Veil of Allegiance.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ
Major iqbal x Fem! Indian! Reader [chapter II]
Synopsis Forced into a life built on lies, she takes on a new identity and enters a world where nothing is what it seems. And at the center of it all is him-Major labal. Calm, unreadable, and feared by everyone around him, he is nothing like she imagined... and yet, somehow worse.
Cws age gap, flashbacks, guns, violence, blood, betrayal, sexual tension, slowburn etc etc
Masterlist [Previous part]
The muscles in my back had gone rigid, and my tailbone felt as though it were pressing straight through my skin, threatening to tear it open. Just a few more minutes, I reminded myself, and we would be at Major Iqbal’s home.
My wedding dress was still on, its heavy fabric only adding to my discomfort.
I turned my gaze toward my husband.
He sat unnaturally still, eyes fixed on the road ahead as he drove. He had insisted on driving us home himself rather than letting the driver take over.
Every now and then, he glanced my way.
The closer we got, the more I could sense the tension tightening around him—every twitch of his nose, every stretch of his palm as he opened and closed his hand against the steering wheel.
The silence was too loud.
Usually, silence helped me gather my thoughts, helped me breathe through the noise in my head.
Right now, it was doing the opposite.
So I yawned on purpose, letting the sound cut through the suffocating quiet.
He looked at me. “Aap chai peeti hain?” His voice was low as he picked up his phone and unlocked it.
“Haan ji, main pee leti hoon.”
Without another word, he dialed a number.
“Bashir, chai taiyaar rakh… aur nahane ke liye garam pani.”
Bashir, I assumed, must be the house help.
“Aap achhe se soye flight mein?” I asked softly.
He answered while masking a yawn behind his hand.
My brows furrowed in concern.
“Aapko drive nahi karni chahiye thi… aapki sehat ka sawaal hai.”
I said it in the most worried tone I could muster.
His hand came down to pat my thigh, warm and firm, and he smiled.
“Aap meri chinta na karein, begum sahiba.”
Just a few meters more, and we were there.
The moment I stepped out of the car, reality settled heavier over me than the wedding dress itself.
I followed behind him as he walked ahead, passing the keys to the guard with a silent signal toward the back of the car.
The faint smell of incense greeted me the moment I entered.
I trailed a few steps behind him—partly because of my shorter legs, partly because I wanted the distance.
It gave me the chance to look around.
The hallway was grand and dimly lit, carrying an old, stern sort of elegance.
Then a voice shattered the stillness.
An elderly man sat in a wheelchair.
Not entirely, but enough.
The same hard lines in the face.
It didn’t take a specialist to know this was none other than Brigadier Jahangir.
From the files, I had read about their fractured father-son relationship, but even then, I had not expected this.
Iqbal went stiff in front of me.
“Kehdi maayi de ne apni dhee viyah ti tere naal?”
My eyes widened as I looked between them. I should greet him.
I stepped forward carefully.
The expression on his face screamed, are you serious right now?
Before he could say anything further, the guard arrived with the bags.
Iqbal’s voice cut sharply through the room.
He instructed him to show me to my room and arrange breakfast, then told the guard to place the bags inside.
I followed behind Bashir, leaving Iqbal and his father behind.
I had barely made it down the corridor when his father’s voice boomed through the house.
“Na aap da butha majj di bhund varga, nooh pariyan vargi…phenchodq.”
A cough escaped me as I masked my laugh.
The moment Bashir set the two cups of tea down on the small wooden table, he bowed his head respectfully, offered a quiet prayer for our happiness, and took his leave. My bags had already been placed beside the couch in the master bedroom.
For a moment, I simply stood there.
My gaze slowly moved across the space, taking in every detail. The room was large, elegant, and far too quiet. There were no decorations, no personal touches that made it feel warm. Only a few framed photographs adorned the walls—images from ceremonies where Iqbal had been honoured. Dark polished woodwork stretched across the room, regal and beautifully crafted, yet it carried a strange coldness.
I moved toward the couch, my body aching beneath the weight of the bridal attire. The jewellery pressed against my skin, and every step made me more aware of how exhausted I truly was.
For a moment, I wondered whether I should bathe first or drink the tea.
The warmth of tea seemed more tempting.
Perhaps it would soothe my body.
Wrapping my fingers around the cup, I brought it to my lips and took a careful sip. Cardamom and milk melted on my tongue, and slowly the warmth began to settle in my chest. Sip by sip, I let myself relax.
I was nearly finished when the door opened.
Still dressed in his wedding sherwani, just as I remained wrapped in my bridal lehenga.
I stood up at once, placing my cup down.
“Main aap ki chai garam kar ke le aaun? Thandi ho gayi hai,” I said softly, lowering my gaze like a dutiful new bride.
He looked at the cup briefly.
“Bashir kar dega,” he replied in his usual calm tone.
But the thought of remaining alone in the room with him made my heart beat faster.
“Ji… main le aati hoon,” I insisted, my voice barely above a whisper.
For a moment, he studied me, then gave a small nod before turning toward the wardrobe to retrieve his clothes.
The moment I stepped out, relief washed over me.
Truthfully, I had no idea where the kitchen was.
But perhaps that was not such a terrible thing.
It gave me the perfect excuse to familiarise myself with the house.
The hallway stretched long and silent beneath warm lights. I passed several rooms, most with their doors slightly open, each one revealing a glimpse of the grand house.
One door stood apart from the rest.
A strange pull settled in my chest.
I moved closer, almost without thinking, and lightly touched the handle.
Before I could step back, a voice called from behind me.
“Begum sahiba, aap yahan kya kar rahi hain?”
I turned around so quickly the tea nearly spilled from the cup.
A woman stood there in a neat uniform, her expression serious yet not harsh.
Trying to steady myself, I lifted the cup slightly.
“Ji… woh unki chai thandi ho gayi thi. Socha garam kar laaun. Bas bawarchi khana dhoond rahi thi.”
Her expression softened immediately.
She gently reached for the cup.
“Aray, jab hum zinda hain to aap kyun takalluf farma rahi hain?”
Her voice was firm, yet filled with the kind of affection only an older woman could carry.
Something about it made me feel unexpectedly at ease.
Perhaps this house would not remain unfamiliar for long.
I learned her name was Sakina Bibi.
As we walked down the corridor, she told me in a lowered voice that this side of the house was a mahdood ilaqa—a restricted wing, mostly used for official meetings and private discussions.
“Begum sahiba, aap ko aaram karna chahiye. Pehle libaas tabdeel kar lijiye,” she said gently, still trying to lead me back toward the bedroom.
I shook my head, following closely behind her. “Mujhe apne shohar ke liye kuch karne dijiye,” I said, almost stubbornly.
There was a softness in my voice, but enough insistence for her to sigh in defeat.
“Achha theek hai,” she murmured, a faint smile touching her lips. “Aaiye.”
Defeated, she had no choice but to lead me toward the kitchen.
As we walked, my mind drifted back to my brief interaction with Iqbal.
Perhaps because of his father.
Quite the bond father and son seemed to share.
Though I had not personally witnessed the darkest side of Brigadier Jahangir or Major Iqbal, I was no stranger to the stories whispered in hushed voices.
I knew enough of their names to understand the fear they inspired.
Major Iqbal—feared among the awam-e-Pakistan, honoured and cursed alike with the title of “kafiron ka jallad.”
And his father was no better.
The tales surrounding Brigadier Jahangir were drenched in blood and horror, stories of unspeakable acts carried proudly as if they were medals.
I had heard enough of the battlefield to know what kind of men they were.
If the whispers were to be believed, my husband was very much his father’s reflection.
When we reached the kitchen, Sakina Bibi quietly emptied the cold tea into the sink and reached for a small patila.
I gently took it from her hands before she could begin. “Is dafa mujhe kar lene dijiye,” I said softly. Without waiting for a reply, I turned on the flame and poured water into the pot.
The soft hiss of the stove filled the silence.
The familiar ritual soothed something restless inside me.
Sakina Bibi stood beside me, keeping me company as if she had known me for years.
After a moment, she spoke, her voice warm with affection, “Allah Ta’ala ka shukar hai ke chhote malik ko aap jaisi begum mili.”
“No, Sakina Bibi,” I replied gently, glancing at her, “shukar to mujhe ada karna chahiye ke Major sahab jaise shakhs mere naseeb mein likhe gaye.”
At my words, she practically melted, her eyes softening with visible fondness.
Perhaps pretending was not so difficult after all.
Since childhood, I had always held a strange fear of marriage. The thought of leaving the house you grew up in…
Being sent away to a man you did not know…
It had always felt unbearably heavy to me.
Whenever a newlywed bride visited our home, little me would follow her around with endless questions.
Did your husband speak kindly?
I used to play pretend a-lot pretending to be our neighbour or cunning mother in law draping dupattas over my head and speaking in different tones while the elders laughed during family gatherings.
Maybe that was where I had learned this.
Perhaps not enough to fool a keen eye.
But enough to deceive ordinary people.
As the tea simmered gently in the patila, Sakina Bibi stood beside me, watching with quiet fondness.
“Allah Ta’ala aap dono ki jodi salamat rakhe,” she said warmly. “Bas ab jald hi iss haveli mein chhote chhote qadmon ki aahat gunje.”
For a moment, I didn’t fully understand.
I looked at her, puzzled. “Ji?”
A fond smile spread across her face. “Aray begum sahiba, ab iss ghar mein bachon ki kilkariyan bhi goonjni chahiye. Chhote malik ke waris…” Her words trailed off, but their meaning struck me like a sudden blow.
My hand froze around the spoon.
A chill ran through me despite the warmth rising from the stove.
The realization settled in my chest like a stone.
Until now, the exhaustion of the wedding, the new house, and the unfamiliar faces had distracted me.
But tonight I would be alone with him.
Sakina Bibi must have noticed the fear drain the colour from my face because her expression softened at once.
“Areh, meri bachchi…” she said gently, placing a reassuring hand over mine. “Itna ghabrane ki koi baat nahi hai.”
I tried to smile, but it trembled.
She looked at me with the tenderness of someone who had seen many brides pass through this very moment.
“Major sahab umr mein aapse bade zaroor hain,” she said softly, almost as if reading the fear in my mind, “magar bure insaan nahi hain.”
Her voice lowered, full of quiet certainty. “Duniya unhein jo bhi samjhe, maine unhein bachpan se dekha hai. Dil ke sakht nahi hain.”
I looked at her, startled.
The world painted him as a monster.
A man feared by everyone.
Yet the way Sakina Bibi spoke of him held none of that fear.
She gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “Har shohar apni begum ka lihaz karta hai… aur chhote malik toh waise bhi bahut samajhdaar hain.”
Her words were meant to soothe me.
Instead, they left me more unsettled.
Balancing the tray carefully in my hands, I made my way back toward the room.
The bridal attire still clung heavily to my body, every step reminding me of its weight. The jewellery at my neck, the embroidered fabric brushing against my ankles, the exhaustion in my limbs—
with every movement, I could feel the burden of the day pressing deeper into my skin.
Sakina’s word drawing to me again she spoke of him as if she had nothing but faith in him as if he wasn’t the person everyone claimed him to be.
Because if he was not the man the world believed him to be—
then who was the man waiting for me in that room?
Transition of Jahangir dialogue:
“Kehdi maayi de ne apni dhee viyah ti tere naal?” Which motherfucker wed his daughter off to you
“Na aap da butha majj di bhund varga, nooh pariyan vargi…phenchodq.” Your face looks like buffalo butt while your wife looks like an angel
Hellooo its 1 am and just done with this chapter honestly i am so crazy for major iqbal i just can not stop simping over him
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