped and shaking, the shawl Bu Rina had draped over her shoulders now soaked through. Her breathing was shallow, as if each inhale fought the panic rising in her chest. Thunder rolled, closer this time, and she flinched, hunching further into herself.
"Alya," Reyhan called, abandoning his desk. He crossed the room in two strides and knelt before her. "What's wrong?" His voice was steel wrapped in concern.
She did not answer. Instead, she covered her face, trembling so hard her entire frame quivered. Unbidden, his own heart clenched at her suffering. He slid an arm behind her back, lifting her gently to rest against him. "You're safe," he murmured, lowering her head to his shoulder. "I've got you."
The storm outside raged in sympathy, lightning illuminating the raindrops clinging to her hair. Reyhan rocked her back and forth, humming a low, steady refrain to calm their shared heartbeat. Slowly, her convulsions eased. Tears slipped down her cheeks, glistening like rain on glass. After what felt like an eternity, exhaustion claimed her, and she sank into uneasy sleep cradled against his chest.
Reyhan carried her to the chaise longue, careful as if she were the most fragile artifact in his empire. He draped a plush blanket over her shoulders and sat beside her, repeating mantras of reassurance into the hush: "You're safe… I'm here… No one will hurt you again." Each promise echoed his vow of vengeance for the wounds she'd once endured alone.
When dawn's gray light crept through heavy curtains, Alya lay curled beneath the blanket, eyes hollow with sleepless sorrow. Reyhan returned with a steaming cup of milk—infused with honey and a pinch of saffron—and offered it to her. She accepted it with trembling fingers, unscrewing the lid and drawing its warmth into her palms.
"Do you want to talk?" he asked, voice gentle as a falling leaf.
She nodded, and reached for the leather-bound journal resting on the side table. Turning past pages she had left blank, she found her courage in the rising sun. With deliberate slowness, she wrote:
> "When I was born, the doctor told my mother: her life or mine. She chose me. After that, my family saw me as a curse. They called me 'mistake,' 'burden.' I asked Allah every night why I was paid in cruelty for a gift I did not choose."
Reyhan's chest tightened, each word a knife to his heart. He laid a hand on her arm. "They should never have done that," he murmured. "I promise you… I'll make them regret every tear."
Her pen hovered, then she signed, "There's more."
Her hand shook as she wrote again:
> "On the day of my nikah, my aunt cornered me. 'Refuse him,' she hissed, 'and we'll sell you to a man twice your age.' I froze. In that moment, I vowed silence—made myself invisible."
A single tear fell onto the page, smudging ink and memory alike. Reyhan closed the journal with trembling hands and lifted her to sit upright. He pressed his forehead to hers. "You will never be invisible again," he swore. "I will protect you from every shadow."
Gingerly, he slid the journal into a protective case. Then, with a fierce resolve, he strode to the desk and dialed his cousin.
"Zaki," he barked into the secure line, "I need everything on Rafi Rachman's sister—her finances, her friends, her secrets. And trace any communication with Victor Arman. I want to know who enabled her cruelty."
Zaki's calm reply crackled through: "On it. We'll expose their network and cut them off at the source."
"Good," Reyhan said, voice steeled. "Make sure no one can threaten her—or any innocent—ever again."
He hung up and returned to Alya's side. She sat, head bowed, clutching her tea. Reyhan knelt before her and lifted her chin. "You deserve love, respect, and safety," he said, voice unbreakable. "From this moment on, you shall have nothing less."
Alya's eyes shimmered with gratitude; she raised a hand to his cheek, fingertips soft against the stubble of his jaw. He pressed her fingers to his lips. In her silence, he heard her strength—and his vow hardened into unyielding purpose.
Later that morning, Dewi Pratama swept into the office with Bu Rina in tow, concern etched on both their faces. They led Alya away to the sitting room, wrapping her in fresh blankets and carrying bowls of steaming porridge. Nisa and Tari hovered at the doorway, eyes filled with sisterly solidarity. "You're safe now," Nisa whispered. "We're all here for you." Alya's lips trembled, and though no words emerged, her eyes said everything: Thank you.
In the secure conference room, Reyhan convened with Zaki and Miko Pratama. On the screen flickered a tangle of spreadsheets, financial transfers, and intercepted messages tying Rafi's sister to Victor's lieutenants. Miko's voice, weary with age and wisdom, broke the hush: "They weaponized her pain to manipulate us."
Reyhan's fist slammed the table. "They used her childhood as leverage," he growled. "Tonight, we dismantle their empire." Andika Pratama nodded gravely: "At first light, we go public. Legal action, security sweeps—leave no hideout." Reyhan's jaw set in steel: "No mercy."
Back in the sitting room, Alya nestled between Dewi and Bu Rina, sipping saffron tea as warmth spread through her bones. Dewi clasped her hand. "You're among those who cherish you now," she assured. Bu Rina pressed a gentle hand to her shoulder. "Your heart has spoken volumes—we all heard it." Alya closed her eyes, tapping her wrist then her chest: "Thank you."
As night fell, Reyhan returned, rain no longer a threat but a blessing washing away the day's darkness. He paused at the doorway, surveying the tableau of love and healing. Alya looked up, newfound resilience shining in her gaze. He joined them by the fire, voice quiet yet triumphant: "It's done. Tomorrow, her truth will be heard." Dewi's smile was gentle as dawn: "We stand with you—always."
That night, Alya knelt on her prayer mat, journal open before her. She wrote one final entry:
> "In the storm of my past, I found my voice and my faith. Tonight, I reclaim both."
Reyhan knelt beside her, hand covering the page. Without a word, they sealed the end of her silence and the dawn of justice—and in the quiet of the night, two hearts bound by truth prepared to face whatever sunrise would bring.