A Vow across the Borders

The air in the drawing room had changed. Heavier. Tighter.

Noor sat elegantly in the middle of all that suffocating judgment, her beige salwar kameez perfectly pressed, dupatta wrapped loosely around her shoulders. Her face was bare, her skin glowing with a golden tan undertone, hair cascading down her waist like a black waterfall—but her eyes?

Her eyes were fire.

Across from her sat not just Murtasim’s parents—Sardar Jameel Khan and Begum Mehnaz—but now also Beegum, his aunt. The one who wore cruelty like jewelry, a woman whose words bled and bruised with elegance. Murtasim, draped in his signature shawl, stood near the window, quiet, arms crossed. Watching. Listening.

They hadn’t come to sip tea.

They had come to dissect.

“You studied abroad?” Mehnaz asked, the question sounding more like a suspicion.

“Yes,” Noor replied simply, “Harvard and Cambridge.”

“Hm,” Beegum interjected, smirking. “Too many foreign degrees, too much exposure. No wonder she talks like she’s above tradition.”

Noor tilted her head, her voice calm. “Tradition isn’t a crown to wear, Beegum Sahiba. It’s a value you carry. Sadly, some confuse arrogance with culture.”

Beegum’s jaw clenched.

“And you live alone, unmarried, in Mumbai? That’s not respectable for a girl from any decent family,” Jameel said coldly.

“I didn’t know independence disqualified a woman from being decent,” Noor shot back, her voice sugary sweet. “But then again, it must be difficult to understand women who don’t need permission to exist.”

“And what exactly are your future plans?” Mehnaz asked, eyes narrowed.

“To continue performing surgeries across borders,” Noor replied, “Expand my neurosurgical research, open a trauma center in Kashmir... maybe teach in Geneva once a year.”

Beegum scoffed. “How will you manage a household while flying around like some free bird?”

“I don’t clip my wings just to fit into someone’s cage,” Noor said coolly.

Beegum slammed her cup down on the table with a loud clink, tea spilling slightly.

Without missing a beat, Noor raised a brow.

“I’ll make you pay the cash if the cup’s broken… or make you clean if the tiles are dirty,” she said dryly.

The room went silent. Even Mehnaz blinked.

And from the corner, a deep voice finally spoke.

“I want the marriage to be tomorrow,” Murtasim said.

Heads turned.

His voice was low, firm, commanding. “She’s my... my Jaan.”

Jameel frowned. Hayas fist clenched. “Are you serious?”

“I’ve never been more serious,” Murtasim replied, his gaze never leaving Noor’s face.

Beegum’s lip curled. “How can you say that? She's not even—she’s Hindu!”

And there it was.

The real venom.

Noor smiled, standing with grace, her chin high.

“I am Hindu,” she said with no shame. “And it’s my faith that taught me to respect others before judging them. Something some people forget regardless of their religion.”

Beegum’s breath caught.

“You speak with too much pride.”

“No,” Noor replied. “My pride doesn’t shout—it just doesn't kneel.”

“She's going to be my wife. You either pay respect to her or you keep your mouth shut”

Murtasim’s eyes were soft now, despite the fire in the room. He stepped forward, placing a hand lightly on the back of her chair.

“Whether you approve or not,” he said to his family, “This... is happening.”

The family didn’t leave.

They sat in stunned, simmering silence.

And Noor?

She didn’t blink.

Because queens don’t flinch when kingdoms shake.