Chapter 128 : How dare you speak of my wife in such a manner?

Then Ava heard, "Why are you reading this, baby girl?"

The sudden sound of his voice startled Ava, ripping her focus from the diary like a rug pulled from beneath her feet. The diary tumbled from her trembling grasp, landing with a soft thud on the mahogany table.

Ava's head snapped up, her eyes meeting Ibrahim's gaze reflected in the warm glow of the study lamp. It wasn't anger she saw in his eyes, but a weakness that mirrored the one exposed in the diary. He wore an off-white shirt. His left hand was secured in a pouch sling. 

 Ibrahim's hand reached out, gently wiping away the tear from Ava's cheek with his thumb. She hadn't even realized she was crying, the emotions stirred by the diary so potent they had manifested without her awareness.

"Your eyes became red," he said.

Ava's shame was immediate. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have read it without your permission. Are you angry?"

Ibrahim's lips curved into a gentle smile. He cupped her face in his right hand, his touch warm and comforting. "Why would I be angry, baby girl? Didn't I say you have every right?"

Ibrahim's words held a quiet truth, and the guilt lessened somewhat. Yet, a question still burned within her.

Ibrahim looked at the open diary on the table, his gaze lingering on the worn pages for a moment before he gently closed it and placed it back on the bookshelf. Then, he turned back to Ava, his eyes meeting hers with a depth that seemed to see into her very soul.

Ava rose from her chair and wrapped her arms around his torso. Her embrace was hesitant at first, then tightened as she sought solace in his warmth. She felt the steady beat of his heart, a testament to the man beneath the hard exterior, "Why didn't you share any of this with me, Ibrahim?" she asked, "I've shared so much of myself with you, but you…"

Ibrahim held her close with one arm, his silence a heavy presence in the room. Then, he spoke, "The past is like a river. It flows behind us, shaping the banks we stand on, nourishing the roots of who we are. But it is also a current that can pull us under, drown us in the weight of what was. Past is like a shadow. Always there, reminding you of where you've been, but clinging too tightly can blind you to where you're going. I choose to look forward, to focus on the journey ahead, not the rapids I have already navigated."

His voice deepened, taking on a philosophical tone. "Sharing a burden," he continued, his thumb tracing circles on her back, "is like dividing a rock. It may feel lighter in two hands, but the weight remains, a constant reminder of what was lost, what was broken. Some burdens are best carried alone.

Ibrahim looked at the diary, now tucked back on the shelf. "That's why I wrote it. To unburden myself, to release the ghosts that haunted me in the quiet hours. At that time the diary was a place for me - A place where I could lay bare the rawness of my grief, the weight of responsibility, without burdening another soul."

His words carried the weight of experience which Ava could hardly understand being a 23 years old woman. The burden of being the heir, the expectations, the choices made in the shadows – these weren't things easily shared, not even with someone he loved as fiercely as he loved her. The life she led, somewhat sheltered and carefree, paled in comparison to the battles he had fought, the choices he had made. A newfound respect blossomed within her, tinged with a touch of awe.

Pulling away slightly, she looked into his eyes, searching for answers. "Do you… miss your dad?"

Ibrahim sighed, a deep, world-weary sound. "Seventeen years, babygirl. Seventeen years since I last saw his face, heard his laughter. Time blunts the edges of grief, but the absence... that remains. Some days, it's a dull ache, a reminder of what I've lost. Other days, it's a raw wound, reopened by a memory, a dream." He paused, his gaze distant. "But I carry him with me, not in grief, but in the lessons he taught me, the values he instilled. He lives on in every choice I make, in every step I take."

Ava's heart ached for him, "You talk so well, Ibrahim. You could be a philosopher with those words."

A chuckle escaped his lips, the sound warm and genuine. "Leave the philosophizing to others, baby girl. Right now, I have something else for you. Wait a minute."

Ibrahim disappeared from the study for a moment, returning with a manila folder in hand. He extended it towards her, his eyes holding a glint of amusement. "Open it."

Ava cautiously took the folder, hesitantly opening it. Inside, legal documents swam before her eyes, neatly bound and stamped. Her brows furrowed in confusion as she skimmed the first page, a wave of disbelief washing over her. Property deeds, transfer agreements, signatures... her parents' house, bought back and transferred to her name.

Ava scanned the papers again and again. This couldn't be right. This house, seized by the bank, auctioned off, lost... it was a painful memory etched in her heart.

She looked up at Ibrahim, speechless, the question hanging unspoken in the air.

Finally, she managed. "What... how?"

Ibrahim simply smirked, enjoying the dawning realization on her face. Ava's face returned to the documents. He saw her fingers trace the signature on the document, the one belonging to the previous owner – Baran Ali, as if seeking confirmation that this wasn't some elaborate dream.

But Ibrahim knew the truth behind that thumb print, a story far too harsh for Ava's gentle heart. He preferred to let her enjoy the pure joy of reclaiming her past, a gift wrapped in silence.

One Hour ago:

The air in Baran Ali's cramped apartment hung heavy with tension, thick enough to taste. Ibrahim, Samir, and Faisal sat on couch opposite the wiry old man - Baran Ali, their postures exuding an aura of quiet power. Ibrahim's gaze was sharp. His one gaze could held captive a man like Baran Ali without doing anything.

 Baran's hands trembled as he clutched a worn teacup. He was a man of 51. His age etched in the lines around his eyes and the stoop of his shoulders. "Listen Mr. Rahman," he began, his voice trembling slightly, "I understand your offer, but I can't sell that house. It's more than bricks and mortar, you see. It's where I raised my daughters, where I built a life with my late wife. It's all I have left, my only way to earn a living now that I'm too old for heavy work. I'm planning to open a shop in there. I only live in this apartment now cause it's near my office."

Samir snorted, his thin smile devoid of warmth. "Sentimentality doesn't pay the bills, old man. We're offering you enough to set yourself up comfortably, in a new shop, a new life. Name your price."

Baran shook his head, his defiance flickering despite the fear evident in his eyes. "Money ain't everything, young man. Memories are worth more than gold. That house holds decades of laughter, tears, life itself. It's my legacy, and I won't sell it."

Ibrahim remained silent, his sharp gaze fixed on Baran. He saw the defiance flickering in the old man's eyes, the flicker of a cornered animal. He understood Baran's plight, but sentiment held no value in their world.

Faisal leaned forward, "Mr. Ali, we're showing respect, considering your age. But understand this," his eyes glinted with a cold light, "people overestimate their bargaining power sometimes."

Baran swallowed hard, "I know what you can do. But the law's on my side. No one can force me to sell."

Ibrahim cleared his throat, his voice low and dangerous. "This house," he began, "was built by my late father-in-law. It holds precious memories for my wife. I am requesting, for the last time, that you reconsider our offer. Any price, anything you desire, it's yours." 

Baran burst into a humorless laugh. "Give her another house, gold, anything! Women are easily appeased, greedy creatures! Give your wife jewels, a new car, anything shiny. A shiny trinket here and there, and they'll be content. Trust me, she'll warm your bed at night with even more fervor. She will be grateful for your generosity - forget this house."

Baran's words were like acid, eroding the last vestiges of Ibrahim's control. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached, the muscles in his face taut with barely contained fury. Each mocking syllable resonated in his chest, a drumbeat of rage.

"How dare you," he growled, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down Baran's spine. "How dare you speak of my wife with such disrespect? Bloody Bitch!"