Ibrahim Siddiqui stepped into his penthouse apartment, the door clicking shut behind him. The vast space was immaculate, with minimalist furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the glittering cityscape of *Zarvahn*. The silence was heavy, broken only by the soft hum of the central air system.
He set his briefcase down on the sleek, black counter in the kitchen and loosened his tie. His movements were efficient, almost mechanical, a habit ingrained from years of disciplined work. Despite his family's wealth, everything he had now—this apartment, his company, his reputation—was the result of his own hard work.
To the outside world, Ibrahim was a man who had it all: striking looks, an unshakeable demeanor, and the kind of presence that demanded attention without a single word. But beneath the sharp suits and piercing gaze lay a man who had learned to build walls around himself.
His life was a careful balancing act—pushing away his family's influence while carving his own path. He hated the very name *Siddiqui Industries*, despite the legacy it represented. It wasn't just a business empire; it was a chain tying him to his father, a man he despised.
As he leaned against the counter, his phone vibrated on the marble surface. The name *Father* flashed across the screen, and his jaw tightened. He let it ring twice before picking it up, his tone cold.
"What do you want?"
"Is that how you speak to your father?" The voice on the other end was sharp, commanding. Ibrahim recognized that tone—it was the same one that had been used to control him for years.
"I'm not in the mood for a lecture," Ibrahim replied, his voice steady but laced with irritation.
"Don't test my patience," his father snapped. "You're coming to the house tonight. It's your grandmother's birthday and Ayaan's graduation ceremony. He's graduating at 21. That's not something you can ignore."
Ibrahim's grip on the phone tightened. The mention of his grandmother elicited no warmth in him. His relationship with her was no better than with the rest of the family—a bond marred by control, manipulation, and condescension. The only reason he'd ever consider stepping foot in that house was Ayaan, his younger stepbrother.
"I'm not coming," Ibrahim said flatly.
"Ayaan looks up to you, whether you acknowledge it or not," his father said, his tone softening slightly. "And your grandmother deserves this one evening from you."
Ibrahim let out a dry scoff, a sound that cut through the line like a blade. "Respect is earned, not demanded. I don't care about her, and I'm sure the rest of you will survive without me."
"I'm your father," his father said firmly, the anger returning to his voice. "You will respect me."
Ibrahim laughed bitterly. "Respect? From me? Keep dreaming." Without waiting for a response, he ended the call with a sharp tap on the screen, tossing the phone onto the counter with a sigh.
He ran a hand through his dark hair, frustration evident in his movements. But before he could even take a breath, the phone vibrated again. This time, the name *Ayaan* appeared.
His expression softened almost imperceptibly as he picked up the call. "Ayaan."
"Hey, brother!" The cheerful voice on the other end immediately eased some of the tension in his shoulders.
"Ayaan, what's going on?" Ibrahim asked, his tone noticeably warmer.
"Don't be mad, but I just spoke to Dad," Ayaan began hesitantly. "He's upset, and… well, I've been thinking about you all day. I really want you to come tonight, brother. It's my graduation, and it wouldn't feel right without you there."
Ibrahim sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Ayaan, you know how I feel about that house. I can't go."
"I know, brother, but I'm asking you," Ayaan said softly. "Forget Dad, forget grandmother. Do it for me. Please."
Ibrahim closed his eyes, the weight of Ayaan's words sinking in. Despite everything, Ayaan was the only member of the family who had a place in Ibrahim's heart. Ayaan's youth, intelligence, and genuine admiration for Ibrahim often reminded him of what family could have been if not for their father and grandmother.
"Fine," Ibrahim said after a long pause. "But I'm doing this for you. Not for him."
Ayaan's relief was palpable through the line. "Thank you, brother. It means a lot. I'll see you soon."
After the call ended, Ibrahim stood in the quiet of his apartment, his thoughts swirling. The very idea of returning to that house filled him with dread, but for Ayaan, he would endure it.
He straightened his posture, his sharp features hardening with resolve. It was time to face the ghosts of his past, even if it meant stepping back into the very world he had worked so hard to leave behind.
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